So… this has always been something I’ve had a hard time with and would like to get some insight. When I was 12 I discovered MCR- that was 19 years ago. My sister was 2 years younger than me and we both became obsessed with them. My youngest aunt who is just 10 years older than me introduced me at a younger age to her music- cradle of filth, smashing pumpkins, Alice In Chains, RHCP, evanescence, etc. I was already into all of that but when I discovered MCR, I felt like it was mine. like I had discovered something that was no one else’s and completely identified with their style, emotions, music, etc. We got the revenge CD and fell in love with every song, immediately we HAD to find out more about this band, so we went to Target and got the Bullets CD and fuck, that was even better. Went to our first concert in 2007, my mom was waiting for us in the car and their manager saw her, asked her ‘are you here for the concert?’ And she said ‘no I’m just waiting for my daughters’ she was wearing an MCR shirt and he said ‘do you wanna see the show?’ And of course she said yes, he weaseled her backstage, she took pictures of their instruments, bus, equipment, stage, and then they sat her in the audio/lights section and she enjoyed the show from there. She didn’t meet the guys but that was MORE THAN ENOUGH. We were enjoying the show without knowing any of this because we had flip phones and we couldn’t txt or send pictures without getting charged- we were just supposed to call her when the show was over. When we left, we met my mom at the car and when she showed us the pictures, we completely lost it- hugged, jumped around, and cried. How amazing and well deserved. Got the originally umbrella academy, every poster I saw at Walmart, FYE, hot topic, etc. plastered them in my room. Got band tee shirts from hot topic, My Chemical Romance was everything for us. Not only was the music the best music I’ve ever heard, but their messages in interviews shaped the way I am today still. Gerard saying they didn’t like groupies and to say FUCK YOU to anyone in a band that was trying to take advantage of you. They were/are always so unproblematic (although HUMAN duh) and kind. Bullets and Revenge shaped me, TBP came around and I recorded their MTV debut just in case I was gonna miss it, but of course I didn’t. Watching them perform TBP for the first time live at the VMAs on top of a building felt… weird. I was 14/15 at that time and I didn’t feel a connection with this song but it was still rad! I watched the performance and felt a little empty but still loved them. My sister was in middle school and I was in high school at this point- she shared such a nice story with me and how we gained a bestfriend. She was in PE and had a really sad face (she was also wearing H.I.M. shoes iykyk) a random girl came up to her and asked her what was wrong and why was she so sad? Her response ‘my favorite band is not the same’ and her friend said ‘are you talking about MCR’s performance last night?’ And there they became bestfriends. MCR was always a staple in the way I did everything. I won a statewide poetry contest because of them. We eventually got used to the black parade album and loved every song but especially the B side. Wow, what a beautiful feeling and whirlwind. Eventually I got married and started to do my own thing, Killjoys/CW came out and it wasn’t really my thing but still loved them. And then they announced their breakup in 2013… I was living with my husband already and my sister called me ‘hey, go to the MCR website, read everything’ I thought it was a new better album, or new merch. Was I wrong.. I read Gerard’s open letter to his fans and fucking lost it. Especially the last paragraph- to paraphrase ‘My Chemical Romance will always live inside all of you- because it’s not a band but an idea.’ WHAT??! Are you serious? You saved my life FFS. I drove to my parents’ house immediately and went to the ‘holy grail’ our closet that had everything MCR. Took out our posters, shirts, CDs, comic books (original umbrella academy), hats, etc. I gave things away to my friends that still liked them and the rest I sold at a yard sale. Other stuff I took to Goodwill. My sister CONVINCED me to keep the discography so I gave them to her and told her to keep it in a safe place where I couldn’t see it. Man.. why did it hurt so much? Why did a band make me feel so much pain? Thank God she saved the CDs because I hate myself for all of this. I stopped listening to them and kept it moving. Don’t know any of Gerard’s hesitant aliens songs or any dunes songs. I just ignored all the noise and moved through life as of MCR never existed. They got back together in 2019 and coincidentally I was going though my divorce, my sister called me and she was gonna buy tickets to see them but we weren’t lucky enough. Our bestfriend was living in LA and went and sent us videos. Wow how lucky! I got hooked again and eventually we bought tickets to 2 shows on the east coast and we saw them twice. They sand Vapore Will Never Hurt you… my favorite song on the world. I cannot descruce our emotions. I love my sister and this as more than I love anything else. I kicked myself over the merch and stuff I gave away for so long but idc anymore. I don’t even care if they don’t have a new album, if they are happy- I’m happy. I would hate for them to feel the pressure again to just pop a random album. I love MCE with every single one of my veins until the day I take my last breath.

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

The body and mind are often regarded as separate. The same applies to emotions and reason. This dichotomy is regularly made and commonly accepted despite the fact that most of the time decisions are made on the spur of the moment and then rationalized.
Many advertisers and people working in the field of psychology can attest to this.
Emotions can be powerful but blind without reason. This is one of the reasons why we are often warned about our emotions. And more often than not, not knowing how to manage them, they are repressed. And yet they are necessary.
It's like driving a car. Without a steering wheel - reason - you go straight to the wall.
Without the engine, the emotions, you don't make any headway, just as you don't have the fuel that discipline can provide.
Discipline could be seen as the conscious act of pushing the car, whereas passion, the emotions, would be the unconscious act of moving forward because you're overflowing with energy.
We mainly see the negative aspect of emotions and so many people repress them, which prevents them from using them properly.
This makes it even more difficult to move forward because these emotions can even hinder conscious efforts when there is no correspondence between what someone wants to do consciously (reason) and unconsciously (emotions).
There is a tendency to force, using discipline to counterbalance this internal brake, particularly in personal development communities, while forgetting that there is a need behind the emotions and a function.
For example, anger, most of the time, serves to protect what belongs to us or ourselves. How would you react if, in the middle of a picnic, enjoying your sandwich, someone came and stole your meal?
Chances are that the blood would rush to your face, your body would tense up, your fists would clench and the decibels would rise sharply.
And that's normal. You're just trying to get back what you're owed.
On the other hand, if the same situation arose again, but the person was much more threatening or accompanied by a group, there's a good chance that your heart would race, that icy drops of sweat would be beading down your forehead and back, that your hair would stand on end and your limbs would start to tremble, with barely any blood circulating in your fingertips.
That's the body going into survival mode. This reaction is there to protect your integrity from immediate danger.
Disgust, that repulsion when you see something, with the irrepressible urge to look away, plug your nose and sometimes even gag, is there to turn us away from something toxic or to make us spit out a potential threat to our health.
Take a few moments to imagine yourself in the sewers. Dark, damp and, above all, with that filthy smell of decomposing organic matter that makes you nauseous. Or that feeling when you eat a piece of fruit and realize it's rotten.
Just by reading these lines and imagining the scene, you may have found yourself wincing, almost looking away or even plugging your nose as a reflex.
Sadness, that feeling that most of the time seems to descend on us like a leaden curtain, like an iron curtain or a ball and chain that we drag around draining us of all energy, teaches us the notion of loss where we can't really act (unlike anger). It teaches us the notion of loss, where we can't really act (unlike anger). So it encourages us to avoid the situation rather than to counter it like with anger.
It teaches us that it's not always possible to act on the situation and that sometimes we have to accept the loss and avoid the situation so as not to repeat it.
On the other hand, there is an emotion that makes us feel light and energetic. For some people, there seems to be a continuous flow of energy through their body. In others, the body seems light and supple. All this makes it even easier to pursue and find the source of the emotion that is joy.
In a sense, emotions are a useful driving force, and we can consider that
"Reason without strength is powerless and strength without reason is blind".
What's wrong with ignoring your emotions?
Repressing your emotions can have consequences for your health. Symptoms can appear as a result of stress that we ignore. These can range from difficulty sleeping to skin rashes. On the other hand, when emotions are already ignored, it can happen that, without understanding why, a situation makes us explode.
You don't necessarily feel it the previous time, but when you do, you get a very strong bodily sensation, sometimes the blood rushes to your face and your jaw clenches. Other times the body tenses up and the fists clench.
Tears may even roll down the cheeks without warning.
The body reacts spontaneously, sometimes violently. To the point of wondering why the situation unfolded the way it did, and why it all happened, why this uncontrolled explosion. Actions precede reason at that precise moment. Some may be beyond our control.
How can we trust someone if they can explode at any time?
As well as causing health problems and leading to a spontaneous and uncontrolled reaction that is not always viable, it is difficult to identify the emotions and needs behind them when we are used to ignoring signals.
New sensations can then arise without us understanding why. Sometimes it's a feeling of tightness in the chest, other times it's tiredness.
It's hard to know whether what you're doing is right for you or not. The body no longer seems to give any indication of whether something is pleasant or unpleasant. You can feel disconnected from yourself.
Food, activities that we used to love and sometimes even interactions with loved ones can become insipid. The body stops reacting. It loses its vitality and becomes something else entirely.
An empty shell.
Unable to feel anything.
Other times you feel that energy flowing through your veins, your body light, with the irresistible urge to take action, to act immediately, but you repress that urge.
We suppress that energy.
You extinguish that flame.
It's not the right time.
By the time you do take action, that flame has long been extinguished. We've missed the boat.
The energy is lacking.
So you draw on the last remaining reserves of energy through discipline and willpower. Sometimes you feel like you're pulling a whole train when just a few hours before you had the strength to move mountains.
It's hard to carry out long-term projects when that glow, that frail flame, is dwindled by being contained and suppressed, lacking oxygen rather than being fed and nourished when it shines and burns again.
How can we feel fulfilled when we put out the fire that burns within us?
How can we feel fulfilled when we undermine the foundations we need to move forward and carry out the projects we hold dear to our hearts?
What's the point of using your emotions?
Take a few moments to imagine how you will feel when you control and channel your emotions.
When an emotion arises, bodily sensations appear and are discernible. At that precise moment, you understand the emotion that is running through you. At this precise moment you are aware of the thoughts that are running through you.
When you ask yourself why this emotion is happening, you can finally act on it and bring the emotion back down so that you can act in a reasoned way without exploding. Notice how this changes your relationship with others and yourself.
You know what to do.
You can finally use your emotions as a driving force. Gone are the days when they got in the way and held you back, pulling you along.
Now you're water-skiing, pulled by your emotions in the direction you really want to go. No need to "push the car", no need for discipline or willpower.
There's a flow of energy through your body that can move freely through your limbs, your torso and even your head.
Everything seems clearer.
Sometimes it's a sensation of warmth that runs through the whole body, with the hands, arms, legs etc. gaining energy and actively contracting and relaxing. At other times, thoughts speed up and colors appear brighter, stronger and more vivid.
Ideas flow and multiply.
Become aware of what happens in your body when you carry out the projects that drive you. Where do the sensations begin? Do they move? What do they feel like?
When frustrated, you tap into that sensation to finally do what you have to do. When passionate, you surf on this emotion to land on your objectives.
What happens when you do it over and over again, for a multitude of projects?
What is your life like at this very moment?
Take the time to think about all this and become aware of how to use your emotions. Every time you think about it, you'll find an even simpler and more effective way of doing it. It's even possible that you'll do it without thinking about it, as the unconscious mind often automatically puts in place behaviors to best achieve its goals.
Some people may wonder how you're supposed to do this.
This is perfectly logical as we are rarely taught how to do it. It's normal not to know straight away when you've been used to repressing your emotions and you learn that it's never the right time. This will be covered in detail in the solutions below.
The fantastic thing about using your emotions is that as you do it, it becomes automatic. Just like when you learn to read and write.
The beginning is sometimes complicated, you have to make a real effort to write or read. But after a while it becomes second nature.
You don't even have to think about it.
Other people think it's weird, but what's not weird when it's your first time?
Sometimes you think it's not the right time. When will it be the right time? How do you know when it's the right time?
The "later" rarely happens.
Sometimes people think there's no point, as discipline is much more important. The question is not what is more important, but how to use the almost infinite energy that emotions provide.
What's more, when you have a specific vision of the world and a mission, it doesn't matter how you feel. There's something else out there that overwhelms us and provokes a much stronger emotion.
A story
Several weeks ago, I had an almost irrepressible urge to read. I don't really know why. I'd left a book on hold. Now it's right there in front of me.
Right in front of me. On my coffee table.
I'm about to pick it up when a little voice calls out to me.
Now's not the time to do that, you've got other things to do first.
My body was in a frenzy, impatient to start this stimulating and pleasant reading. But it wasn't the right time. A little disappointed, I pushed myself to my desk to get down to work.
All this is more than tedious.
After trying hard to stop myself from reading this brilliant book and getting down to work, I can finally devour it. I was about to grab it when a multitude of thoughts came to mind.
It reminds me of one of the times I went for a run.
At the time, I'd gone out to train my cardio and wanted to see how hard I could push myself. It's a tough start. I put on my helmet and shoes. After a few minutes, thoughts came to me. It was also to forget these kinds of things that I was going to let off steam that evening.
As these thoughts bombarded me, emotions came to the fore. My heart knots, my fists clench. Out of breath, I speed up again. A new energy flows through my body.
My legs move of their own accord, my body comes alive with a will of its own and the feeling of effort disappears.
Only one thing matters.
Run as fast as you can. To push my body to the limit.
Running away from these thoughts.
A few months earlier, sitting comfortably at home, an irresistible urge to draw came over me. One afternoon. It was a beautiful day outside. I had things to do and at the same time I still had some time on my hands.
So I grabbed a few blank sheets of paper and a pencil and started drawing. Draw and draw. The hand moves at its own pace and draws automatically.
It's only when my pile of sheets is completely used up that I come out of this state of concentration.
When I looked up, I realized it was getting dark. So I stopped.
In the course of the evening, I started to look again at the drawings I'd made. Just looking at them made my limbs twitch, as if a stream of energy was flowing through them. Drawing ideas were pouring in. These drawings are cool. I want to do more.
I can't stand the thought of doing them again.
During the run, months later, my body has this new energy. Rarely have I gone so fast for so long. After that running session, completely drained of energy, I lay down on my sofa.
The dark thoughts no longer pursued me.
I've been able to give it everything I've got.
A smile curls my lips.
Long after all that, when the thoughts flooded my mind after I finally had the book I dearly wanted to read, there was a change that was hard to describe.
The excitement I had a few hours ago is gone. The energy is completely gone.
The spark has dissipated.
I blew out the burning flame.
At the precise moment I wanted to use it, nothing happened.
It went out.
It's too late.
So understanding this, I put down the book.
Disappointed.
I'll do it another time.
So what am I supposed to do?
As all roads lead to Rome, here are a few non-exhaustive points that may help.
To begin with, it's important to be able to identify your emotions before using them. So it's necessary to recognise them.

• Identifying your emotions and how you represent it

When there are changes in the body as a result of a situation (apart from physical activity), this is most often due to an emotion. It's important to take a few moments.
What are the sensations? Where are they located? If I had to give them a shape, color and texture, what would they be?
What does what I'm feeling look like? What images can I use to describe them?

• The five whys method

Once the emotions have been identified, it's time to look at where they come from.
What makes me feel this way? What does it say about me? What is the need behind it? One method that can be useful is the five whys.
The principle is to first ask yourself why you feel the way you do. Then apply this questioning again, but this time to the cause you've found.
Then repeat the process three or four times.
Generally, when you can't answer any more questions, the original cause has been reached.

• Creating anchors

An anchor is the association of a stimulus with something else. It's a sort of Proust's madeleine. For example, a perfume might make you think of someone, a trip you've taken or a very special event.
In short, you associate the stimulus of the smell with something else, such as an event or a person.
There are several ways of setting up an anchor.
The simplest is to make a specific gesture each time the emotion arises. This way, after enough times, you can simply bring the emotion to the surface by doing the gesture again.
Another method is to go into a state of hypnosis, a modified state of consciousness, think of a particular event that provokes the emotion and do the gesture.
It's best to do this several times, but the state of hypnosis means that the experience of the emotion can be very strong and therefore requires less repetition to 'anchor' the gesture and the emotion together.

• Activating the anchors

Once the anchorages have been made, they can be reused to bring out the desired emotions, so that new energy is available when it is lacking.

• Positive and negative visualization

These techniques involve visualizing a future situation in minute detail, during the activity to be carried out or simply afterwards, imagining the result, what is happening at that moment and what sensations and emotions you are experiencing.
A positive visualization is one in which you experience what you're aiming for, what you want to have, just to get a taste of it. The fact that it's very pleasant draws you towards this goal and helps to give you new energy and motivation.
Negative visualization consists of doing the opposite by imagining in precise detail exactly the situation you want to avoid at all costs. Unpleasant emotions often arise, prompting you to avoid the scenario as best you can.
The most effective way to do this is to use the two, one after the other, as this creates a contrasting effect.

• Clear vision

Constructing a clear vision of what you want and don't want in terms of your day-to-day life, routine and environment is a great help, as it relies on the two visualization mechanisms.
All you have to do is take a moment. Imagine in detail the ideal situation that you would like to experience on a daily basis and then do the same with the opposite scenario.
The more specific and emotionally powerful this is, the better.

Had a recent trip to Barcelona, and was absolutely floored with the value compared to the US.
What I'm used to: Based in Miami, ATL. Got into hobby last year, started off by getting scammed big by 2 girls at Club E11ven. Transitioned to strip club circuit like Tootsies. My best exp there was a dayshift Cubana a 10/10 enhanced brunette for $500/30 min VIP, all covered action, no GFE or kissing. Focused more on ATL clubs, started getting 8-9/10 Latinas for $400/30 min. Learned more, now I'm consistently $270-$300/30 min with still hot girls, although just basic service. My absolute best was this Lana Rhoades look alike Italian American stripper, $300/30 min at her hotel. Kissing & BBBJ included (she's long since diseappeared). Eventually tried Amsterdam 2x and loved it. While I hear its lost its hey day, but for me I love the fast food McDonalds approach for Red Light District, 100-150E/30min with wiggle room, and the convenience to check out the goods right there in a fun safe city.
Onto Barcelona, 7 providers, all I finished with CF&S. Tools: Sexmercadobcn, independent providers post there and the forum links reviews for many providers. Blurred faces so I stuck with recent/highly reviewed girls. Tip: Schedule to be the girls' first session if possible. I find they're fresh as can be.
Ana & Ashley. I made 2 separate appointments in the morning. Both are mid/late 20's, blondes, enhanced pornstar bodies (big fake tits, BBL) but are very high quality and well done. Each with a unique and sexy face (Ana is Polish, Ashley is Canary Islands), absolute 10s to me. Both were responsive via Whatsapp and hosted in their clean apts in nice part of icy -Ana: was 150E for 60 min, Ashley 250E for 60 min. Both included much french kissing, BBBJ, and GFE despite some language barrier. I didn't push for CIM. Ashley was fantastic, but Ana was far more economical & as good. -Near half the price, 2x as long, and in the comfort of a safe, clean room with a bed and not some uncomfortable club, as well as extra. To me, its 4x the value
Mia: Used the Eden private brothel. Messaged them from their Sexmercado page. Very responsive, the rooms are ok but harsh from fluorescent lighting. Mia, a mid 20s Venezuelan. 9/10 in looks, youthful perky, stacked Latin body with tasteful fake tits. Performance was average. Submissive which I like, included BBBJ, but no GFE, kissing, and she rushed the session. Knowing Spanish would've helped. -120 Euro ($130) for 60 min. Still one of my local clubs girls will charge you that just for 6 air dances.
Denise/Sugar Girls: This is a private discrete brothel, but they have website. Lots of turnover of girls so availability is inconsistent and reviews arent deep. They were very responsive via Whatsapp, similar nice part of town. Rooms are nice, with shower. They do edit their photos, while my girl was still hot she's slightly better on the site. I advise a lineup every time, I'd get 8 or 10 girls and only want to pay for 2 or 3. Dennise is this all natural tattooed girl from Bilbao. Perky pierced B cups, thick fit trunk, built like a softball player with a face like Juelz Ventura. Lots of kissing, but CBJ this time. -150E/60 min. Great fun personality, felt like a party.
Alice/TeensBCN: Another popular private brothel. Same deal, whatsapp, responsive, nice part of town. Rooms were like a motel/dorm room. Alice is a Greek girl with great English, plain faced but feminine, large breasts with natural low hang on her mid 20s body. Like a smaller version of Gianna Michaels. Because of no language barrier, we clicked, she made it feel like a true fun flirty hookup as if I took her from the bar. Kissing, GFE, BBBJ included. -Around 120E for 60
Forgotten named Cuban & Lena/Maison Close: My first public brothel. Just walked in, a discrete initial door in a quiet, nice part of town but you see the branding once in. Nicest rooms of them all, spacious, nice shower. Cuban: Blonde slim Barbie bimbo, body a 9, face a 7.5. Good CBJ, deepthroated. No GFE, kissing. But still a good experience. Lena: My final girl the night before my flight home, wow addicted to her. An early 20s spinner Uruguayan, with big soft juicy fake tits, slender frame but still had curves to her ass. Because of our heights, leverages were great. Even after days of 2 sessions a day, and 1 that morning with other girls, I knew within 10 min this girl was electric. I will be requesting her specifically next visit.
Barcelona for me has been the perfect monger city. It's a great place to visit as is, food is great, not expensive if you travel smart. Most of year is decent weather. Then you have 20+ options from big public brothels to independent girls all with 15 min of you. If I lived in Europe I'd been in Barcelona & AMS every other weekend and still be less money than what I'd need to spend in the US. If they werent $1800+ flights through winter, I'd probably never use a US provider again.
Future targets, would stick to clubs as a first timer. Frankurt: Sharks Oase. Just learning about FKK clubs and seems like an easy 2-3 day bender. Vienna: Wellcum, technically 3 hr drive from Vienna. Would need 4-5 days but another well reviewed FKK where you can stay in their hotel included." Sao Paolo: Scandalo
Going to Colombia very soon and will post on that. Santa Fe and escorts. Feel free to DM if questions or to talk shop

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"Hello, everyone, we finally have all of you in the same place for a team meeting," Daniel began, looking around the half empty meeting room at his for subordinates, glad that the Captain had approved their console being manned by someone who could only read the sensors for a short time with the fleet supporting them. "I know over the past week or so I've been somewhat absent, but that should hopefully be all over now."
"Are we really almost done down there?" Sergeant Zent asked.
"Yes. The last report I got said that Bunker 14 only had 8,000 cryo pods left to extract, though they're on the bottom floor, so it's taking a bit longer than the others," he explained. "They're hoping to have the bunker empty by tomorrow morning, and then a decision has to be made around Bunker 26, whether to spend time getting everything out, or to just leave it. That's not for us to decide though."
"What's actually going on with that bunker, Sir?" Corporal Kreklan asked.
"Well, they can't get the mining equipment down to get the proper transport system in, so people and drones are carrying boxes of seeds and eggs out, prioritising species we didn't get from the other bunkers. It's a big vault, and they're not really that far in yet."
"Is there nothing we can do to help? Maybe figure out a way to get the equipment down?" Corporal Kreklan suggested.
"You're free to think of a solution if you'd like, but we don't have anything that can survive the storm that also has the capacity to carry the bore they need, even in parts over multiple trips. The bore is big, and the corvette cargo holds aren't," Daniel explained. "Non-bore methods have been explored, but I'm not on the decision making team, so I don't know why they haven't been utilised. All I know is we can't get much down there, and the bunker is at constant risk of collapse."
"So what should we do now, Sir?" Sergeant Zent asked.
"Carry on with your normal duties. If you come up with any good ideas, I'll pass them along, but otherwise, don't worry about the bunker situation. Just focus on keeping the ship's systems secure, and making sure nothing sneaks up on us."
"Understood, Sir," Sergeant Zent replied.
“So, onto the main focus of this meeting: the team. How are you all doing? Anything you’d like to bring up? Issues, requests, concerns, commendations?”
“I’d like to commend Sergeant Zent for keeping the team running effectively while you were assisting the Langan, Sir,” Corporal Turner told him.
“Yes, I’m aware of the work you’ve been putting in, Sergeant, and I am very grateful,” Daniel agreed. "I am also grateful for all of you stepping up to the task and making sure someone is on the console at all times."
“Thank you, Sir,” Corporal Turner replied. “Sorry to bring down the mood, but I do have a minor complaint to lodge about something outside of the team.”
“Oh?”
“Many people across the ship are feeling useless. We have a high crew complement and not enough work to fill the majority of their time. I don’t feel like our team is at that stage yet with all the additional minor tasks we’ve got for when we’re not busy, but those are going to eventually run out. People are bored and feel trapped.”
“I can understand that. Things will be changing in a few days, and there will likely be a lot more work to do, but for now there’s not a lot that can be done about that. Unless everyone wants extra inspections, that is.”
“I don’t think people are that desperate for something to do, Sir,” Corporal Turner quickly backtracked.
“But seriously though, if someone has an issue with their workload, they should talk to their senior officer. If your tasks are running low, let me know and I’ll figure something out. If other people feel like they can’t approach their senior officer, then let me know and I’ll see what I can do about it.”
“Well, some of the other officers can be a little daunting to approach, especially some of the Sub-Lieutenants, and it seems most other teams aren’t comfortable going up a level above them, so everyone just seems to talk amongst each other.”
“Hmm, I’ll have a word and see if something can be pushed down then,” he assured her.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Is there anything else anyone wishes to highlight now?” Daniel asked.
“I would like to know how long we plan on remaining in orbit like this, Sir,” Corporal Kreklan asked.
“I don’t know for sure. It depends on the aforementioned seed and egg vault. We could be leaving as early as tomorrow, or we could be out here for another week. I can’t say any more than that.”
“Do you know what we will be doing once we do leave though, Sir?” the Centaur asked.
“Either assisting with the Langan’s resettlement or going on leave, though some people will be going on leave regardless, namely the crew of the Ridgerider, who are being given some time after their recent experience.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“If that is all…? Time to move onto the reports then!” Daniel declared, watching everyone’s shoulders sink.
-----------------------------
“Ah, Hardbrooks, just the man I wanted to see,” Captain Harris exclaimed as he entered her ready room, gesturing for him to sit down. “How can I help?”
“I just wanted to give you some feedback from a recent team meeting,” he began, taking a seat. “My team is in a fairly comfortable position, but there are some concerns around the crew in general. Workloads seem very light, and people seem apprehensive to approach superiors for new orders.”
“I’m aware. Unfortunately, we just have too many people on the ship. We have an above average level of automation, as well as an above average number for crew, and the situation we’re in only calls for a small proportion of them to work. Command wanted to be sure we had everyone we could need, but didn’t stop to think about the consequences of that,” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll be honest, the Navy won’t be handling any future exploration missions like this once I’ve had a nice little chat with Command. But, in the meantime, I’ll cascade some more work to keep people busy, and authorise more downtime. Thanks for bringing this to my attention.”
“Of course, Captain, and thank you as well,” he replied. “Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Yes. Do you remember your time back in Bunker 26?”
“It’s hard to forget it collapsing with us inside.”
“I’m sure, and I’m not sending you back down before you get worried. I wanted to ask you about the state of the bunker while you were down there. The recordings didn’t come out clear enough to pick up on some small things.”
“Oh, like what?”
“We’ve had serious issues with sections of the bunker collapsing. What was the state of it when you entered?”
“Very icy, but intact. Obviously that changed when the ice started melting with our activity and some chunks of ice fell down, but there was only the one collapse when we left.”
“So no obvious large cracks lining the floor, walls, and ceiling?”
“No.”
“I see…. No chance you could have missed them?” she asked, flicking up a hologram of the bunker.
“Small cracks, maybe, but nothing like that,” he replied, staring in shock at the long cracks stretching around the bunker, almost dividing it in half. “Captain-”
“Yes, it’s very dangerous, and it’s obvious that things are falling apart very quickly. We’re just trying to figure out how quickly.”
“How much has been extracted?”
“About 30%. We’re not getting it all out. The vault is starting to show signs of collapsing too.”
“And we still have people in there?”
“We’re trying to extract the remaining eggs. The seeds have a better chance of surviving being frozen, so now we’re just guaranteeing that enough of all species survive to repopulate.”
“Is it worth the risk though?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine. Shield generators have been installed to support the roof, but it’s not clear if they’ll be able to hold back a cave-in.”
“I don’t think it is. If we suffer from another accident, there’s no guarantee a Deity will step in to save everyone again. In fact, it’s probably guaranteed that none will after they essentially stepped in to tell us that place is a bad idea.”
“Very well, I’ll tell Vice Admiral Braun that another person that has experienced that place is saying pull out,” she concluded.
“So I’m not the first to say people should get out?”
“No, but you’re the most senior person that isn’t me.”
“... How has this been justified so far!?”
“Extreme circumstances.”
“... I think I’m going to lodge a complaint.”
“Here you go,” she replied, sliding a tablet across her desk.
“Wow, thanks,” he replied, looking at the already near complete form, reviewing all the input details to make sure that they were all correct. “Is there anything else worrying about the Vice Admiral’s command that I might want to review?”
“Nothing related to you. He’s just pushing the limits of safety when the normal precautions can’t be established.”
“Hmm…. Why does it seem like everyone above us is incompetent?”
“The Navy is under a lot of pressure from the Government to sort this whole situation out. The President of the UPC found out about the signal a couple of years ago, and since then he’s been hounding Command to get out here and identify the source and deal with it. Command has thankfully been shielding us from the pressure for the most part, but now they’re getting sloppy after they can finally see the end in sight.”
“That changes my opinion about a few things.”
“I’m sure it does, but they’re still making inexcusable mistakes, especially now that the element of time has essentially been re-”
“Captain, we have seismic disturbances around Bunker 26!” someone announced over comms.
“Get the team out immediately,” she ordered, jumping out of her chair.
“Expecting this?” Daniel asked as he rose as well. “That’s one hell of a coincidence….”
“I had those sensors installed for a reason, even if I didn’t know the timing,” she replied, rushing to the bridge. “What’s the team’s status!?”
“They’re all exiting the bunker as fast as they can,” Lieutenant Commander Sentrela replied. “Someone on the ground ordered it a few seconds before you.”
“What’s the seismic situation like?”
“Increasing and originating from the bunker, though the footsteps are making it hard to accurately read,” Lieutenant Thomson explained.
“Status of the team?”
“The members are all outside. The drones are close behind,” Lieutenant Commander Sentrela told her.
“Seismic activity is spiking,” Lieutenant Thomson warned the Captain.
“I just lost a signal to a carrier drone,” Lieutenant Commander Williams announced. “And a second. The rest are out of the bunker.”
“Confirming collapse of Bunker 26. I’m not detecting any voids underground. The vault isn’t there anymore,” Lieutenant Thomson stated.
“Am I correct in thinking the team made it out?” Captain Harris asked.
“We have no casualties, only two lost drones,” Lieutenant Commander Sentrela confirmed. “Incoming communication from the CNS Batlow, Ma’am.”
“Put it through,” Captain Harris replied, sitting in her chair.
“Captain Harris, did you just order operations to stop at Bunker 26?” Vice Admiral Braun asked over the comm.
“I did, though I wasn’t the first to give the order,” she replied.
“Why? This will delay the operation further.”
“Because the operation at Bunker 26 has concluded. It’s collapsed. We didn’t suffer any casualties because that order was given out.”
The Vice Admiral paused for a moment, evidently caught off guard. “I didn’t give you the authority to halt operations though.”
“Saving lives in split second decisions is well within my authority, Vice Admiral,” she replied, slightly emphasising the first part of his rank. "Every senior officer present in the system has the right to call an operation off if they deem it necessary."
“I should have been informed before any action was taken.”
“Vice Admiral, do you mean to say that I shouldn’t have given life saving orders? Did you not hear me when I said the bunker collapsed?”
“You shouldn’t have undermined my authority.”
“Just to be clear, I shouldn’t have followed standard protocol and instead wasted precious time asking for permission before evacuating them, likely resulting in the mass loss of life? Permission I was never told I needed, nor should I need?”
“Well….”
“Yes or no? Make it very clear for the record please.”
The comms cut off.
“Make sure that one is correctly saved. I might have to push for some changes in the house when we get back.”
-----------------------------
First / Previous / Next

(Inspired by this writing prompt, but put into its own post because replies have annoying character limits)
Kin'kar Q'qlan (Translation: He who Slays Death) considered the small prey creature before him. Though doing so was quite difficult, considering this was anything but the usual circumstances under which he does so.
Normally, when he is considering a prey creature he is thinking about its anatomical structure, its behavior. He analyzes its movements, its shape, its hide, its weapons. He formulates a plan for how he shall slay it and claim its skull. Utilizing whatever assistance was afforded him for that particualr hunt, he would identify its tendons, joints, cracks in its chitin if it were exoskeletal, and the like.
But now he is to consider this creature's words. Even now, several months after learning of this recently uplifted species, the very idea astonishes him. A prey species that speaks. He was sent here to as the most prodigious hunter amongst the Karkians (Translation: Hunters), and thus their best consultant in such matters.
He must clear his thoughts, he shall begin again at the beginning- when Humanity's existence was first announced by the Imperial Throne to the rest of the galaxy. Apparently the Imperial Throne had discovered the existence of a sapient species months prior- of course conducting its own investigations before making the discovery public. Normally such an event is already cause for a stir, as such species are rarely discovered as a Pre-FTL civilization. The period of development between pre-sapient and starfaring is, compared to the scale of the universe, quite short. It is commonly held that the odds of a sapient species existing in a stage of computerized technological development simultaneously with several other FTL capable species is astronomically unlikely once more than a handful of species have achieved FTL and began expanding to other systems.
But this particular discovery has shaken the foundations of everything known about sapient evolution. For many centuries it has been held by the wisest and eldest of all civilizations that the energy requirements of sapience cannot be sustained by anything less than an apex super-predator- an animal species which preys upon all other species in their planetary environment. To sustain an conscious mind requires frequent consumption of highly energy dense food, of which only a handful of species on any given world are comprised of. While omnivorous sapients are not unheard of, it is rare for circumstances to allow the justification of time spent for a pre-industrial sapient on anything other than mating, development, or hunting. For most, one of these things becomes a cultural centerpoint. For Karkians such as Kin'kar, Hunting is the pride of their people- so much so that they still frequently participate in technologically restricted ritual hunting both for entertainment, and as a method for the resolution of otherwise unresolvable disputes.
Yet, if the Imperial Throne's report is to be believed, this species descends from a sub-predator species. That is, a species of "predators" who are themselves frequently preyed upon by typically more powerful apex predators. Though Kin'kar is loathe to call such a thing a predator. To Karkians, you are either the hunter or the hunted, and never both. Yet, somehow, these prey animals evolved sapience and eventually overcame their evolutionary predators, no longer vulnerable to being hunted- but neither assuming the role of Apex hunter and super-predating. Not for food, anyways. Also perplexingly, their overcoming of this previously thought unbreakable food chain was prompted by technological development.
In other words- they became sapient before becoming their planet's apex species. Kin'kar unconsciously loosed several clicks, to the confusion of his guest. No matter how many times he says it to himself or confirms the accuracy of the reports, he can hardly believe it. According to Throne scientists, Humanity invented naturally developed Agriculture- a concept which was previously only theorized as a possible route to the energy requirements of a populous sapient species. Previously, the primary restriction factor for sapient species was sustaining large numbers- the energy requirements of conscious thought meant that species numbers were limited by the availability of food. Only slow development of technology allowing hunting of more and more prey species across more environments more easily could allow a species to grow and begin affording members time to focus on technological development rather than survival. Many scientists believed that, theoretically, the artificial cultivation of plant species could provide this energy- but such ideas were unilaterally passed off as impossible, as an herbivorous species would never be able to evolve the intelligence necessary to begin with, and most omnivorous species developed as a result of an environment were time efficiency was so extremely crucial to survival and food so scarce that it was unfeasible to waste any on such slow methods that could get them killed for no reason other than bad luck.
Yet here Humanity was- having just proven centuries of crackpot theorists correct. An omnivorous species of sub-predators which developed Agriculture as their primary means of sustaining large populations.
"Is something wrong?" the human spoke, their name was 'Isaac'- though this species was one which did not maintain meaning translations for most names and so Kin'kar knew not the significance of the title. Such an odd thing, to claim a name which has no meaning...
"No, apologies. I was lost in thought. Your existence... your people, that is, are perplexing to me." He responded in Honor-Authoritative, though he has been told that human translators are only capable of two tonal discrepencies. Communication must have been difficult for this species, yet another confusing fact.
"Yeah, we get that alot. The boys back home are still mulling over the Imperial Throne's scientific data. It's shattered everything we thought we knew about evolution." He spoke in what Kin'kar's translator indicated as Honor-Mutual. Normally, a Q'qlan would challenge such speech with a ritual hunt to enforce an appropriate speech tone. However, he must be lenient with this species who is unaware of his people's ways. They will learn- this is his mission, afterall. He has been sent by the High Order of the Huntresses to both share Karkian culture and learn human culture- so that the Matrons may establish proper political channels. Though not quite the hunt he is accustomed to, it is an honor to have been selected for such a task.
"The feeling is mutual. Humanity has shattered everything the galaxy knew about sapient evolution. Tell me, is it really true that your kind are not hunters?" He asked, expecting a particular answer.
The human, Isaac, spoke, "Well, sort of. We're not currently hunters, not really. We've long since surpassed the need to truly hunt for survival. There was a time in our history where hunting was critical for our survival- but once Agriculture developed, it slowly became a secondary, then tertiary concern. Until, eventually, it was simply superfluous and unneeded compared to Herding and Farming. Though the practice remained popular for non-food related materials, and even sport, until a a few centuries ago. Nowadays, hunting at all is frowned upon unless you're living alone in the woods somewhere and need to to survive."
Kin'kar was not expecting this answer. He knew, of course, that they were sub-predators. In the back of his mind, there was small relief that this species was not entirely herbivorous. They did have to hunt at some point for the energy cost of sapience. But to think that agriculture was so effective that hunting as a strategy became... obsolete? He knew it was not Isaac's fault, but the very thought made his blood boil. Literally. Karkian blood is, uniquely to their species, capable of boiling without causing damage- their veins are semi-permeable to gases, and on especially hot days the blood in veins on the surface of their skin would boil to release heat in the form of vapor. This also doubled as a way to apply scent markings to territory, and to attract mates.
"I'm sorry, you're, uhm. Uh... you're steaming? Literally? Wow. Uh, I didn't mean to anger you, deepest apologies." Isaac spoke, now in... Dishonor-subordinate? Kin'kar shook his head again, he must dissuade his instincts- lest this individuals fluctuating tone's confuse him further.
"Do not apologize for that which is not your fault. I was.. the thought of hunting becoming obsolete. For Karkians, the Hunt is a millenia honored tradition- to call it... 'unneeded' is... agitating. I cannot blame you, you did not know. You said your species used Herding as well? I was only aware of your heavy use of Agriculture." Kin'kar inquired as a way to distract from the agitation.
Herding was known to the Galaxy, even super-predating species cannot sustain hunting alone forever. As populations grow, industrial scale animal processing becomes an inevitability. Not the least because without it, a sufficiently populous species would wipe out all life on their planet! It seems even Humanity could not avoid this, which was oddly comforting. A small bit of reason underneath the foundation of this incredulous species. Kin'kar was still remiss about humanity's apparent disfavor for hunting- at one point they even engaged in it for sport! If that had been the humanity the Imperial Throne discovered, then perhaps this conversation would be easier held during a Communion hunt... but alas, the offer was rejected prior even to his arrival.
"Yes, as humanity spread out across the planet in our primitive days-"
"What?" Kin'kar interrupted, perhaps slightly dishonorably though he doubted the human even noticed.
"Humanity spread out across the planet in our primitive days?" Isaac repeated.
"You.. humanity encompassed their entire world before industrializing?" Kin'kar clarified, flabbergasted.
"Actually, before even agriculture truly developed, there were tribes of humans both nomadic and static all over the planet with exception to only a few particularly hostile locations that hardly supported large ecosystems to begin with. Even some of the most remote regions had human tribes, due to ancient geological landbridges that formed during the Ice Ages." Isaac stated with such confidence and stability that even the translator identified absolutely no deception.
This was entire unforeseen. Not even Throne data sharing revealed this. Most species did not expand beyond their evolutionary roots until they began to develop tools for surviving off-environments. Some rare species had durability enough to survive the entire breadth of a continent's temperature and seasonal terrains, but it was literally unheard of for one to be capable of surviving every single planetary ecosystem without the aid of technology to enable the hunting of physically more powerful predators and thus expansion of food sources for, of course, larger populations. Yet, somehow, humanity had done precisely that.
"How? How could a pre-sapient prey species spread across the entire planet and survive without technology to adapt to differing seasonal variations and weapons to hunt and survive its predators- especially foreign predators?" Kin'kar almost exclaimed, not even realizing what he had called humanity...
"I am sorry, but I must correct you. Humanity, even then, was not a 'pre-sapient prey species', as you put it." Isaac spoke again, again with absolute sureity.
"W-what!? But.. the records. The throne's data, the report I received. Your species is descended from prey animals, is it not? Hunteed frequently by... apologies for the enunciation of this word... 'Lee-oh-pahrds', 'Leeohns', and 'Huheenahs' even during your development? You've even stated that you hold life, even that of lesser species, as sacred and have extensive laws for animal rights?" Kin'kar retored, trying desperately to confirm his information.
"I see you have been.. at least slightly misinformed. Or perhaps have misinterpreted. Your report clearly is not firsthand, in any case." Isaac stated, quite calmly. He stood, activating the holo projector to show Earth side by side with what appeared to be a less evolved human.
"As you say, we are descended from 'prey' animals. A species of hominids, er, well I suppose that just means human ancestor huh, well. A species that came before us, were in fact prey to many varieties of animal in our evolutionary basin, the African Savanahh here-" the holo shifted to show the world's second largest continent, specifically the upper middle portion of it, "-Hyenas, Lions, Leopords mostly. But even so, they still occasionally hunted- only our eldest ancestors so removed so as to hardly be considered hominids were not omnivorous. However, hunting was difficult and infrequent- so ancient diets consisted of a mix of a variety of things including berries, nuts, insects, and whatever meat we could get our hands on. We formed large packs, herds, whatever you want to call the group structure to provide mutual support and keep eyes out for predators. The key to our success was that, even in those times, our intelligence vastly outclassed other animals and enabled us out to outposition, outmaneuver, and generally avoid predators whilst tricking other animals into traps they couldn't escape from. We leveraged our endurance to run down prey until it literally died of exhaustion, then stripped the corpse for as long as it took scavengers to push us away. The moment we began to make use of tools, however, it was over. Not even scavengers could push us away from kills, and even predators risked their own lives with every hunt against us. With tools, hunting in combination with foraging became the staple strategy for just under 2 million years. It wasn't until about a hundred-ish millenia ago when we finally left our evolutionary basin to other continents, due mostly to the Ice Ages forcing us to adapt or die. Thus began the great human migration to basically the entire planet, thanks mostly to lowered sea levels creating land bridges to other continents and prevalent island chains allowing short-term sea travel to the more remote locations. Agriculture didn't really come about until around 12,000ish years ago at which point civilization really kickstarted as tribes of maybe a hundred or so could finally start growing bigger." Isaac concluded, or perhaps simply paused, to allow Kin'kar a chance to process and respond.
"This... I..." His mind raced, shifting with great speed between awe, wonder, confusion, and... fear? Legitimate fear? His hearts raced, thumping their tandem beat as if he were on the trail of dangerous game. He could not shake it. The Throne's were wrong- as they often were the fools, Kin'kar should have known better. This was no mere 'prey' species- they were a trap! Their looks, their attitudes, their culture.. everything is just a trick! A facade meant to lull the other species into a false sense of security. But now.. now he could truly see into Isaac's gaze- see his intent. Where before Kin'kar was confused as to this creature's confidence, curious as to how a prey animal could maintain such a solid gaze. Now he knew for certain.
It was he who was being hunted. All this time, it was Kin'kar who was being analyzed. Studied. Picked apart. Were this truly a Communion hunt, Kin'kar would already have dishonored his people a hundred times over. He would have no choice but to return home in shame and allow another to take the mantle. He thanked the ancestors this did not come to pass.
This species, first a prey animal, in the span of merely 2 million years evolved into a what Kin'kar can only describe as an optional super-predator. A species that could easily overwhelm and dominate any ecosystem it was in- predate upon all of its top predators, and come out with more bounty for it. But they didn't. They opted for mutuality. They survived the predators, but focused on the core prey animals. They continued to supplement their hunt of less efficient game with foraging- using both tactics at once as most omnivorous species do. But not out of necessity. Not out of need.
But because that's just what they wanted to do. Because they did not need to hunt more efficiently. They had evolved an intelligent brain 'even back then' Isaac had said.. even before becoming the planetary apex. Just how efficient were they? Running prey to death by exhaustion? Not even with tools or weapons? Just.. chasing it until it died? How in all the galaxy could they support an intelligent mind on, ostensibly, such low energy costs? It was preposterous! Even the most generous theories tossed out such ridiculous notions as a herbivorous-favoring omnivore with intelligence...
There was only one question Kin'kar knew to ask. He was no scientist, but even he understood some biological basics.
"The translator should translate this correctly. How many Calories does a human require for daily functions?" Kin'kar asked, dreading the answer.
"Most estimates place it at around 2,000 for a healthy diet, though that can vary by as much as a thousand or more." He stated, his expression plain and unassuming as if he did not just invoke a ritual to make Jorq'inian roll in his grave. As if he did not just overturn over ten millenia of scientific research. As if his statement did not change the face of the galaxy. Kin'kar did not steam. He froze. The death sentence. The primordial locking of joints that was often seen as a sign of weakness, a base fear response instinct that Karkians possessed as a holdover from their ancestor species- from even before they had become super-predators. To show it in the presence of other Karkians was the surest way to lose all honor. To become outcast, destitute, and stripped of titles. Even though he was the only Karkian here, and thus his position maintained- this moment would haunt Kin'kar for the rest of his days. The day he knew true, primordial fear. When he finally grasped the sheer level of danger Humanity presented.
A species that defied Jorq'inians law of evolution. It all suddenly made sense. No wonder they did not need to super-predate to survive. They simply broke the laws and developed caloric efficiency beyond all theories. They could support a brain, advanced muscle structures, strength, endurance... everything on far less than any other species needed.
Kin'kars mind reached even further into the depths of terror.
They developed agriculture. The Theory of Agriculture was straightforward. On Paper it could provide far higher net energy than predation, if done properly. The main issue was that by the time any species had the means to utilize it, industrial scale animal processing had already developed and the relative cost of low-technological agriculture was just too high to warrant spending countless centuries developing it when one could simply just expand their current methods.
But Humanity, who was already so incredibly energy efficient. Already capable of hunting all they needed and then some, already in position to truly become super-predators; Humanity developed Agriculture. Twelve thousand years ago? Kin'kar hadn't even registered that number just yet, but now that he thinks about it, the average time between developing of mass animal processing and FTL was typically in the thirty to forty thousand range.
And Humanity did it in twelve. By the time most species were computerized and beginning to look beyond their planets, Humanity was tribal and farming plants.
And here they are, now entering the Galactic stage barely ten or so millenia after the rise of the first FTL civilization- the Imperial Throne. The speed of their development is terrifying. Kin'kar knew this could mean only one thing. This was them. This was the Junt'Bah. The unhuntable. The most dangerous game. The one species that no Karkian ever survived pursuit of. Rumors of their existence began only barely a century ago- when rumors of a world containing supposedly plentiful game was discovered and the parties sent to it never returned. Rumor has it that the first to go there returned after a successful first hunt. But the second was not so. The next party to follow never returned. Or the next. Or the next... information was scarce, as those who knew of the planet's location were either dead or so fearful of it that they refused to reveal its whereabouts. The rumors spread like wildfire, though the vast majority of Karkian society disregarded them as a pipe-dream thought up by dis-satisfied hunters wishing to make up pretense for fallacious boasts.
But now, Kin'kar knew it was the truth. The timing is too perfect. Barely a century ago, if the report is true, Humanity had began to develop basic tech-weapons and enter early militarization (at least what passed for such things in galactic society). If the first hunt was successful, that would imply some element of surprise was at play.. but if the subsequent ones were not. Kin'kar was in grave danger, did he know? Was humanity already aware of Karkians even before the uplift began? Was this some kind of trap? Would he ever see his mate again?
"Kin'kar? Are you alright? You look pale." Isaac noted in- damn the translator. He could be speaking primitive-infant right now and Kin'kar would still be afraid. He had to respond, to maintain some semblance of authority before the predator got any ideas...
"I am fine, I was just. Surprised, at the information. I will... have to update our records. Could you provide a more... direct document? I am not exactly a scientist, I am merely my people's best hunter..." Kin'kar spoke, unconsciously using Dishonor-Submissive...
"Ah, yes, your people. I was hoping we could discuss them some? I've just shared most of my people's history, afterall.." Isaac expectantly lead.
"O-oh, yes, of course..." Kin'kar submitted.
In the coming days, the Karkian empire would enter into a Defensive pact with Humanity in a political move that stunned the entire galaxy. Karkians were notoriously fierce and highly independent, militarily capable of resisting Imperial annexation whilst holding strategically important worlds that precluded annihilation class weapons. A fact that their High Order of Huntresses frequently leveraged during political talks and attempts to trade. Yet, for seemingly no discernible reason, they entered and equal-footing defensive agreement with Humanity- enabling the newly uplifted species to resist Imperial annexation and remain independant. Rumor has it this was preluded by a dramatic shift in Karkian authority, with nearly half their high order stepping down and being replaced by subordinates after some kind of cultural scandal- though no other species truly knew what happened when Kin'kar's report reached the council's eyes. They did not know how much blood was shed that day.
Humanity, for their part, was very glad to have the Predators on their side. Much better than the movies.

The east wind was frigid during this time of the year. Walking through the streets of Winterport slums was a young man with long silver hair and violet eyes on his handsome yet haggard face. He was about 6 feet tall with a lean and muscular body. He didn't have a lot of fat and looked a bit skinny in his jacket. As always, the man had a listless expression on his face masking any emotions.
“Morning Cal, up to the mines again?” said the portly old street food vendor while setting up his cart.
“Hmm,” replied Cal.
“Always so diligent if everyone else was like you then we wouldn’t need that many enforcers. Be careful out there, I heard the shades are more violent and restless this time of the year. See you tonight,” said the old man.
“Not tonight. I have to monitor the deep mines.”
The old man gave him a worried look. He knew how dangerous it was in the deep mines during the winter. “Your terms have all been fulfilled, Callahan…. You are no longer a slave, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Then why continue this treacherous occupation? I know the money’s well but there are other jobs which won’t kill you just because you stepped on the wrong stone,” he said in frustration.
“I wonder,” Cal said quietly to himself and hurried on his way.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had done something that made him genuinely happy. All his life he had followed orders. First his mother, then his masters, and now his so-called captain who never bats an eye while sending him to the most dangerous sections of the mine. Not like he can blame the captain as he never objects to any of the orders. To him, he must be the model enforcer. Always on time and never asking any questions.
He could never understand himself or his own actions. Maybe living on the edge of life and death is what’s keeping him alive and distracted from all the pain and grief hidden in the deep recesses of his mind. Or maybe he just likes to fight.
Either way, there was something in the mines that kept calling to him. Something that could move his long cold heart. Maybe it could give him a solution to all the nightmares. Or maybe it would be his end. Well, that was also a solution.
…
He arrived at the mine where he could see his captain handing out orders to the new recruits. All of them had hopeful looks on their faces like they were ready for a new page in their lives. All former mining slaves freed from their previous positions after they awakened their mana. The big smiles on their faces were obvious. They knew that this was their ticket to total freedom and exoneration from their previous crimes. Once they complete the basic service term of guarding the miners against the atrocities that surface from the deep mines for 2 years, their citizenship to the empire would be restored.
‘Naïve idiots,’ thought captain Reginald. ‘If it was so easy then we wouldn’t make former slaves into enforcers when there were so many awakened in the city guards. Only one in ten ever survive past the 1-year mark and out of those survivors, half get corrupted and must be put down before they kill everyone else.’
“Reporting for duty captain,” Cal said in an apathetic voice.
“If it isn’t my best enforcer on call. Why I was just waiting for you to get here. You don’t know how relieved I am to see your face,” replied Reginald with a tone that failed to betray any sort of relief. “I was just teaching these new recruits about the shades and their duties but now that you are here, I was wondering if you had room for a few more enforcers on your patrols?”
“Sir, I am going to the deep mines today they would only get in my way.”
“Come now don’t be rude to your juniors how will they learn anything if they don’t experience the real deal,” Reginald replied with an icy tone daring Cal to object.
Cal looked at the captain’s eyes for a moment and guessed that he must have made a bet with his friends on how many new recruits would survive past the first week again. “As you command sir.”
“Good. Good. Now don’t be that disappointed I am assigning you the three best recruits of this month. I’m sure they can hold their own in a fight.”
Four years of serving under the captain had made him aware that the only way to hide from his attention is to never get under his nose. He had made that mistake once and the captain has still not let go of that resentment to this day. Always finding a way to make his life harder. Not that it mattered to Cal if someone hated him, but it still annoyed him when he had to put up with his whims.
Cal looked at the three new recruits and wondered if the captain was lying to him. One look at them and he could say with certainty that they would not live past the three-day mark in the deep mines. Not like he cared anyways.
“Follow me,” he said before walking past them and going towards the mine shafts. Several of the miners looked at him with awe in their eyes as he made his way to the deep mines. The three recruits following him like lost puppies.
One of the recruits with brown hair and black eyes suddenly spoke up.
“What should we call you sir?”
“Cal,” he replied.
“No, I meant your rank, sir. The captain just said that someone will be here to teach us how to deal with the shades, we don’t know how to refer to you without offending you, sir. Oh, I am Bryan by the way.”
“Nothing you say could ever offend me. And enforcers don’t have ranks. At least not officially,” replied Cal. “The longer you can survive here the more respected you are. Seniority is also determined that way. You are first-years and at your most vulnerable time right now so try not to die.”
“Heh, stop exaggerating I have fought shades with my bare hands before, they aren’t anything special. Now that I have a flamestone sword nothing can beat me here,” said the blue-eyed and black-haired recruit with a grin. “You can call me Phil and that’s Safid,” he pointed at the last recruit with burly build and average looks. “Which gang are you from Cal?”
“I don’t like gangs,” replied Cal.
“You must be some weakling who no one wanted,” Phil said in a mocking tone. “How about you join my gang? I am going to make a new gang here once I get the hang of things with Safid. We are going to turn this place upside down and become the best gang. Ain’t that right Safid?”
“Yes boss,” said Safid with an enthusiastic voice.
Cal looked at Phil like he was watching a clown. Forget a gang these fools won’t last two minutes in front of the senior enforcers before being slaughtered like lambs. He shook his head and didn’t bother talking with the soon-to-be deceased.
Phil didn’t like how he was ignored. “Your loss, don’t come crying to me when I am done taking over this place.”
“What year are you sir?” Bryan asked after a while.
“Fourth,” Cal replied coolly.
Before he could ask anything else, Cal motioned for them to stop. They had arrived at the deep mines. Before them, everything was pitch black with only hints of light coming from the occasional flamestone lamps that were on the mine walls.
“It's so dark here,” said Bryan. “Why don’t they add more lamps? I am sure our jobs would be easier if we had more visibility.”
“They don’t last,” said Cal. “The shades consume all light. Only warded Flamestone lamps can be used here. And even those don’t last long in the deep mines before being consumed.”
“Consumed?”
“The fames inside the stones are consumed by whatever supernatural phenomenon shrouds the deep mines, that’s why we enforcers always have to regularly change the flamestone lamps. Whatever consumes the flame stops it from recharging,” Cal stopped explaining and said, “No more questions now. There could be shades anywhere, have your weapons ready.”
The three complied with his words and pulled out their swords from their sheaths. Cal started surveying his surroundings before making his way deeper. They didn’t have to walk for long before coming across the first shade.
It looked almost indistinguishable from its surroundings. They only recognized it because of its white eyes and darker-than-black fur. It had a humanoid figure with a tail that ended with a sword-like structure and a height of 1.5 meters. Cal stepped forward and slashed his sword a few feet away from the monster before it could react. A long slash-shaped white light jumped out of his sword and went towards the shade. The moment it touched the shade it exploded into a bright white light which illuminated their surroundings and blinded the recruits for a few seconds. When they could see again the shade was gone. In its place was a small glowing stone. Cal picked up the stone and showed it to the recruits.
“Flamestone?” asked Bryan.
“Yes,” replied Cal. “That’s why the shades try their best to go to the upper mines. The flamestone lamps here are warded so they can’t consume the flames themselves and there are no active flamestones in the deep mines, but the upper mines don’t suffer from the same environmental phenomenon as here so the flamestones mined from there are all in their activated state. If they can somehow break past the enforcers in the deep mines, then they can go up and consume as much flamestone as they can before they evolve into shadows.”
While Cal didn’t care if these recruits survived, he never half-assed his job so he would train them to the best of his abilities. Whether they were capable enough to follow his instructions was up to them.
“What’s a shadow?” asked Phil.
“Something you don’t want to meet,” replied Cal. “The dropped flamestones are how we make our living. We can exchange them for our salary from the mine administrator.”
“Was that light mana that you used with your sword?” Bryan asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“So that’s your aspect. Must be handy in this area,” noted Bryan.
“It has its perks,” replied Cal. “But that’s enough babysitting. You are gonna fight the next one.”
“But we can’t release our mana yet,” Bryan said.
“I’m sure you learned how to use that sword in your training camp,” Cal said.
“Yeah, stop being a wimp it's only a shade, boss could handle that with his bare hands,” said Safid who had been quiet for a while now.
“Even if we can’t release mana our internal circulation is enough to considerably increase our strength from ordinary humans,” Phil said with some disdain in his voice.
As they were arguing with each other Cal heard some noise in front of them. “Quiet,” he said. “Get ready it's coming.”
All three took up proper stance and looked ahead. ‘At least they aren’t completely amateurs’ Cal thought as another adolescent shade approach them.
Phil was the first to lunge forward and slash with his sword, but the shade jumped back before he reached it. It growled before swiping its claws towards Phil. Phil reacted quickly and blocked with his sword, but the claws were just a distraction as its tail swung from behind and hit his side. Phil screamed as blood dripped down from his abdomen. It was cut by the sharp tail sword.
‘Tch, not even a few seconds.’ Cal was about to step forward when Bryan stepped in and stabbed his sword directly into the head of the shade while it was distracted with finishing off Phil.
“You alright?” Bryan asked Phil.
“Just a small scratch I will be fine. I would have got him if you didn’t step forward,” replied Phil.
“You were never hit by a shade, were you?” Cal asked.
“No,” Phil replied.
“Well then pray to whatever deity you believe in that you don’t get infected.”
“Aren’t we immune to that after we awaken?” asked Bryan.
“Not weaklings like you no,” Cal replied. “Only once you have fully assimilated your mana onto your blood vessels are you immune to that. You only have internal mana circulating in your veins. You have to slowly assimilate mana in your blood vessels so that you can fight off invaders entering your blood.”
“I won’t die just because of some fucking scratch,” Phil said though with some uncertainty.
“Patch yourself and get ready to move we still haven’t reached our patrol area,” Cal ordered.
They began moving again once Phil took care of his wound. After an hour of walking and three more encounters with shades which Cal took care of due to Phil’s delay, they finally reached their patrol area.
It was a fork in the road. One of the caves lead to a large cavern while the other went deeper into the mines.
“We will set up camp here. That cavern to our left has already been fully mined so there aren’t any flamestones over there. Hence more young shades are born over there. The lower the amount of flamestone, the easier it is for the deep mines to affect the surrounding environment. But the shades aren’t as strong since young shades don’t have any flamestones in them,” Cal explained while placing the flamestones picked from the previous shades around them to provide a better view.
“So, the ones we fought earlier were very strong. That must be why I had a hard time dealing with the first one,” Phil said regaining his previous confidence.
“Just one step above the weakest. The more flamestone they drop the stronger they are,” replied Cal. “We will be guarding this fork for 18 hours before the next shift takes over. Don’t let your guard down just because you will be facing weaker enemies. Shades are very smart and will group up when they are young. We can’t let them go deeper into the mines or towards the surface.”
Bryan raised his hand. Which was weird as he didn’t do that before.
“Yes,” Cal said letting him know that he could ask what he wanted.
“Why can’t we let them go down?”
“Because they will be a nuisance and distraction to the other enforcers up ahead,” Cal replied.
“There are others down there?” asked Phil.
“Where there are flamestones there are miners. Even if they are in their inactive state here. You are lucky I was told to patrol this section of the deep mine today. Young shades can’t infect the awakened. If we went deeper, you would not survive for long,” Cal said.
What followed next for the recruits was an excruciating hurdle of disposing waves of shades for hours upon hours until their bodies started to give in. Cal watched from the sides while taking care of most of the shades. Even still the recruits were having a hard time staying alive. Most of their bodies were covered in scratches. If they were ordinary humans they would have already been infected, maybe even corrupted. Cal was slightly impressed and realized he had underestimated them.
‘Huh. They could at least survive five days rather than three,’ he thought. However, he shouldn’t have tempted fate as it turned out.

Hey everyone,
Awhile ago I explained some symptoms to my GP doc and he suggested I might have tight pelvic floor. I was getting by with some YouTube videos he recommended (just general stretches for hamstrings etc) but recently decided to ask for a PT referral and I'll see my PT in 3 weeks. I just wanted to double check with people here to make sure I'm not "missing a step". I'll see my GP in one week and I will review my symptoms. I'm expecting he won't know much and will ask the PF PT to diagnose, and I think the PT will know a lot. I'm just wondering if my issues are actually PF related, or maybe GI. I've never had a colonoscopy, and my doc doesn't seem concerned in that vein.
I stress a lot (worry about things at work, am stressed while driving sometimes) and I think that has led to a ton of habitual tightness. For years I chalked my IBS issues up to stress, but am now wondering if there's a muscular component to that.
I am never constipated, but usually have one "relaxed" bm every morning, followed a bit later by one that seems a little thinner, perhaps due to stress or tight muscles. The thinner stools seem correlated with very tight muscles days and also stress / coffee.
My hamstrings, glutes, hips are always super tight. I do stretches, foam roll, rock climb and hike a lot. Exercise makes everything better. Sitting makes things worse.
My main PF symptoms are the GI ones and also sometimes I just feel pressure on my bladder or rectum with a (not really urgent) presence that makes me think I should go to the bathroom. A few years ago this was much worse and very "sensational" in that I had a "whoa, what's that feeling?", But that has calmed down. Never pain, but definitely a "oh wow, I don't like this"
I know there's a stress element since sometimes I'll be nervous and notice the bladder sensation and I'll go pee more often than normal. Sometimes if I stand up from seated too quickly while I have to pee some muscle will spasm/cramp and it can take 5-10 seconds to relax. I think this same muscle gets cramped when I boulder at the gym (if I fall a few feet in a safe and controlled way, I feel this muscle tense painfully - I think it's my fear of falling). Imagine falling a few feet onto a soft mat and feeling some pelvic muscle absorb the fall.
Generally sensations seem more noticeable in the 24 hours after an orgasm, but never any "pain". Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night with extremely strong erections that are quite uncomfortable.
This constellation of symptoms has me thinking PF PT is the right next step, but I can imagine that the next step might be a GI doc too. I tend toward health anxiety, so I don't think it's good for me to sign up for a slee of appointments. But I just thought I'd ask here. I've read a lot of posts and have learned a lot of helpful things. Thank you! I'm 37 by the way, in case that's relevant.

Respect Hama

You have got to keep an open mind, Katara. There's water in places you never think about.

History: Happy with her life as a waterbender in the Southern Water Tribe, everything changed for Hama when the Fire Nation attacked. They rounded up all of the tribe's waterbenders until she was the last one left until, finally, they took her as prisoner as well. For years they tortured her and subjected her to cruel conditions in order to keep her waterbending in check. Hama's only chance for escape came with the full moon.
Hama discovered that with the full moon amplifying her power she could manipulate the water within the blood of living creatures. She practiced her talent on rats before turning it on the guards to grant her escape. Consumed by hatred for her captors, she spent the rest of her life in a small Fire Nation village where she systematically kidnapped its citizens with her power and imprisoned them in a nearby mountain. It was not until Katara discovered her plot that the old woman was stopped, but Hama went to prison again satisfied that she passed her dark secrets on to a new waterbender.
Powers: Hama was a master waterbender who favored resourcefulness above all else. While she knew many conventional techniques like using water for blasting or slicing, she also learned to draw water from plants or the moisture in the air. She also developed the technique of bloodbending, manipulating the water in a target's blood to puppeteer it, but required the full moon in order to do so.
Note: Katara RT for reference

Physicals

• Says she can feel the power of the full moon as her veins bulge out and that she has never felt more alive
• Takes 2 simultaneous hits from Katara that knock her down though she immediately recovers

Waterbending

• Distributes stew to everyone's bowls simultaneously
• Throws waves of water to either side and uses one to slash apart a net trying to ensnare her
• In tandem with 7-8 other waterbenders manages to raise up a battleship and freeze it in place
• Pulls water from surrounding flowers and slices a rock into several pieces
• Pulls water out of thin air, forming icicles she embeds into a tree
• Redirects Katara's attack and withers trees as she sends out a waterblast Katara blocks
• Withers a tree apart to create a wheel of water that defends from Katara's blast amidst her bloodbending

Bloodbending

• Says that bloodbending is only possible during a full moon, when waterbending's power is at its peak
• Forced an old man to start walking toward a mountain, although she lost her grip on him when the sun arose
• Kidnapped many villagers with her bloodbending over time and held them captive in chains
• Paralyzes a rat and forces it to stand upright
• Paralyzes 5 rats and forces them all to stand upright simultaneously
• Takes control of a guard, forcing him to retrieve his keys and unlock her cell before forcing him to the ground as he struggles
• Begins bloodbending Katara, twisting her limbs around, although Katara negates the ability shortly after
• Controls Aang and Sokka simultaneously, forcing Sokka to draw and wield his sword and puppeteering both of them at Katara to attack her
• Shatters apart Aang and Sokka's icy bindings as she pulls them toward eachother, but is herself overpowered by Katara bloodbending

What are your recommendations for addons / researching into them? I just started playing again / re-leveling all my nerfed characters since Warlords of draenor. any help in advance is appreciated.
side note: ive gone through wowhead and icy veins just want to know what some other people are using

Tl;dr
I (37f) have been married to my husband (34m) for almost 10 years. He was very possessive at the beginning of our relationship and if I have to be honest I felt pressured into getting engaged. I lost my best friend in the process because he didn't think it was a healthy relationship, and I felt so lost that I threw myself into the wedding planning and committed to something I wasn't ready for, but I was just so scared of ending up alone that I didn't think twice.
Once we got married, all the romantic gestures went out the window. I was lonely, and any kind of reaching out was met with icy indifference. It was like he got what he had wanted and went into autopilot.
He needs to be in control of everything at all times, and he has taken over every single thing in our house. The things that I thought I would enjoy about being someone's wife one day - cooking, cleaning, laundry, creating a home - he's taken it all. He literally does everything. And if I ever try to tell someone about how it feels I'm met with "wow, you're so lucky!" But I've lost myself in all this. I feel like I would never be able to look after myself without him, and it hurts to say this, but I think that is what he wants, ultimately. He has an insane fear of not being needed, of not being in control, (which is a result of a super traumatic past).
Our place is cold and empty has had no character for years, until recently it looked like a man was living here alone. I can sense how nobody feels comfortable being here, and I dont either. I used to be very creative and painted my walls and had quirky furniture and little comfort nooks and listened to music all the time. Since I've known him we only listen to what he likes. We eat what he likes. We only watch what he watches. I used to stay up late and get up late, but early evening he would already close the curtains and switch off all the lights/tv even if I'm still busy, because his bedtime is everyone's bedtime. I feel like I have no right to exist as my own person.
When I try to claim some piece of my own space, like if I mop the floor or do some spring cleaning, 5 minutes later he will mop it again. If I moved something or tried to redecorate, he used to move it back (it's better now, but I have to change things very slowly and prepare him weeks in advance).
If I say I'd like to do laundry, he would say I can do it anytime, as long as it is when he wants, which is first thing in the morning. I'm not a morning person, but I would set my alarm for when he usually does it and then I would get downstairs and he would have already gotten up earlier to do it before I could get to it, and then would say if I wanted to do it, I should have woken up ealier.
This is all fine, it's about boundaries and I can only blame myself for not having any. But I am so lonely, and I feel like I've let myself down, my younger self who believed in true love and happily ever after. I dont really have friends (putting it lightly), apart from his friends. I dont have anyone to talk to about it. And I know I'm to blame, so what is there to talk about, really?
What kills me is that he is always at least a room's distance from me. He's either making food or cleaning, or if we are sitting down to eat he will get up the whole time to do stupid things like lock the garage door or take out the trash or clean the dishes while our food gets cold, it's like he can't stand being near me. He never makes eye contact. But he complains if I want to be alone or do something by myself, he always insists on coming with me. When I work late he tells me he misses me and that I should prioritize our marriage.
It makes no sense, for instance if I get sick (and I'm a real man flu kinda gal, I'm dramatic), he would avoid me like the plague, if I get hurt, he wont even flinch or ask if I'm okay. Before we got married, he used to drop everything and buy me flowers and gifts and sit by my side for hours if I only had a little cough. He used to remind me that nobody would ever love and care for me like he did. It felt over the top then, but I just thought he was a romantic.
And now it is completely the opposite. This one time I had a really bad fall, like ankle and leg facing the wrong way morphine drip ambulance ride kinda fall, and when I phoned him and asked him to come home he casually walked in about 20 minutes later (his job is 5 minutes away) and just sighed when he saw me. No rushing towards me, no trying to comfort me, none of his initial concern, just a look of disgust, and the whole time while we waited for the ambulance he was standing in the other corner of the room with his arms folded and looking annoyed that he's missing out on something. Even recently when I confronted him about it he said that he was just worried and that's how it is. Anything since then is the same thing, no sign of caring, looking annoyed, physical distance.
But at the same time I'm his whole world and he would do absolutely anything for me.
From his side, he feels like he sacrifices all of himself to take care of me, even though I do not want it and have tried so many times to show him I do not need it either. He says it's the only way he knows how to show me he loves me. But love for me means closeness and late night conversations and experiencing life together. Most nights I also sleep alone, his excuse is that he thought he would give me some space and go sleep in the guest bedroom, but this has been going on for years. Then he would complain about how I never spend time with him or sleep with him or meet his basic needs. I literally do not understand it at all.
And on the other hand, if he does come near me, he only wants crazy super lustful sex. This type of contact he wants all the time, but afterwards it's like I don't exist. I am not interested in giving something like that to someone I feel no connection with, and I literally want to die when he becomes distant again afterwards.
So he's unhappy and I am unhappy, but not at the same time. When we talk it is only about work or about the things he wants to do to me, but I want to talk about our day and our brilliant little kid and make plans for the future and discuss bigger things. It seems he is content with working, eating and sleeping, but I want so much more.
We've been to a therapist, actually 3. The first one told me I should be grateful and allow him to take charge of the relationship and accept that he is the master of the home. In a moment of sanity I used the opportunity to break off the engagement and break up with the therapist too because how is that even something you say to someone?! Maybe she didn't realise the extent. Maybe I sugarcoated it because I am a pathological people pleaser. But soon after, he suffered a tremendous loss and had nobody, and before I knew it we were engaged again, and in no time, married. And he became master.
The honeymoon was wonderful, but the moment we got home was when everything just went to hell. Another therapist gave us love language homework and while I did mine dilligently every week, he would just agree with my answers and say how great it was working for us, and when I would object and say I'm not happy, they would both look at me like I'm the most ungrateful person in the world.
The third therapist threatened to put me in a mental institution away from my son because I was clearly hysterical and a danger to myself, because how could anyone be upset over a man who does the cooking and cleaning and agrees on therapy, and the only way I could get out of it was if I agreed to take antidepressants and tranquilizers that made me fat and miserable and numb. He thanked him and said we are doing perfectly fine now, no need to continue with therapy.
I'm not though. Our kid is still small but is starting to pick up on the controlling, the routine, everything my husband's way, and is far more vocal about it than me. And resists it violently. And that is starting to worry me more than I worry about myself and my own unhappiness.
They love each other, and I don't want him to see that side of his father, but we're heading in that direction either way.
If I bring it up, it is always "I do everything for you, I dont have the energy to be emotionally there too". Apparently we are just too much, our needs, our longing for quality time and connection. So I've hired help all over the show to take care of the physical component, so he would have more time for the emotional, I've managed to take responsibility for some areas myself too, but he still always manages to get up even earlier and proceed to do everyone's job before they even get here. Im talking gardening, laundry, cleaning, vacuuming, so much so that when the people arrive here shortly after sunrise for a day's work, theres nothing for them to do. And then of course, he is too drained to spend te with us.
I don't feel married, if that makes sense. I feel like a single mother with a spectacular butler, or babysitter, or captor. Some days are better than others, so it depends, I guess. But I'm so lonely, and so unhappy.
Every woman says this, I know, but this marriage can't fail, I have to make it work. I think it would destroy my parents if they knew how it really was. And the idea of separation terrifies me, because even before marriage when I tried to break it off once he said he couldn't live without me, insinuating that he would try to kill himself if I ever ended it, and that everyone would know that it was because of me.
I would like a clean slate, I would love to get everything out in the open and earnestly start over, but we have tried that as well, and after a day or two the same behaviour starts again.
Even though reddit is anonymous, I dread getting comments on this post, but I also desperately need some comments. I just dont know what to do.

CHAPTER V
Rawlinson remained perfectly passive for a long time after we left the vessel. He seemed stupefied by the course things had taken, and his brain was sodden with the quantity of alcohol he had imbibed. He appeared to consider us as embodied fiends, for he crouched in the bottom of the boat, regarding us ever and anon with a piteous glance expressive of fear and apprehension. Fortunately, before the fire broke out, all of us had partaken of a hearty meal of salt junk and biscuit, so that we decided not to break upon our stores that night, except to give Rawlinson a little biscuit soaked in water. He appeared thankful for it and ate ravenously.
The night fell. The stars came out, the sea was moderately calm, although a fine fresh breeze was blowing. All the scene before us seemed blessed with a great peace except the few castaways who were scudding onward, it might be to death.
It was agreed we should watch by turns, and as I was the youngest and needed the most sleep the first watch was assigned to me. Rolling themselves up in some sailcloth which had been stowed away in a corner of the boat, in which also was discovered a small keg of rum, concealed by some of the seamen when they broke open the grog chest, my companions, one and all, went to sleep, leaving me alone. And as I stood at the stern with the sheet in my hand, watching the gleam of the stars upon the water, the long trail of light the rising moon threw across the ocean, and the stealthy glide of the sharks that were following in our wake, a feeling of utter loneliness and desolation came over me, as if I had bidden farewell to life forever, and was driving onward, surely, steadily, impelled by a mysterious remorseless fate, to the bonfire from whence no traveller returns.
I watched on, taking a pull at the rum now and then to keep my spirits up, until I suddenly found I was hungry. Straightway I made my way to the biscuit bag, and helped myself. Now our allowance had been estimated at one biscuit per day for each man. What nobody sees, nobody knows, said I, and I quietly eat four of them. Brutal selfishness! I hear a reader cry. Perhaps so, my friend, but pray tell me what selfishness is? Gratifying oneself at the expense of another, you reply. Indeed! and have you never, when taking your nobbler, bolted it speedily, that you might not have to shout for the friend you saw coming. Reader, man’s chief cod is to look after number one, and the better he does it the more he will be thought of. Get all you can, give as little as you can, and you’ll be a great man yet. Soon after this my watch ended; I knocked up Thomson, and tumbled into his place - with qualms of conscience, the pious reader will hint. Not a bit, but with mighty satisfaction that I had got at least my share of the passing things of life.
When I awoke it was broad daylight Jonas Simpson was sitting in the stern-sheets; the sea was calm, and all my companions were astir except Rawlinson, who seemed to be sleeping very quietly. I got up, pulled myself together, and proceeded to eat my half biscuit and drink my allowance of weak rum and water. “Better call up Rawlinson to get something, boy,” said Thomson. I called him, I shook him, but to no purpose; I took him by the hand, it was icy cold. Rawlinson would never take anything more in this life, he was dead. He had quietly passed away in sleep, leaving only the shell where the spirit had been. Expressions of sorrow would have been out of place, first, because he had been universally disliked on account of his tyrannical disposition, next because we deemed ourselves too close to death to grieve because another found his rest before us. Without a word we took him up and flung him overboard, an unexpected breakfast for our followers, the sharks. One less mouth to feed, I calculated, and one, too, upon whom to lay the blame of stealing the rum and biscuits were the deficiency ever detected, since dead men tell no tales, dead man makes a grand scapegoat. When you have prigged anything, reader, and are found out, lay the blame on a dead friend, for friendship never goes beyond the grave.
This was the monotonous tenor of our existence for the next week. Gradually our stock of provisions decreased until only a day's allowance remained; we were worn to skeletons, we could scarce draw our breath, hardly sufficient strength remained to luff the boat when the wind changed. Hour by hour our eyes scanned the horizon for a sail; so eagerly did we watch that our imagination created vessels bearing down upon us when no vessels were near. Gradually that terrible day wore on, we ate our last rations, greedily devouring every crumb, and grudging each other their unfinished portion. Then absolute want stared us in the face, and we must look elsewhere for the moans of life. In vain had we striven to shoot the sharks or the sea birds, in vain had we fished for anything we could catch, were it only seaweed. Now, as I have said, one of us must die that his comrades might live. Who was it to be? I had observed the seamen talking together and casting glances at me, as they thought I should be the first sacrifice; but my opinions upon this head did not coincide with theirs, and I determined, whatever came, I should not die. The night passed, and the day came. Hatefully rose the loathed sun to gladden creation, but to scorch us with His fierce coppery rays; the sea was at a dead calm, not a breath of wind stirred, the sail flapped idly against the mast, great beaked birds flew over us with discordant screams, horrid gliding things looked at us leerfully from the festering depths of ocean, the sharks seemed already whetting their teeth in anticipation of a feast. Oh, God! it was a terrible day - a day on which one of us must die.
At length our hunger could be restrained no longer. We must draw lots for the coming doom all could not escape - one must be the victim. Tearing s piece of sail-cloth into strips, Thomson cut them into various lengths, and then we proceeded to draw them. He to whose lot fell the shortest strip was the doomed man. “God help us,” said Thomson, “but it must be done - we need not all die; let us draw.” Tremblingly we drew the lots, and with feverish haste, we showed them to each other. Merciful Heaven! the shortest was mine. Was I to die, and I so young? Was I to leave this pleasant world of ours when I had been only thirteen short years in it? Was I to die, and bury all my early promise with me? The thought was horrible, yet before me, in the little strip of cloth, lay the stern verdict of my doom. Hope leaped back into the eyes of my comrades when their term of life was lengthened, whilst the light of life slowly died out of mine in the face of dim eternity. I was doomed; still I would die game. “I will die game,” I cried, “I will be my own executioner; give me two pistols, I will put them to my ears and fire.” Wonder sat upon the features of my companions; was I man or demon, “Give me the rum-keg” I next asked. It was handed to me, and I drained it dry. With the rush of the fiery spirit through my veins, came a fierce determination to live, and not to die; another must be the victim, not I.
The hour came. Hunger was gnawing the vitals of my comrades; they were ravenous for my blood. “Hand me the pistols,” I said. They were loaded and handed to me. Looking with coolness at the flint-locks, as if to assure myself that they were right, and that my death might be speedy, I placed the muzzle of my left hand pistol against my ear, brought that in my right hand slowly round into position, and ere one of them could move, shot Jonas Simpson as dead as a doornail. Then I feigned madness; with a maniacal laugh I threw myself on the body, and lapped like a dog the warm Life’s blood that oozed from his shattered brain. Ha,ha, ‘twas played well. Horror-struck at my deed and at my expressions, Thomson and Tom Brown shrank into the bows, leaving me lying on the corpse. Gradually I found my senses leaving me, the world became more dim every instant. Is this death? If so, it is sweet as soft tropical breezes.
I remember no more until I found myself lying in a hammock in the fo'c'sle of the “Firebrand,” Captain Wilkins, receiving rough but kindly attentions from the Sailors. They had descried our boat on the horizon against the setting sun, and had made for it. But they found only a crew of corpses. All were dead except myself, and the only trace of life in me was a feeble flickering of the heart. I told my story, suppressing the true account of Simpson's death, and stated that he died by his own hand while in a state of insanity. My youth was a voucher for the truthfulness of my tale, and I was treated with marked kindness by everyone on board, a small subscription being set on foot for me, to mark, as was said, their appreciation of my conduct. Still another proof that the devil looks after his own.
The “ Firebrand" was a fine new schooner bound from Otaheiti to Sydney. She was within twelve days of her destination when she picked me up, so that before long I was landed upon the King’s Wharf in very different trim from that in which I put off from it a few months before. I went at once to the owner, Mr Paterson, and stated my case. He treated me with great kindness, paid me my wages, and gave me a small bonus into the bargain, promising that after a few months’ spell ashore, I should be-appointed to another vessel.
“And then you went home to your father and mother, I suppose,” says the gentle reader, conjuring up sweet visions of paternal embraces, tears, and kisses. Not a bit, my friend, recollect I had cut the apron-strings, and considered myself my own master. My first move was to make for a convenient grog-shop, kept on the sly by one of the military, and commence spend my money, as I considered every sailor should, in a good spree. Just the day before we arrived, a batch of female convicts had come from England in the “Thames” frigate, and the soldiers had been busy selecting the best looking as companions for a month or two before they were sent to the prison. This was winked at in Government House - nay, even the offenders and their paramours were publicly asked to the balls, much to the disgust of Sam Marsden, the parson. I did not turn up at home until every sixpence had flown, and I was reduced to the very verge of starvation, for what is the use of money if it ain't a means of a fellows enjoyment. It is not money that is the root of all evil, but the love of it, and, blow it, I had never any time to get in love with it, for it was always in such a hurry to get away.
My father and mother on my arrival at once killed the fatted calf - metaphorically speaking, I mean, for it was a fatted hen, - and I was received as the prodigal son. I told my story, heightening the colour of a few of the details, such as the number of assailing Tongans, how many of them I had killed with my own hands, and the part I had taken in the conflict, all of which were swallowed with greedy interest, retailed with additions to credulous neighbours, who, in their turn, contributed their share to the interest, until “Sinbad the Sailor” was a very ordinary gentleman to myself, in point of marvellous adventure. I did not fail to enquire regarding my fricnd, the hangman, and found he had been more drunk than hurt - in fact, was so far restored in two days’ time as to be able to resume his professional duties.
I found Sydney but little altered since I left it, save in the matter of a few more buildings; and in life, being, if anything, a little more reckless. Murder and vice were on the increase. There was hardly a virtuous female in the colony, and the men lived as gaily and as jollily as they could. Brave old days were these, when a fellow went to the bad as thoughtlessly as he went to chapel. I, too, picked up a few of my old chums, and we met always at the “Sailors’ Arms," where we heard all the news and stood the chance of sharing in a “shout,” when some half-drunk Jack was knocking down his pay.
In vain did my father and mother try to persuade me to relinquish the sea and to learn some trade ashore. I told them frankly that if I did not go to sea I would do worse on land, so that they had the two alternatives before them. With regret they saw that persuasion was unavailing, and that it would be as well to say no more, so I continued my free and easy life until the “Harwich,” Captain Simmons, coming in, belonging to Mr Paterson likewise, was informed that I was to go on board of her when she refitted, and take my second voyage in my apprenticeship.
The " Harwich” was the finest vessel my employer had. She was a brigantine of 500 tons, and had only made three voyages previous to the one she was about to undertake. Mr Paterson had not as yet entered into the whaling trade, but seeing the success of the other Sydney merchants had in it, and the large gains they made, he determined also to embark in the speculation. Therefore he bought the “Harwich,” engaged Captain Simmons, an experienced whaler, and a picked crew, thoroughly overhauled the vessel in every way, provisioned her for a two years cruise, and hoped for luck to be on his side. I embarked on the 16th of January, 1811, and a fortnight afterwards, while a crowd waved us farewell from the King’s Wharf, we weighed anchor and commenced our voyage, We did not leave this time with a drunken captain and a drunken crew; all seemed to augur well for the cruise of the “Harwich,” The record of which is reserved for another chapter.

Respect Katara

My grandmother used to tell me stories about the old days, a time of peace when the Avatar kept balance between the Water Tribes, Earth Kingdom, Fire Nation, and Air Nomads. But that all changed when the Fire Nation attacked.

The Hundred Year War shaped much of Katara's life from an early age, stealing away her mother and all other waterbenders in the Southern Water Tribe. With no one to teach her the craft, Katara's power of water and ice lost control one day and freed Avatar Aang from an iceberg. The boy was long since thought dead, and with his survival discovered Katara and brother Sokka agreed to join on Aang on his mission to master the elements and restore balance to the world.
Though Aang picked up waterbending more easily than Katara, Katara soon surpassed him through determination and hard work. When they ventured to the Northern Water Tribe Katara proved her mettle against the waterbending master Pakku and convinced him to change the cultural customs against training women. Pakku trained Katara himself, and soon declared her a master waterbender tasked with training Aang so he could one day defeat the Fire Lord.
Katara's abilities only expanded over time as she became one of if not the greatest waterbender in history. She mastered both the sub-skills of healing and bloodbending, becoming the world's foremost authority in the former while banning the latter in Republic City. She and Aang eventually married and had 3 children. After Aang's death she helped train the new Avatar, and continued to serve as one of the most influential figures in the world.

Source Key: Avatar: The Last Airbender [Season] & [Episode] = S#E# Katara and the Pirate's Silver = KPS Lost Adventures = LA Team Avatar Tales = TAT The Promise [Part] = TP# The Search [Part] = TS# The Rift[Part] = TR North & South [Part] = N&S# Imbalance [Part] = IM The Legend of Korra: Friends for Life = FFL The Legend of Korra = LoK S#E# 

Scaling: 1. Azula 2. Zuko 3. Mai 4. Ty Lee 5. Combustion Man 6. Toph 7. Aang 8. Sokka 9. Pakku 10. Jet

Durability

• Suffers burns on her hands from Aang's errant fire blast, causing her intense pain, but heals her hands in moments ^S1E16
• Bounces back from a large blast of water from Pakku ^S1E18
  • Briefly exchanges jabs with Pakku before getting washed a distance away, but quickly recovers ^S1E18
  • Throws a large amount of water at Pakku, but he redirects it back at her. She again recovers shortly after, despite apparent fatigue ^S1E18
  • Knocked to the ground again, still panting, but keeps fighting until she is immobilized ^S1E18
• Thrown off Appa in a tornado from well above the treeline and gets up shortly after landing ^S2E4
• Hit by Huu and flung a distance away, but recovers shortly after ^S2E4
• Smashed into crystals when her water shields are overwhelmed by Zuko & Azula, though she recovers shortly after ^S2E20
• Takes a chunk of rock to the chest and gets back up to counter attack ^S3E07
• Wrestles with Toph, slapping her to the ground with mud and getting tossed around while continuing to fight ^S3E07
• Smashes into a rock wall Toph lifts and counterattacks immediately after ^LA
• Surprised by chi blocking, but quickly recovers to attack with her legs instead ^N&S2
• As an old woman brushes off a young Korra burying her in snow ^FFL

Speed

• Against projectiles
  • Trips Ty Lee with water, then whips up planks of wood to block Mai's thrown projectiles, then launches the planks forward ^S2E3
  • Deflects a flail ^S2E5
  • Blocks a fired dart from Mai ^S2E3
  • Evades several strikes from Ty Lee while exhausted although Mai pins her arms with shuriken moments later ^S2E8
  • Intercepts thrown axes by freezing them ^TP3
  • Ducks under one man's swing while dousing another's explosive before he could throw it ^TR2
  • Slices apart projectiles of rock ^TR1
• Azula
  • Catches Azula's hand from behind before she can strike before fleeing from her ^S2E8
  • Shaves off some of Azula's hair with a blade of water she narrowly evades ^S2E20
  • Overwhelms Azula with tentacles of water, entrapping her limbs before Zuko intervenes ^S2E20
  • Evades Azula's blasts of lightning and fire, skating away from her on slides of ice she creates ^S3E21
  • Maneuvers around Azula and freezes both of them with water from beneath them ^S3E21
  • When Azula suddenly attacks Sokka Katara quickly freezes Azula's hand to restrain her ^TS1
• Zuko
  • Blocks several fire blasts from Zuko ^S1E19
  • Fends off Zuko's fireblasts during the night though he blasts through her water shield when the Sun rises ^S1E19
  • Blocks a fire blast from Zuko, then traps him in a pillar of ice she smashes on the ground to KO him ^S1E20
  • Matches Zuko's fire whips with water whips of her own ^S2E20
• Misc.
  • Dodges a strike from Huu, only to be hit by him while charging ^S2E4
  • Knocks out a soldier with an uppercut of ice and KOs him before he can raise an alarm ^KPS
  • Dodges a fireblast while taking out two firebenders with one waterblast ^KPS
  • Surprises Aang with a bubble of water ^LA
  • Steals Sokka's food before he can bite down ^TR1

Mobility

Crossing water

• Walking
  • Clears water from a swamp out of her path so she can charge through it ^S2E4
  • Creates an ice bridge to cross from one ship to another and then shatters it apart ^KPS
  • Parts water to walk along the sea floor, maintaining a bubble with Aang that holds until a sea monster pops it ^S2E12
  • Creates a bridge of ice strong enough for several people to run across ^S2E12
  • Runs across the surface of water ^S3E03
  • Parts the water around Toph to "save" her from drowning ^LA
• Propulsion
  • Propels herself and Aang through water several meters to escape a large monster ^S1E4
  • Creates an iceboard she propels herself on across the surface of water ^S2E12
  • Propels herself across the surface of water and makes a large leap ^S3E03
  • Evades Azula's blasts of lightning and fire, skating away from her on slides of ice she creates ^S3E21
  • Surfs across water to hop on Appa ^S3E10
  • Creates a board of ice to propel herself and her ally across water, then assists them in jumping up a cliffside ^S3E16
  • Surfs across water on an ice board ^S3E18

Crossing land

• Horizontal
  • Slides over an opponent's head, stumbling on the landing but planting herself firmly with ice to block their attack Dissipates a large wave of water from Pakku ^S1E18
  • Uses an ice slide to leap over a trench and whips several men behind her into the trench right after ^S2E18
  • Rides a wave of water to Aang and carries them up a waterfall ^S2E2
  • Creates a slide of ice to propel her across the ground ^S3E07
  • Makes sleds that gain on a snowmobile and stairs to climb up an icy slope ^N&S1
  • Ice sleds briefly stay ahead of snow leopard caribou ^N&S1
• Vertical
  • Creates an ice slide upward to board a ship ^KPS
  • Creates a staircase of ice to walk up to a roof ^TP3
  • Lifts herself into the air on an ice slide and grabs Aang to take him to a nearby rooftop ^TP3
  • Lifts herself on an ice slide to a passing aircraft, retrieves a passenger, and they travel a considerable distance together through the air ^TP3
  • Forms a tunnel for others to safely slide down from high up ^TR3
  • Lifts herself and Sokka on a column of water ^N&S1
  • Slides into the air on ice she projects out in front of herself to intercept a man's attack ^N&S2
  • Creates an ice ladder she then turns into an ice slide, zipping downwards fast enough to catch a falling person ^N&S3

Waterbending

Lifting

• Levitates a fish in a bubble of water ^S1E1
• Bends the perfume from several large containers into a large wave she drops on a target ^S1E15
• Holds back a deluge of watery slush to trap someone in it, maintaining her hold even as she waterbends at Sokka before Toph helps her push the slush even further back ^S2E13
• Lifts jet skis on a column of water before propelling them into the side of a mountain where they explode ^S3E03
• Lifts a large mass of water into the air, and rains it across a fire to extinguish it ^S3E04
• Deflects water balloons and lifts a barrelful of water up to soak people above her ^LA
• Lifts Toph on a geyser of water lifted from the ground beneath her ^LA

Whips

• Striking
  • Whips water into a captor's face so they release her ^S1E9
  • Water whips a man overboard ^S1E9
  • Blasts over Jet with a stream of water, then returns the water to her skein ^S1E10
  • Whips a canyon crawler in the face, and flees when it approaches ^S1E11
  • Whips a target to demand their attention ^S1E18
  • Knocks a man out with a water whip, although for how long is unknown since his body disappears ^S2E1
  • Whips two men away and blocks darts with an ice shield ^S2E3
  • Dodges a fireblast while taking out two firebenders with one waterblast ^KPS
  • Creates long whips that slap away several men ^S2E18
  • Whips several men behind her into a trench, then pushes more into the trench ^S2E18
  • Whips away a man grabbing her ^LA
  • Disarms multiple people at once ^TP3
  • Knocks over several men at once ^TP3
• Grappling
  • Trips Ty Lee with a water whip, then whips up planks of wood to block thrown projectiles, then launches the wood forward as an offense ^S2E3
  • Overwhelms Azula with tentacles of water, entrapping her limbs before Zuko intervenes ^S2E20
  • Matches Zuko's fire whips with water whips of her own ^S2E20
  • While underwater commands a tentacle of water to fling a man above water off a ship ^S3E16
  • Disarms several men ^N&S1
  • A jar of water proves enough to bind a man's wrists together ^N&S3

Waves

• Waxes and wanes water & moves some in shapes around her ^S1E9
• Sweeps two people down a stream with a wave of water ^S2E15
• Throws a wave of water at Azula ^S2E20
• Throws a mass of water at Combustion Man, and when it evaporates it fills the canyon they are in with steam ^S3E05
• Downs a large reptile with a wave of water ^S2E8
• Releases a wave of water across a dock that sweeps many men back and topples them over ^KPS
• Washes men overboard to empty a ship and then propels the ship through a rowboat and dock to scatter all the men atop them ^KPS
• Washes Jet away with a wave of water ^S2E17
• Quickly washes away several benders closing in on Aang ^S2E2
• Creates a massive wave that separates two ships ^S3E01
• Brings a wave of water up a cliffside into a factory to flood it without line of sight ^S303
• Washes away the crew of a ship with a wave of water, then blasts the lone crewman that held on away further than his colleagues ^S3E16
• Lifts a wave of water from a stream, holds it in place, and then washes away four men with it ^LA

Slicing

• Soft materials
  • Frees herself from vines and slices several more ^S2E4
  • Slices through several layers of foliage ^S2E4
  • Slices apart Huu's swamp monster faster than he can regenerate it ^S2E4
  • Slices through the strap of a saddle ^S2E5
  • Shaves off some of Azula's hair with a blade of water she narrowly evades ^S2E20
  • Slices apart a hot air balloon ^S3E11
• Hard materials
  • Breaks apart wood pinning Aang down ^S2E8
  • Cuts through 3 thick chains with one strike of water ^S3E03
  • Cuts a chain strong enough to lift up a submarine ^S3E10
  • Bends her own sweat to cut out of a wooden cell ^S3E07
  • Slices through stone statues ^S3E18
  • Cuts a boulder in half ^TP3
  • Slices apart projectiles of rock ^TR1

Blocking

• Blocks several fire blasts from Zuko, blasting him back herself before trapping him in a sphere of ice ^S1E19
• Fends off Zuko's fireblasts during the night though he blasts through her water shield when the Sun rises ^S1E19
• Blocks a fire blast from Zuko, then traps him in a pillar of ice she smashes on the ground to KO him ^S1E20
• Blocks a blast of fire from Azula ^S2E20
• Water shields get overwhelmed by Azula and Zuko attacking simultaneously, but Katara recovers soon after to keep fighting ^S2E20
• Shields against several fireblasts
• Shields from several more fireblasts ^S3E16
• Blocks a charged blast of lightning from Azula with a wave of water ^S3E21

Scaling

• Breaks Pakku's ring of water that kept her off balance, blasting away someone in the crowd ^S1E18
• Redirects an opponent's attack into a large wave of water she freezes them in ^S1E19
• Overpowers Hama in a duel after blocking a direct blast of water from her ^S3E08
  • Hama pulls water from surrounding flowers and slices a rock into several pieces ^S3E08
  • Hama pulls water out of thin air, forming icicles she embeds into a tree ^S3E08
• Bends plant matter for the first time to redirect another waterbender's attack ^TS2
• Redirects the snow of multiple benders attacking as a unit ^N&S1

Utility

• Vapor
  • Turns steam to ice around an engineer, freezing him in place ^S2E13
  • Raises a wall of steam, enough to fully cover two ships ^S3E01
  • Coats a village in fog ^S3E03
• Extracting water
  • Pulls water from Aang's lungs to help revive him ^S1E4
  • Pulls unseen water from a well ^S1E6
  • Draws spilled water out of the sand to conserve it ^S2E11
  • Cannonballs into water, creating a huge splash, and then draws water out of a map caught in the wave so it is readable again ^S2E12
  • Bends her own sweat to cut out of a wooden cell ^S3E07
  • Pulls water from grass and trees ^S3E08
  • Pulls water from grass and trees, using it to freeze combatants ^S3E08
• Dousing flame
  • Puts out a fire on Sokka's sleeve ^S1E10
  • Douses large fires with simultaneous streams of water ^S2E5
  • Puts out several fires burning a village ^TAT
  • Tries to warn Aang he is on fire but just puts it out herself ^TP1
  • Douses a fuse to an explosive ^TR2
• Misc.
  • Makes an umbrella above her head to protect from rain ^S1E14
  • Falls from Appa's back and catches herself in a column of water for a safe landing ^KPS
  • Makes an umbrella for several people ^TR3
  • Loads her water skeins ^S3E10
  • Spills over an inkwell from outside a window ^S3E16

Bloodbending
A rare and difficult ability only possible during a full moon where a waterbender manipulates a person's body by bending the blood in their veins.

• Hama, the inventor of the technique, says waterbending is at its peak during the full moon, the only time bloodbending is possible ^S3E08
• Overcomes Hama bloodbending her, despite not yet learning the technique ^S3E08
• Bloodbends despite only observing the technique moments before, overpowering Hama and forcing her to her knees ^S3E08
• Bloodbends a man to the ground ^S3E16

Icebending

Binding

• Single target - Partial
  • Traps opponent's arm in a stream of ice ^S2E3
  • Freezes a large section of water on a sea monster ^S2E12
  • Freezes a block of ice around Combustion Man's head ^S3E07
  • Freezes a pirate captain's head ^TAT
  • Encases Azula's torso in ice ^TS1
  • Binds Azula's foot to the ground ^TS3
  • Encases an archer's arms and bow in ice and binds his feet to the ground ^TR2
  • Forms an ice block around a man's knife so it is no longer a threat ^N&S1
• Single target - Full
  • Blasts Jet away with a stream of water, then freezes his wet clothes to bind him to a tree ^S1E10
  • Blocks several fire blasts from Zuko, blasting him back herself before trapping him in a sphere of ice, then freezes him more thoroughly against a wall with a large wave though he manages to melt through it when the Sun rises ^S1E19
  • Redirects an opponent's attack into a large wave of water she freezes them in ^S1E19
  • A soldier leaps into the air and she raises and freezes a column of ice around him midair ^KPS
  • Turns steam to ice around an engineer, freezing him in place ^S2E13
  • Kicks up ice to bind a man's limbs together ^N&S2
  • Stamps down her foot to completely encase a man in ice ^N&S2
  • Encases a man in ice ^IM1
  • Freezes a man solid ^IM2
• Multiple targets
  • Accidentally freezes a Sokka in place behind her, then turns turns around to repeat the move and freezes three soldiers thoroughly enough it takes time later to thaw them out ^S1E2
  • Pins two men in an alley against eachother by freezing them off the walls ^S2E6
  • Freezes soldiers in place, forming water around her arms like tentacles ^S3E10
  • Freezes herself and Azula with water from beneath them, then navigates through the ice to chain Azula up ^S3E21
  • Freezes two soldiers to a wall and two others to the ground keeping all in place ^TP1
  • Encases several men in ice ^TR2
  • Bursts open a barrel of water to freeze 3 men ^IM3

Blocking

• Blocks a fire blast from Zuko, then traps him in a pillar of ice she smashes on the ground to KO him ^S1E20
• Blocks darts with an ice shield ^S2E3
• Blocks projectiles with an ice shield ^S2E3
• Deflects a flail ^S2E5
• Erects a wall between two combatants without looking ^LA
• Forms a sphere of ice around herself that protects her from falling over a waterfall and bouncing against stone walls ^KPS
• Creates an ice shield to protect a crowd of people from falling debris ^TP3
• Creates a large shield for her and her allies ^TS1
• Forms an ice shield that blocks a punch from a giant made of iron ^TR3
• Raises a large wall of ice ^N&S1
• Protects from the debris of a collapsing structure ^IM1

Projectiles

• Raises a column of ice from a pool of water, sliding off disks from the top as projectiles at her opponent ^S1E18
• Blasts away snow burying her ^S1E19
• Trains with Aang, throwing several icicles rapidly for him to catch ^S2E2
• Knocks out a soldier with an uppercut of ice and KOs him before he can raise an alarm ^KPS
• Embeds an icicle into a wooden countertop ^KPS
• Throws icicles that pin a target's clothes to a stone wall behind them ^S2E17
• Throws a pool of water a distance away, turning it to icicles the Combustion Man blocks with his metal limbs ^S3E12
• Forms a bubble that collects rainwater, then turns it to several icicles she stops just short of her target ^S3E16
• Fires icicles that pierce Aang's stone barrier ^LA
• Pulls icicles from pools of water to throw at a target, although Zuko interrupts the attack ^TP1
• Turns a glass of water into a snowball that hits Sokka in the face, and then does it again ^TS1

Controlling ice

• Accidentally breaks apart an iceberg as she loses her temper ^S1E1
• Breaks apart a tank with ice before lifting and toppling over another ^S1E17
• Sends tremors that crack the ice around her and breaks large containers of water ^S1E18
• Topples over columns of ice onto her opponent ^S1E18
• Juts out a piece of ice so suddenly it sends the men above it flying ^N&S3

Utility

• Stirs the contents of a container ^S2E8
• Spills and freezes water onto the ground behind her to slip up a pursuer ^S1E9
• Freezes a section of foliage around Sokka, then blasts it out with a jet of water to free him from his bindings ^S2E4
• Freezes a hole in a ship to keep it afloat ^S3E01
• Freezes water into a reflective mirror ^S3E03

Healing

• General
  • Heals Sokka's broken arm ^LA
  • Can identify medicine based on her familiarity with preparing herbs growing up ^KPS
  • Can tell that a soldier's chi was blocked ^S2E13
  • Helps the brainwashed Jet overcome mental blocks painful to push past ^S2E17
  • Heals several sick villagers ^S3E03
  • Heals her father, who can barely stand up so that he is walking later in the same battle, though still not in fighting shape ^S3E10&11
  • Eventually considered the best healer in the world, although she cannot restore Korra's bending after Amon blocks it ^{LoK S1E12}
  • Said to be the only one who can save Jinora's body after her spirit has been separated from it for a week, and immediately gives information on her condition upon beginning to heal her ^{LoK S2E12}
• Burns
  • Suffers burns on her hands from Aang's errant fire blast, causing her intense pain, but heals her hands in moments when she first discovers the ability ^S1E16
  • Heals a burn on Aang's arms in moments ^S1E16
  • Heals burns on Toph's feet, although says it will take awhile and wishes she'd tended to the burns sooner ^S3E12
  • Heals a man's arm ^IM3
• Life-saving
  • Saves Aang's life with special water from the Spirit Oasis, healing the wound he received from a lightning bolt soon after he received it ^S2E20
    • Gives Aang repeated treatments, and clarifies that the water from the Spirit Oasis brought him back to life ^S3E01
    • Repeatedly treated Aang as he recovered ^LA
  • Heals Zuko from an improperly redirected lightning blast so that he stands back up a moment later ^S3E21
  • Saves her father from dying after he is stabbed in the chest ^N&S2

Teamwork

Aang

• Brings in enough of the tide to lift a ship ^S1E9
• Pulls up underground water to create a continuous geyser ^S1E10
• Manipulates the clouds to change them into the shape of a bad omen ^S1E14
• Katara raises the water level beneath a ship while Aang bends air into the sails, lifting the ship enough to clear several jutting rocks ^S1E15
• Creates a whirlpool around a sea monster powerful enough to slam it into a cliff side ^S2E12
• Uses water to saw through thick metal girders ^S2E13
• Uses a wave of water to block fireblasts from Azula ^S2E20
• Improvises a dance with Aang ^S3E02
• Passes a large mass of water to Aang he turns to snow to extinguish a fire ^S3E04

Others

• Purifies a body of water with Aang and Toph, separating the earth from the water ^S3E03
• Purifies water with Toph ^S3E03
• Obscures Appa in a cloud as a disguise ^S3E02
• Forms a bubble around Appa's head so he can breath underwater ^S3E10
• Creates an air bubble around Appa's head so he can breath underwater ^S3E16

Hello everyone!
Just wanted to share a story I wrote and has been picked up by the good people at Cold Open Stories.
Hope you enjoy!
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++ Do not look to us for kindness. Do not look to us for hope. We are not the kind children of this new age. We are the rocks of its foundation. ++
Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the VII
A flash of light burned in the black of space.
Is this it? thought Cassian Torr, Captain of the 117th Company, VII Legion. Has Horus come?
His twin hearts beat faster at the thought, even as the more logical parts of his mind ran through a thousand other possibilities. Yet ultimately he knew what he had seen: a ship. A ship tearing its way into real space. Into the Sol System. Into the heart of the Imperium.
He scanned the endless void, eyes scouring the debris and detritus that littered the outer regions of Terra’s system. Searching for more flashes. For more ships. For any sign that this was the first pebble in an avalanche of violence that would crash against the walls of Sol.
Yet none came.
‘Speak to me, Captain Narsus,’ he said, turning to look back at the Oath of Unity’s mortal commander. His golden-yellow armour purred with even that slight movement, the sound lost in the cacophony that was the bridge. Astartes, mortal crew, Tech Priests and servitors bustled in constant motion, the ordered and smooth running of the Gladius Frigate hidden amongst the apparent anarchy. ‘What is it we face today?’
‘A single ship, my lord,’ replied Narsus, voice heavy with exhaustion. ‘Not military class. A merchant trader; its code identifies it as the Destiny’s Daughter. I am picking up no shields or weapons signals. Their engines are practically dead. They’re simply drifting.’
Torr knew the long hours and endless days being demanded of the man were unfair, that no unaugmented human could hope to keep up such work for long. Yet it was what Dorn and the Sigillite deemed necessary. It was what victory in the name of Unity and the Imperial Truth deemed necessary.
And Torr would not have the Oath of Unity found wanting. When this madness was over, when Horus was defeated, the Imperium would be rebuilt as it should have been. As the Emperor willed it. As a bastion of truth, science, reason and hope.
What has Horus sent against us? Torr asked himself as he looked back into space. Is this some new trickery? Some new lie?
He had patrolled the edges of the Sol System for years. Ever since the Eisenstein had brought the impossible news of Horus’s betrayal to Dorn and the Imperial Fists. In the intervening years, the entirety of the system had been transformed into a fortress – patrols like his, its first and furthest line of defence.
But it was a line yet to be tested.
Nothing had reached the Sol System. Not since the Eisenstein. It was as if silence had engulfed the galaxy. Yet Torr knew this could not be true. All eighteen Legions – loyal and treacherous – could not have just gone silent. Something out there, beyond the cold of the void, had changed.
He saw this also in the Oath of Unity’s Astropath. In her whispered mutterings. In her nervous glances towards the open void.
Summons had been sent to those Legions, Expeditionary Forces and Forge Worlds known to be loyal, a tsunami of astropathic messages to sweep through the galaxy. Yet nothing came back. No ships reached them. No messages. Are we alone? Have all our brother Legions turned their backs on the dream of the Imperium? On their oaths and vows? On Terra?
Something unfamiliar wormed its way through him at the thought. Is this fear? That emotion was all but unknown, ever since he had been plucked from the ice hives of Inwit and raised to the ranks of the Legiones Astartes. And yet, he pondered, perhaps its echo still exists somewhere within.
‘Are we receiving any communication from them?’ he asked, his voice flat and hard, masking his thoughts and fears. ‘Does anything live aboard?’
‘No communications, my lord,’ answered Narsus. ‘But we are picking up life signs. Not many, but undeniably human.’
Torr nodded. ‘Very good, Captain. Make full speed to intercept. Have weapons ready to fire, but hold until commanded.’
‘Your will, my lord,’ said Narsus. He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Should I alert Lord Falkar? The Sigillite’s orders may pertain to this.’
Torr rubbed his armoured gauntlet across his closely shaven scalp, feeling the iron of his centenary mark of service riven into his thick, transhuman brow. The mark of over a century of service to the ideals of Truth and Unity. It reminded him of the campaigns he had fought. Of the brothers he had lost. Of the horrors he had seen. He shook his head. ‘No. Lord Falkar’s involvement is to be a last resort.’
He opened his Legion vox link. ‘ Sergeant Haster, prepare a boarding party.’
+++
Shadows and silence filled the Destiny’s Daughter. Torr and Breacher Squad Haster moved through her corridors in purposeful unity, methodical and thorough. Their shields overlapped to create an impenetrable wall of ceramite and iron. The golden yellow of their thick MKIII armour was bathed crimson as emergency lumens flashed endlessly throughout the seemingly deserted ship.
Torr heard a click in his helm, followed instantly by another, as he had every five minutes since the boarding operation had begun nearly an hour ago. The signals told him that Breacher Squads Solon and Carr were moving through the ship on schedule, having met no resistance or signs of life. He suspected he’d receive the same ‘all clears’ again in five minutes.
He clicked back in reply, then let out a growl of frustration. His trigger finger itched, aching to feel the kick of his bolter, to hear its roar.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm, and silently chided himself for the moment of laxity. He remembered the words of his father and Primarch, Lord Dorn: Discipline. Duty. Unyielding Will. These are the measures by which every warrior is judged.
Am I bored? he asked himself. If he was being honest, he’d half hoped to find an ambush aboard the Destiny’s Daughter. To see his traitorous brothers advancing towards him, bolters roaring their madness. The colours of those Legions he had once fought beside – the regal purple of the Emperor’s Children, the sea-green of the Sons of Horus, the blood-splattered white and blue of the World Eaters – flashed through his mind and he ground his teeth. He wanted to kill.
Astartes, he reflected, were not built for such lengthy periods of inactivity. For long years of patrol and garrison. For what was now demanded of him and his brothers.
‘Is all well, Captain?’ asked Haster, the Veteran Sergeant’s gravel voice filling his helm’s private comm-link.
‘All is well, Brother-Sergeant,’ Torr replied. ‘I was distracted. Thank you for drawing my attention back to the duty at hand.’
He heard Haster’s grunt of laughter in his vox-link. ‘Some things never change, it seems. I’ve been watching your back since we were Initiates. What would you do without me?’
Torr felt the corners of his mouth tug into the beginnings of a smile as he checked their position against the ship’s schematics on his retinal display. They were not far from the centre of the ship and the cargo hold. Where, according to Captain Narsus, the only signs of life could be detected. ‘Not long now,’ he whispered to himself as the rhythmic clang of their armoured boots echoed throughout the labyrinthine corridors.
+++
Explosions ripped open the cargo hold’s blast doors, filling the hallways with smoke and fire and a storm of metal shards. Even through his helm’s environmental dampeners, Torr felt his ears ring.
Then the screams started.
‘Only fire on my command,’ he ordered as he raised his breacher shield and began to advance alongside Squad Haster. Smoke enveloped them for the briefest second, before they emerged into the cargo hold of the Destiny’s Daughter.
Torr finally saw something from beyond the Sol System, from the chaos that had engulfed the galaxy.
Ragged humanity filled the cargo hold, stretching out into the dark corners of the vast room. Men, women and children huddled together, their clothes hanging loosely from bone-thin limbs as wide, terror-stricken eyes stared back at him from faces too thin with hunger. Pleas for mercy, prayers for help, and screams of panic filled the air. Most shied away from the approaching astartes, hunching over in small groups, as if they could disappear into the gloom.
One man, braver or stupider than the rest, stepped out from the crowd. He clutched an autogun in his shaking hands, the weapon rusted almost beyond repair.
Do it.
The words rushed unbidden into Torr’s mind as he felt the increasingly familiar itch in his trigger finger. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his eyes settled on the barrel of the gun.
Do it.
‘Begone, foul daemons!’ screamed the man, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeak. ‘The Emperor protects!’
His final words were taken up by others amongst the crowd. It rallied them, as it echoed in the open cavern of the hold. Torr grimaced. At what those words implied. At a belief in the divine, so at odds with the enlightened ideals of the Imperium. Yet also of loyalty.
His hand shot out, too fast for a mortal’s eye to follow, and snatched the gun from the refugee’s hands with a savage twist. He felt the man resist for the briefest moment, before giving way with a pained cry.
Torr looked down at the man – on his knees, a grimace across his face, cradling one shoulder. He felt a moment’s satisfaction at the release of violence, before he crushed it with a force of will. These are citizens of the Imperium. They deserve our protection.
He dropped the gun. It clattered to the ground, the metallic ring echoing from the walls. Almost deafening in the silence of the hold.
Something behind the man flinched at the sound. A muffled cry reached Torr’s ears.
A girl, he thought as his eyes settled on the crouched figure. Perhaps four or five years old, Terran Standard. Though, he had to admit to finding estimates of age hard with such young mortals. Her hair had been crudely shorn to the scalp, but small tufts stuck out from amid the stubble. She clung tightly to the man’s back, keeping herself in his shadow, even as she stared up at him. Her eyes, wide and dark, met Torr’s. Yet she didn’t look away.
Brave, Torr thought, for a mortal. For one so young.
‘Stand down, civilians,’ he said, voice amplified by the vox in his armour. ‘You are safe now. You are in the custody of the Seventh.’
He noticed the girl wince at the sound of his voice, pressing her hands to her ears and looking down at the floor. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he dimly remembered the first time he had seen an astartes. The sheer size. The aura of violence. It had been overwhelming.
Torr dropped to one knee, bringing himself as close to the girl’s level as possible. He removed his helm, remembering a treatise written by Guilliman on first interactions between astartes and mortals. Such simple measures, the lord of the Thirteenth argued, lessened the shock when interacting with members of the Legions. It humanised them in the eyes of the unaugmented.
Torr almost laughed at the idea. As if I have not given up my humanity to become what they need me to be. To become a shield for their kind. To become a weapon against the horrors of this universe.
He reached forward slowly, resting his gauntleted hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘What is your name, child?’ he asked, doing his best to keep his voice light and the hint of a smile on his lips. He knew such verbal and physical cues were important to the unenhanced.
‘Patti,’ whispered the girl, bringing her gaze up to meet his once more. ‘Is… Is Mama here? Papa said she would be, even though she couldn’t get the same ship as us.’ Sobs began to wrack the little girl’s body and she hurled herself back against her father’s body, burying her face in his thin shirt.
Torr felt the temperature drop, permafrost creeping across the floor. Radiating out from the girl. Crawling up his arm. Psyker. He pulled back and turned to meet the father’s eyes.
‘We’re from the Lastrati System,’ said the man, his voice edged with hope, yet tinged with fear. ‘When the traitors came… There was such chaos. We got separated.’
Torr shook his head.
‘Yohanna,’ continued the man, his words tumbling out too quickly. ‘Yohanna Taraf. That’s her name. I am Emil. Her husband. There must be news.’
‘No,’ said Torr, his voice now stone and brooking no argument. ‘Yours is the first ship to have reached Sol in nearly two years.’
Emil fell silent, his jaw working wordlessly. The buzz of chatter filled the air, spreading like wildfire throughout the refugees as Torr’s words reached the ears of others.
‘The first?’ Emil asked eventually as he clasped his daughter’s hands. ‘But there were so many.’
Torr stared back for a moment, seeing the tears begin to trickle from Emil’s eyes. ‘I am sorry.’
He stood and turned his back on the man, looking over the silent wall of ceramite that Breacher Squad Haster had formed behind him. His eyes met Haster’s, seeing his old friend had also removed his helmet. ‘These people are not to leave this hall.’ He paused. ‘But do not harm them. They are loyal citizens of the Imperium.’
He turned his focus back to Emil and Patti once more. They were on their knees, arms wrapped tight around each other. The halo of frost around them crept ever further across the floor with each second. Their bodies rose and fell with choked sobs, tears streaming down their faces. Torr’s transhuman senses heard Emil whisper reassurances to his daughter as he stroked her hair. He told her that her mother would be okay. That she would find a way. That the Emperor was watching them. To have faith.
Superstition. Torr looked away in anger. Primitive. Illogical. He felt sick at the irony of it. That the Legions had spent two centuries crusading across the stars, destroying such beliefs and bringing the Truth to the galaxy. But, here it was. At the very heart of the Imperium itself.
Yet it is these people that stand loyal. Unlike my brother Legions. Unlike those I fought with. Unlike those I shed blood with. The thought soured in Torr’s mind, his mask of stone slipping to anger.
He saw the faces of those he had once fought beside from the Traitor Legions in his mind. The faces of those he had called once Brothers. Sar Krael of the Sons of Horus, his olive skin in stark contrast to the once brilliant white of their old Legion. Varon of the Emperor’s Children, his porcelain features marred by the occasional faint duelling scar. Kargur of the World Eaters, his brutish features only accentuated by a myriad of criss-crossing scars and his permanently broken nose.
Torr clicked his vox-link open, drawing himself back to the present. ‘Captain Narsus, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ came the reply, static scratching in Torr’s ears.
‘Inform Lord Dorn and First Captain Sigismund that we have made contact with refugees from the war.’ He paused. ‘Then prepare several parties of your mortal crew to board the Destiny’s Daughter. They are to bring food and water. Medicine too.’
‘Your will, my lord,’ replied Narsus. ‘I will see to it at once.’
Torr watched Patti and Emil for a second more. Their cries were hushed and lost in the vastness of the hold, their prayers faint, yet distinct. Other refugees shuffled away from them. Away from the creeping frost and the aura of cold. Away from the girl. From the psyker.
His stomach churned at what he had to do next.
‘Captain Narsus,’ he said once more. ‘Inform the Lord Falkar and the Sigillite’s agents too.’
+++
Torr watched black figures move through the crowd. Each bore the stylised I of Malcador, the Sigillite and the Emperor’s right hand, upon their chests. A symbol that conferred upon them nigh-on unlimited power.
He watched them methodically approach each group, dataslates in hand, recording each story – and he saw the fear and confusion in each refugee’s eyes. These men were something new, something unknown. And despite being just ordinary men and women – no, Torr corrected himself, Malcador’s people would never be ordinary – they seemingly commanded greater fear than the astartes of the VII Legion.
Disquiet filled Torr at their presence. At the nature of their work.
He glanced behind to Squad Haster. Each stood immobile, a fortress of ceramite and gene-enhanced flesh in their own right. Each proudly bore the black fist of the Seventh, declaring their allegiance for all to see. The Sigillite’s people could not be more different than the Sons of Dorn. What do they portend for the Imperium?
Sensing movement in the periphery of his vision, Torr looked towards the cargo hold’s doors. His eyes settled on a lone figure in burnished gold armour, a great blade at her waist, a crimson top knot tumbling down her back.
A member of the Silent Sisterhood.
Revulsion flooded through him at the sight. His twin hearts beat faster. Adrenaline began to pump through his gene-enhanced body. His hands clenched into tight fists.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. To calm himself.
Opening his eyes, he found his gaze drawn to a group of the Sigillite’s agents. They were dragging a pair of refugees towards the Sister. Emil and Patti. Torr felt anger rise hot inside his chest at the realisation.
Tears stained the father’s cheeks, a look of weary defeat written across Emil’s face. The face of a broken man. Patti screamed. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her father’s hands, his shirt, his arms. Her legs kicked wildly, her movements more frantic as she grew closer to the Witchseeker.
Torr’s eyes met hers. They were bloodshot and puffy, a river of tears flooding from them. Help me! Please! Help me! The words – Patti’s words – screamed in his mind. He shuddered. A ripple of terror ran through him, her own fear and anguish shared for just an instant.
His eidetic memory ran through her story. He remembered the way her father had described the terror and confusion as drop pods had rained from the sky above Lastrani. He could almost picture the mad scramble amid the ruins and smoke of the space port. The feel of fingers slipping apart as Patti’s mother was dragged away by the current of the crowd. He could almost smell the stench of sweat and piss as they had huddled in the dark of the Destiny’s Daughter, as it shuddered beneath the onslaught of cannon fire.
More superstitious minds might call it a miracle, he thought, pondering the immensity of the refugee’s luck. And this is the greeting they find from the Imperium? From those supposed to protect them? To be torn from each other’s arms after all they have suffered?
Something inside Torr snapped. His fingers curled involuntarily around the grip of his sword and he felt the blade slide just a fraction from its sheath as he strode towards the diorama of misery. Refugees stumbled from his path as the heavy tread of Squad Haster following echoed in his ears. As he had known they would, even without orders. They were his Brothers.
Is this the Imperium we fight for? Is this the future of humanity? The future my brothers died for? One of secrets and shadows? One where innocent people disappear in the night?
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Torr thundered as he neared the agents.
The closest flinched before turning to face him, his eyes wide as he took an involuntary step back. Torr heard the man swear under his breath as the chemical smell of fear filled his gene-enhanced nostrils.
‘Lord captain,’ the man started, ‘my orders are-’
‘I did not ask for your orders, Chosen of Malcador,’ growled Torr. ‘They are plainly clear. I asked for your reasons.’
The click of light footsteps sounded nearby. He glanced towards the sound, seeing the Sister had turned towards them, her face a passionless mask. He felt cold, an unnatural sense of dread filling him, as her eyes settled on him. He looked away quickly, returning to the mortal before him.
‘These people,’ began the agent again, straightening his back and meeting Torr’s gaze. ‘These people are to be transferred to-’
‘Silence,’ snarled Torr. He punched a finger in the direction of Patti and Emil. ‘Their only crime is fleeing the atrocities of the Traitor Legions. This girl could be trained. Her talents could benefit the Imperium. Instead, you drag her away into the shadows. Does your master fear little girls so much?’
The agent’s eyes flared angrily for a second, before flickering to the space behind Torr. The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile.
‘Is our presence so distasteful to you, Captain Torr?’
Torr remained silent as he turned to face this new speaker. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him from a hawkish face of ghostly skin. Silence settled between the two, stretching out for long, pregnant seconds.
‘I am always astounded by your kind’s aptitude for petty behaviour, Captain,’ continued the man, turning his own gaze upon the sight of Patti’s father. ‘It could be argued that such pettiness is the cause of all this madness.’
‘Indeed, Chosen Falkar,’ replied Torr after a moment.
He studied the Sigillite’s man. Falkar was painfully thin, with the typically near-emaciated and elongated form of those born and raised in the low gravity of space. Yet, despite the sheer difference in size and bulk that the astartes carried, the man weathered Torr’s gaze as if made of stone.
An impressive feat of mental strength, conceded Torr as he repressed the now familiar itch to draw his weapon. At the mortal’s display of defiance.
Torr ground his teeth as Patti’s pleas for help, her prayers to the Emperor, moved further away. He heard the scuff of her feet dragged across the floor. He heard a body slump to the floor, Emil’s sobs joining his daughter’s cacophony. The desire to draw his sword, to hear the bark of his bolter, swelled inside, near overwhelming.
You have failed them.
‘You speak of pettiness,’ snarled Torr, ‘yet you are not the one who has fought across the length and breadth of the galaxy. You are not the one who has seen his Brothers die. You are not the one who has sacrificed their very humanity. All this, I have done with the ideals of Unity and Truth in my hearts.’
Torr gestured across the hall, pointing at each of the Sigillite’s agents with a sharp jab of a finger.
‘You and your kind threaten those ideals. You sink this war into shadows and secrets. You are a poison that stains the Imperium.’ Torr spat. ‘What was the purpose of those sacrifices – my brothers’ sacrifices – if we throw our ideals away? We must hold ourselves to a higher standard.’
Falkar met the astartes’ tirade with a surprising calmness, his ice-blue eyes almost blazing in the gloom of the ship’s hold as they met Torr’s stare. ‘And what, lord captain,’ he replied, ‘would be the purpose of those sacrifices should we lose this war?’ Falkar let the question sit for a second. ‘We are a new weapon, Captain – or a new poison, as you say – because this is a new war.’
Silence hung for an eternity between the two of them. Eventually the mortal turned to look across the mass of humanity that filled the room. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘Our enemy is insidious, Lord Captain. They will not just come for us with bolter and chainsword. They will not just come to tear down our walls. They will come to tear down our very purpose. They will come to destroy everything we believe in. They will come from the shadows and dark. We are the shield against these threats. That is why the Sigillite created our order.’
‘Then you have already failed,’ Torr said after a moment. ‘You cannot defend the ideals of Truth and Unity with lies and deceit.’
Falkar shook his head and pulled out a dataslate, fingers flicking through its contents. When he’d finished, he looked up and met Torr’s eyes once more.
There is something different in him now, noticed the astartes. The hard edge is gone. There is sadness there. An exhaustion of the soul.
‘Then I am sorry, Lord Torr,’ started Falkar. ‘For what I must ask of you now.’
He held out the dataslate. Runes of the highest authority flashed across its surface. Torr read the orders, even as his stomach tightened. As his trigger finger itched once more. As the desire to rip his sword free filled him.
‘No.’ He growled the word through clenched teeth.
‘No?’
Falkar’s eyes momentarily flashed in surprise. Just for an instant, but Torr saw it. He did not expect resistance, he realised. Not from a Son of the Seventh. They think us cold. Made of stone. They do not understand the fire that burns within. The drive. The Purpose. The ideals.
‘No,’ Torr growled once more.
‘There is no refusal here, Captain Torr,’ replied Falkar, his voice now clipped with an icy steel. ‘These orders come from the Sigillite himself. And co-signed by your father. Would you deny Lord Dorn’s command?’
Torr froze. Co-signed by your father. The words haunted him. To see Lord Dorn and the Seventh dragged down into the mire of shadows. That was what they meant.
Would you deny Lord Dorn’s command? The words flittered through his head as he thought of what was being asked of him. Of how they had treated those fleeing for safety.
What kind of monsters have we become? he asked himself.
He thought of Patti and her father’s story. He thought of all he had heard from the refugees. He ran through every detail. He knew, as sure as if he was there himself, what happened in the Lastrati System. He knew what happened when the Sixteenth had come.
Anger swelled inside by what his erstwhile cousins had done. By what the once proud scions of Horus had become. Disgust filled him at the thought of those warriors he was once proud to have served alongside. By how far they had fallen.
What kind of monsters have they become?
He looked down at the dataslate again. He read the words again.
+ Immediate transfer of all non-psykers to the internment prisons of Titan for processing and interrogation. +
‘Why?’
Falkar breathed deeply and nodded, a look of relief washing across his face. ‘Because of what they have seen. Because of what they know. Because their tales of daemons and gods and monsters cannot be allowed to spread throughout Terra’s defenders. Because these stories, and those that would spread them, are a weapon for our enemy. As sure as any bolter.’
Falkar fell silent and looked back across the refugees. Torr turned with him a second later.
Is this the future you fought for? The question whispered in the back of Torr’s mind. Is this the Imperium you would be a part of? But what is the alternative?
He thought of the defenders of Terra. Of the fear he has seen in their eyes already. He thought of what he had heard today, of the tales of gods and daemons, and what it would do to their fear. He knew Falkar’s words to be true.
Images of Terra burning filled his mind. Of its walls cast down. Of his brothers broken. Of its citizens slaughtered. Of its ideals ground into dust.
Will you do what is necessary to prevent that future?
With that question echoing through his thoughts, Torr clicked open his Legion-coded vox channels.
‘Squad Haster, make ready.’
He heard the thud of ceramite boots on the floor as they moved to attention beside him. He heard the click of boltguns loading. He smelled the tang of fear in the air.
He glanced sideways towards Haster. His old friend’s face was a grim mask, unreadable save a fury blazing in his eyes. A fury at me? pondered Torr. Or at what we must do? What have we become?
But Torr knew such anger was irrelevant. He knew what must be done. What duty demanded. He looked back across the refugees arrayed before him.
‘Citizens of the Imperium,’ he said, his gene-enhanced voice carrying easily throughout the hanger. ‘You will accompany us back to the Oath of Unity. There you will be processed and sent for internment on Titan. These are the orders of Lord Dorn and Malcador the Sigillite. Do not resist.’
Anger filled the air almost immediately after his pronouncement. Questions and shouts spread like wildfire through the crowd as something snapped in their collective minds. The sight of the astartes warriors before them, once a promise of salvation and deliverance, now the face of repression and danger.
One woman stepped out from the crowd. Her face, painfully thin from malnutrition, was a contorted mask of rage. She held a broken piece of piping tight in two hands.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she screamed. ‘What crime have we committed? You should be protecting us! Helping us!’
‘Stand down, citizen,’ commanded Torr. The fury in the woman’s voice was a spark to his own base instincts. He fought to keep his voice calm. He fought to stop his hands from reaching for the bolt pistol at his belt.
‘You are monsters!’ screamed the woman. ‘You oppress us! For what crime? Have we not suffered enough?’
‘Stand down,’ said Torr once more. A warm heat began to spread through his muscles as they loosened. He felt his hearts thump faster. His trigger finger itched once more. He found he had drawn his bolt pistol.
Her cry was taken up by the rest of the crowd. They pressed forward, towards Torr and the other Imperial Fists. Torr made to step in front of Falkar, but noticed the Sigillite’s agent had disappeared.
A howl of pain split the air. One of the black armoured figures tumbled from the horde of refugees, kicked to the ground. Their throat had been slit. Their face was a mass of bruising radiating out from caved-in eye sockets. Blood wept from stab wounds across their body. Torr’s eyes settled on their empty holster.
A gunshot rang out. Torr felt its force against his pauldron. Heard it ricochet against the dull steel of the cargo hold’s roof.
He raised his pistol. Squad Haster appeared in his periphery, shields locked together, bolters ready. There was no need to open the vox channel this time. Not with his brothers so close.
‘Fire.’
+++
Dead bodies littered the cargo hold. It was an abattoir. Blood coated the floor and splattered the walls. Bodies – of men, women and children – lay at unnatural angles, their limbs torn like petals from a flower by the explosive power of bolt rounds. The stench of shit and piss and gunsmoke filled his nostrils.
Accusing eyes stared back at him. Over six hundred dead. He had made the count himself. His eyes met the dead gaze of Patti’s father.
Why? they asked. In Torr’s own voice. It is the question he asked Falkar. Now it is the question he asks himself.
Torr opened his eyes, bringing his mind back from the slaughter in the cargo hold of the Destiny’s Daughter. Agony shot through his arm. He bit down, grinding his teeth and tasting the iron tang of his own blood as he shut out the effects of the Pain Glove.
Discipline and unyielding will, he reminded himself, but the question remained. It echoed through his mind.
Why?
But Torr knew the answer.
Because you are a weapon. A monster.
Because it is what you need to be. Because it is your purpose to be the rock upon which the Imperium can be built. To find victory, so that those that come after you can build a better world.
Torr knew this in his hearts. He had heard his father speak on it. He remembered giving his oath aboard the Phalanx. He remembered kneeling before his Lord Dorn, hand thrust into a brazier of fire, and swearing to be the weapon that the Imperium needed. To never give in. To find victory. No matter the cost.
No matter the cost.
He thought once more of the refugees. He thought of Patti and her father, Emil. Of what they suffered at the hands of his treacherous cousins. Of the danger they posed to the Imperium’s victory. Of what they had suffered at the hands of the Imperium.
He thought of Falkar’s words. ‘And what, lord captain, would be the purpose of your sacrifices should we lose this war?’
And he vowed anew that he would not lose. That he would find victory. He vowed to do whatever was necessary. He vowed to be that monster now, so that the Imperium and its dream could live on.
For that was his duty. And duty is all.
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https://40k.coldopenstories.com/dutys-burden/
https://40k.coldopenstories.com/category/short-fiction/anthology-xii/

Hello everyone!
Just wanted to share a story I wrote and has been picked up by the good people at Cold Open Stories.
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Hope you enjoy!
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++ Do not look to us for kindness. Do not look to us for hope. We are not the kind children of this new age. We are the rocks of its foundation. ++
Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the VII
A flash of light burned in the black of space.
Is this it? thought Cassian Torr, Captain of the 117th Company, VII Legion. Has Horus come?
His twin hearts beat faster at the thought, even as the more logical parts of his mind ran through a thousand other possibilities. Yet ultimately he knew what he had seen: a ship. A ship tearing its way into real space. Into the Sol System. Into the heart of the Imperium.
He scanned the endless void, eyes scouring the debris and detritus that littered the outer regions of Terra’s system. Searching for more flashes. For more ships. For any sign that this was the first pebble in an avalanche of violence that would crash against the walls of Sol.
Yet none came.
‘Speak to me, Captain Narsus,’ he said, turning to look back at the Oath of Unity’s mortal commander. His golden-yellow armour purred with even that slight movement, the sound lost in the cacophony that was the bridge. Astartes, mortal crew, Tech Priests and servitors bustled in constant motion, the ordered and smooth running of the Gladius Frigate hidden amongst the apparent anarchy. ‘What is it we face today?’
‘A single ship, my lord,’ replied Narsus, voice heavy with exhaustion. ‘Not military class. A merchant trader; its code identifies it as the Destiny’s Daughter. I am picking up no shields or weapons signals. Their engines are practically dead. They’re simply drifting.’
Torr knew the long hours and endless days being demanded of the man were unfair, that no unaugmented human could hope to keep up such work for long. Yet it was what Dorn and the Sigillite deemed necessary. It was what victory in the name of Unity and the Imperial Truth deemed necessary.
And Torr would not have the Oath of Unity found wanting. When this madness was over, when Horus was defeated, the Imperium would be rebuilt as it should have been. As the Emperor willed it. As a bastion of truth, science, reason and hope.
What has Horus sent against us? Torr asked himself as he looked back into space. Is this some new trickery? Some new lie?
He had patrolled the edges of the Sol System for years. Ever since the Eisenstein had brought the impossible news of Horus’s betrayal to Dorn and the Imperial Fists. In the intervening years, the entirety of the system had been transformed into a fortress – patrols like his, its first and furthest line of defence.
But it was a line yet to be tested.
Nothing had reached the Sol System. Not since the Eisenstein. It was as if silence had engulfed the galaxy. Yet Torr knew this could not be true. All eighteen Legions – loyal and treacherous – could not have just gone silent. Something out there, beyond the cold of the void, had changed.
He saw this also in the Oath of Unity’s Astropath. In her whispered mutterings. In her nervous glances towards the open void.
Summons had been sent to those Legions, Expeditionary Forces and Forge Worlds known to be loyal, a tsunami of astropathic messages to sweep through the galaxy. Yet nothing came back. No ships reached them. No messages. Are we alone? Have all our brother Legions turned their backs on the dream of the Imperium? On their oaths and vows? On Terra?
Something unfamiliar wormed its way through him at the thought. Is this fear? That emotion was all but unknown, ever since he had been plucked from the ice hives of Inwit and raised to the ranks of the Legiones Astartes. And yet, he pondered, perhaps its echo still exists somewhere within.
‘Are we receiving any communication from them?’ he asked, his voice flat and hard, masking his thoughts and fears. ‘Does anything live aboard?’
‘No communications, my lord,’ answered Narsus. ‘But we are picking up life signs. Not many, but undeniably human.’
Torr nodded. ‘Very good, Captain. Make full speed to intercept. Have weapons ready to fire, but hold until commanded.’
‘Your will, my lord,’ said Narsus. He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Should I alert Lord Falkar? The Sigillite’s orders may pertain to this.’
Torr rubbed his armoured gauntlet across his closely shaven scalp, feeling the iron of his centenary mark of service riven into his thick, transhuman brow. The mark of over a century of service to the ideals of Truth and Unity. It reminded him of the campaigns he had fought. Of the brothers he had lost. Of the horrors he had seen. He shook his head. ‘No. Lord Falkar’s involvement is to be a last resort.’
He opened his Legion vox link. ‘ Sergeant Haster, prepare a boarding party.’
+++
Shadows and silence filled the Destiny’s Daughter. Torr and Breacher Squad Haster moved through her corridors in purposeful unity, methodical and thorough. Their shields overlapped to create an impenetrable wall of ceramite and iron. The golden yellow of their thick MKIII armour was bathed crimson as emergency lumens flashed endlessly throughout the seemingly deserted ship.
Torr heard a click in his helm, followed instantly by another, as he had every five minutes since the boarding operation had begun nearly an hour ago. The signals told him that Breacher Squads Solon and Carr were moving through the ship on schedule, having met no resistance or signs of life. He suspected he’d receive the same ‘all clears’ again in five minutes.
He clicked back in reply, then let out a growl of frustration. His trigger finger itched, aching to feel the kick of his bolter, to hear its roar.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm, and silently chided himself for the moment of laxity. He remembered the words of his father and Primarch, Lord Dorn: Discipline. Duty. Unyielding Will. These are the measures by which every warrior is judged.
Am I bored? he asked himself. If he was being honest, he’d half hoped to find an ambush aboard the Destiny’s Daughter. To see his traitorous brothers advancing towards him, bolters roaring their madness. The colours of those Legions he had once fought beside – the regal purple of the Emperor’s Children, the sea-green of the Sons of Horus, the blood-splattered white and blue of the World Eaters – flashed through his mind and he ground his teeth. He wanted to kill.
Astartes, he reflected, were not built for such lengthy periods of inactivity. For long years of patrol and garrison. For what was now demanded of him and his brothers.
‘Is all well, Captain?’ asked Haster, the Veteran Sergeant’s gravel voice filling his helm’s private comm-link.
‘All is well, Brother-Sergeant,’ Torr replied. ‘I was distracted. Thank you for drawing my attention back to the duty at hand.’
He heard Haster’s grunt of laughter in his vox-link. ‘Some things never change, it seems. I’ve been watching your back since we were Initiates. What would you do without me?’
Torr felt the corners of his mouth tug into the beginnings of a smile as he checked their position against the ship’s schematics on his retinal display. They were not far from the centre of the ship and the cargo hold. Where, according to Captain Narsus, the only signs of life could be detected. ‘Not long now,’ he whispered to himself as the rhythmic clang of their armoured boots echoed throughout the labyrinthine corridors.
+++
Explosions ripped open the cargo hold’s blast doors, filling the hallways with smoke and fire and a storm of metal shards. Even through his helm’s environmental dampeners, Torr felt his ears ring.
Then the screams started.
‘Only fire on my command,’ he ordered as he raised his breacher shield and began to advance alongside Squad Haster. Smoke enveloped them for the briefest second, before they emerged into the cargo hold of the Destiny’s Daughter.
Torr finally saw something from beyond the Sol System, from the chaos that had engulfed the galaxy.
Ragged humanity filled the cargo hold, stretching out into the dark corners of the vast room. Men, women and children huddled together, their clothes hanging loosely from bone-thin limbs as wide, terror-stricken eyes stared back at him from faces too thin with hunger. Pleas for mercy, prayers for help, and screams of panic filled the air. Most shied away from the approaching astartes, hunching over in small groups, as if they could disappear into the gloom.
One man, braver or stupider than the rest, stepped out from the crowd. He clutched an autogun in his shaking hands, the weapon rusted almost beyond repair.
Do it.
The words rushed unbidden into Torr’s mind as he felt the increasingly familiar itch in his trigger finger. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his eyes settled on the barrel of the gun.
Do it.
‘Begone, foul daemons!’ screamed the man, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeak. ‘The Emperor protects!’
His final words were taken up by others amongst the crowd. It rallied them, as it echoed in the open cavern of the hold. Torr grimaced. At what those words implied. At a belief in the divine, so at odds with the enlightened ideals of the Imperium. Yet also of loyalty.
His hand shot out, too fast for a mortal’s eye to follow, and snatched the gun from the refugee’s hands with a savage twist. He felt the man resist for the briefest moment, before giving way with a pained cry.
Torr looked down at the man – on his knees, a grimace across his face, cradling one shoulder. He felt a moment’s satisfaction at the release of violence, before he crushed it with a force of will. These are citizens of the Imperium. They deserve our protection.
He dropped the gun. It clattered to the ground, the metallic ring echoing from the walls. Almost deafening in the silence of the hold.
Something behind the man flinched at the sound. A muffled cry reached Torr’s ears.
A girl, he thought as his eyes settled on the crouched figure. Perhaps four or five years old, Terran Standard. Though, he had to admit to finding estimates of age hard with such young mortals. Her hair had been crudely shorn to the scalp, but small tufts stuck out from amid the stubble. She clung tightly to the man’s back, keeping herself in his shadow, even as she stared up at him. Her eyes, wide and dark, met Torr’s. Yet she didn’t look away.
Brave, Torr thought, for a mortal. For one so young.
‘Stand down, civilians,’ he said, voice amplified by the vox in his armour. ‘You are safe now. You are in the custody of the Seventh.’
He noticed the girl wince at the sound of his voice, pressing her hands to her ears and looking down at the floor. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he dimly remembered the first time he had seen an astartes. The sheer size. The aura of violence. It had been overwhelming.
Torr dropped to one knee, bringing himself as close to the girl’s level as possible. He removed his helm, remembering a treatise written by Guilliman on first interactions between astartes and mortals. Such simple measures, the lord of the Thirteenth argued, lessened the shock when interacting with members of the Legions. It humanised them in the eyes of the unaugmented.
Torr almost laughed at the idea. As if I have not given up my humanity to become what they need me to be. To become a shield for their kind. To become a weapon against the horrors of this universe.
He reached forward slowly, resting his gauntleted hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘What is your name, child?’ he asked, doing his best to keep his voice light and the hint of a smile on his lips. He knew such verbal and physical cues were important to the unenhanced.
‘Patti,’ whispered the girl, bringing her gaze up to meet his once more. ‘Is… Is Mama here? Papa said she would be, even though she couldn’t get the same ship as us.’ Sobs began to wrack the little girl’s body and she hurled herself back against her father’s body, burying her face in his thin shirt.
Torr felt the temperature drop, permafrost creeping across the floor. Radiating out from the girl. Crawling up his arm. Psyker. He pulled back and turned to meet the father’s eyes.
‘We’re from the Lastrati System,’ said the man, his voice edged with hope, yet tinged with fear. ‘When the traitors came… There was such chaos. We got separated.’
Torr shook his head.
‘Yohanna,’ continued the man, his words tumbling out too quickly. ‘Yohanna Taraf. That’s her name. I am Emil. Her husband. There must be news.’
‘No,’ said Torr, his voice now stone and brooking no argument. ‘Yours is the first ship to have reached Sol in nearly two years.’
Emil fell silent, his jaw working wordlessly. The buzz of chatter filled the air, spreading like wildfire throughout the refugees as Torr’s words reached the ears of others.
‘The first?’ Emil asked eventually as he clasped his daughter’s hands. ‘But there were so many.’
Torr stared back for a moment, seeing the tears begin to trickle from Emil’s eyes. ‘I am sorry.’
He stood and turned his back on the man, looking over the silent wall of ceramite that Breacher Squad Haster had formed behind him. His eyes met Haster’s, seeing his old friend had also removed his helmet. ‘These people are not to leave this hall.’ He paused. ‘But do not harm them. They are loyal citizens of the Imperium.’
He turned his focus back to Emil and Patti once more. They were on their knees, arms wrapped tight around each other. The halo of frost around them crept ever further across the floor with each second. Their bodies rose and fell with choked sobs, tears streaming down their faces. Torr’s transhuman senses heard Emil whisper reassurances to his daughter as he stroked her hair. He told her that her mother would be okay. That she would find a way. That the Emperor was watching them. To have faith.
Superstition. Torr looked away in anger. Primitive. Illogical. He felt sick at the irony of it. That the Legions had spent two centuries crusading across the stars, destroying such beliefs and bringing the Truth to the galaxy. But, here it was. At the very heart of the Imperium itself.
Yet it is these people that stand loyal. Unlike my brother Legions. Unlike those I fought with. Unlike those I shed blood with. The thought soured in Torr’s mind, his mask of stone slipping to anger.
He saw the faces of those he had once fought beside from the Traitor Legions in his mind. The faces of those he had called once Brothers. Sar Krael of the Sons of Horus, his olive skin in stark contrast to the once brilliant white of their old Legion. Varon of the Emperor’s Children, his porcelain features marred by the occasional faint duelling scar. Kargur of the World Eaters, his brutish features only accentuated by a myriad of criss-crossing scars and his permanently broken nose.
Torr clicked his vox-link open, drawing himself back to the present. ‘Captain Narsus, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ came the reply, static scratching in Torr’s ears.
‘Inform Lord Dorn and First Captain Sigismund that we have made contact with refugees from the war.’ He paused. ‘Then prepare several parties of your mortal crew to board the Destiny’s Daughter. They are to bring food and water. Medicine too.’
‘Your will, my lord,’ replied Narsus. ‘I will see to it at once.’
Torr watched Patti and Emil for a second more. Their cries were hushed and lost in the vastness of the hold, their prayers faint, yet distinct. Other refugees shuffled away from them. Away from the creeping frost and the aura of cold. Away from the girl. From the psyker.
His stomach churned at what he had to do next.
‘Captain Narsus,’ he said once more. ‘Inform the Lord Falkar and the Sigillite’s agents too.’
+++
Torr watched black figures move through the crowd. Each bore the stylised I of Malcador, the Sigillite and the Emperor’s right hand, upon their chests. A symbol that conferred upon them nigh-on unlimited power.
He watched them methodically approach each group, dataslates in hand, recording each story – and he saw the fear and confusion in each refugee’s eyes. These men were something new, something unknown. And despite being just ordinary men and women – no, Torr corrected himself, Malcador’s people would never be ordinary – they seemingly commanded greater fear than the astartes of the VII Legion.
Disquiet filled Torr at their presence. At the nature of their work.
He glanced behind to Squad Haster. Each stood immobile, a fortress of ceramite and gene-enhanced flesh in their own right. Each proudly bore the black fist of the Seventh, declaring their allegiance for all to see. The Sigillite’s people could not be more different than the Sons of Dorn. What do they portend for the Imperium?
Sensing movement in the periphery of his vision, Torr looked towards the cargo hold’s doors. His eyes settled on a lone figure in burnished gold armour, a great blade at her waist, a crimson top knot tumbling down her back.
A member of the Silent Sisterhood.
Revulsion flooded through him at the sight. His twin hearts beat faster. Adrenaline began to pump through his gene-enhanced body. His hands clenched into tight fists.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. To calm himself.
Opening his eyes, he found his gaze drawn to a group of the Sigillite’s agents. They were dragging a pair of refugees towards the Sister. Emil and Patti. Torr felt anger rise hot inside his chest at the realisation.
Tears stained the father’s cheeks, a look of weary defeat written across Emil’s face. The face of a broken man. Patti screamed. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her father’s hands, his shirt, his arms. Her legs kicked wildly, her movements more frantic as she grew closer to the Witchseeker.
Torr’s eyes met hers. They were bloodshot and puffy, a river of tears flooding from them. Help me! Please! Help me! The words – Patti’s words – screamed in his mind. He shuddered. A ripple of terror ran through him, her own fear and anguish shared for just an instant.
His eidetic memory ran through her story. He remembered the way her father had described the terror and confusion as drop pods had rained from the sky above Lastrani. He could almost picture the mad scramble amid the ruins and smoke of the space port. The feel of fingers slipping apart as Patti’s mother was dragged away by the current of the crowd. He could almost smell the stench of sweat and piss as they had huddled in the dark of the Destiny’s Daughter, as it shuddered beneath the onslaught of cannon fire.
More superstitious minds might call it a miracle, he thought, pondering the immensity of the refugee’s luck. And this is the greeting they find from the Imperium? From those supposed to protect them? To be torn from each other’s arms after all they have suffered?
Something inside Torr snapped. His fingers curled involuntarily around the grip of his sword and he felt the blade slide just a fraction from its sheath as he strode towards the diorama of misery. Refugees stumbled from his path as the heavy tread of Squad Haster following echoed in his ears. As he had known they would, even without orders. They were his Brothers.
Is this the Imperium we fight for? Is this the future of humanity? The future my brothers died for? One of secrets and shadows? One where innocent people disappear in the night?
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Torr thundered as he neared the agents.
The closest flinched before turning to face him, his eyes wide as he took an involuntary step back. Torr heard the man swear under his breath as the chemical smell of fear filled his gene-enhanced nostrils.
‘Lord captain,’ the man started, ‘my orders are-’
‘I did not ask for your orders, Chosen of Malcador,’ growled Torr. ‘They are plainly clear. I asked for your reasons.’
The click of light footsteps sounded nearby. He glanced towards the sound, seeing the Sister had turned towards them, her face a passionless mask. He felt cold, an unnatural sense of dread filling him, as her eyes settled on him. He looked away quickly, returning to the mortal before him.
‘These people,’ began the agent again, straightening his back and meeting Torr’s gaze. ‘These people are to be transferred to-’
‘Silence,’ snarled Torr. He punched a finger in the direction of Patti and Emil. ‘Their only crime is fleeing the atrocities of the Traitor Legions. This girl could be trained. Her talents could benefit the Imperium. Instead, you drag her away into the shadows. Does your master fear little girls so much?’
The agent’s eyes flared angrily for a second, before flickering to the space behind Torr. The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile.
‘Is our presence so distasteful to you, Captain Torr?’
Torr remained silent as he turned to face this new speaker. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him from a hawkish face of ghostly skin. Silence settled between the two, stretching out for long, pregnant seconds.
‘I am always astounded by your kind’s aptitude for petty behaviour, Captain,’ continued the man, turning his own gaze upon the sight of Patti’s father. ‘It could be argued that such pettiness is the cause of all this madness.’
‘Indeed, Chosen Falkar,’ replied Torr after a moment.
He studied the Sigillite’s man. Falkar was painfully thin, with the typically near-emaciated and elongated form of those born and raised in the low gravity of space. Yet, despite the sheer difference in size and bulk that the astartes carried, the man weathered Torr’s gaze as if made of stone.
An impressive feat of mental strength, conceded Torr as he repressed the now familiar itch to draw his weapon. At the mortal’s display of defiance.
Torr ground his teeth as Patti’s pleas for help, her prayers to the Emperor, moved further away. He heard the scuff of her feet dragged across the floor. He heard a body slump to the floor, Emil’s sobs joining his daughter’s cacophony. The desire to draw his sword, to hear the bark of his bolter, swelled inside, near overwhelming.
You have failed them.
‘You speak of pettiness,’ snarled Torr, ‘yet you are not the one who has fought across the length and breadth of the galaxy. You are not the one who has seen his Brothers die. You are not the one who has sacrificed their very humanity. All this, I have done with the ideals of Unity and Truth in my hearts.’
Torr gestured across the hall, pointing at each of the Sigillite’s agents with a sharp jab of a finger.
‘You and your kind threaten those ideals. You sink this war into shadows and secrets. You are a poison that stains the Imperium.’ Torr spat. ‘What was the purpose of those sacrifices – my brothers’ sacrifices – if we throw our ideals away? We must hold ourselves to a higher standard.’
Falkar met the astartes’ tirade with a surprising calmness, his ice-blue eyes almost blazing in the gloom of the ship’s hold as they met Torr’s stare. ‘And what, lord captain,’ he replied, ‘would be the purpose of those sacrifices should we lose this war?’ Falkar let the question sit for a second. ‘We are a new weapon, Captain – or a new poison, as you say – because this is a new war.’
Silence hung for an eternity between the two of them. Eventually the mortal turned to look across the mass of humanity that filled the room. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘Our enemy is insidious, Lord Captain. They will not just come for us with bolter and chainsword. They will not just come to tear down our walls. They will come to tear down our very purpose. They will come to destroy everything we believe in. They will come from the shadows and dark. We are the shield against these threats. That is why the Sigillite created our order.’
‘Then you have already failed,’ Torr said after a moment. ‘You cannot defend the ideals of Truth and Unity with lies and deceit.’
Falkar shook his head and pulled out a dataslate, fingers flicking through its contents. When he’d finished, he looked up and met Torr’s eyes once more.
There is something different in him now, noticed the astartes. The hard edge is gone. There is sadness there. An exhaustion of the soul.
‘Then I am sorry, Lord Torr,’ started Falkar. ‘For what I must ask of you now.’
He held out the dataslate. Runes of the highest authority flashed across its surface. Torr read the orders, even as his stomach tightened. As his trigger finger itched once more. As the desire to rip his sword free filled him.
‘No.’ He growled the word through clenched teeth.
‘No?’
Falkar’s eyes momentarily flashed in surprise. Just for an instant, but Torr saw it. He did not expect resistance, he realised. Not from a Son of the Seventh. They think us cold. Made of stone. They do not understand the fire that burns within. The drive. The Purpose. The ideals.
‘No,’ Torr growled once more.
‘There is no refusal here, Captain Torr,’ replied Falkar, his voice now clipped with an icy steel. ‘These orders come from the Sigillite himself. And co-signed by your father. Would you deny Lord Dorn’s command?’
Torr froze. Co-signed by your father. The words haunted him. To see Lord Dorn and the Seventh dragged down into the mire of shadows. That was what they meant.
Would you deny Lord Dorn’s command? The words flittered through his head as he thought of what was being asked of him. Of how they had treated those fleeing for safety.
What kind of monsters have we become? he asked himself.
He thought of Patti and her father’s story. He thought of all he had heard from the refugees. He ran through every detail. He knew, as sure as if he was there himself, what happened in the Lastrati System. He knew what happened when the Sixteenth had come.
Anger swelled inside by what his erstwhile cousins had done. By what the once proud scions of Horus had become. Disgust filled him at the thought of those warriors he was once proud to have served alongside. By how far they had fallen.
What kind of monsters have they become?
He looked down at the dataslate again. He read the words again.
+ Immediate transfer of all non-psykers to the internment prisons of Titan for processing and interrogation. +
‘Why?’
Falkar breathed deeply and nodded, a look of relief washing across his face. ‘Because of what they have seen. Because of what they know. Because their tales of daemons and gods and monsters cannot be allowed to spread throughout Terra’s defenders. Because these stories, and those that would spread them, are a weapon for our enemy. As sure as any bolter.’
Falkar fell silent and looked back across the refugees. Torr turned with him a second later.
Is this the future you fought for? The question whispered in the back of Torr’s mind. Is this the Imperium you would be a part of? But what is the alternative?
He thought of the defenders of Terra. Of the fear he has seen in their eyes already. He thought of what he had heard today, of the tales of gods and daemons, and what it would do to their fear. He knew Falkar’s words to be true.
Images of Terra burning filled his mind. Of its walls cast down. Of his brothers broken. Of its citizens slaughtered. Of its ideals ground into dust.
Will you do what is necessary to prevent that future?
With that question echoing through his thoughts, Torr clicked open his Legion-coded vox channels.
‘Squad Haster, make ready.’
He heard the thud of ceramite boots on the floor as they moved to attention beside him. He heard the click of boltguns loading. He smelled the tang of fear in the air.
He glanced sideways towards Haster. His old friend’s face was a grim mask, unreadable save a fury blazing in his eyes. A fury at me? pondered Torr. Or at what we must do? What have we become?
But Torr knew such anger was irrelevant. He knew what must be done. What duty demanded. He looked back across the refugees arrayed before him.
‘Citizens of the Imperium,’ he said, his gene-enhanced voice carrying easily throughout the hanger. ‘You will accompany us back to the Oath of Unity. There you will be processed and sent for internment on Titan. These are the orders of Lord Dorn and Malcador the Sigillite. Do not resist.’
Anger filled the air almost immediately after his pronouncement. Questions and shouts spread like wildfire through the crowd as something snapped in their collective minds. The sight of the astartes warriors before them, once a promise of salvation and deliverance, now the face of repression and danger.
One woman stepped out from the crowd. Her face, painfully thin from malnutrition, was a contorted mask of rage. She held a broken piece of piping tight in two hands.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she screamed. ‘What crime have we committed? You should be protecting us! Helping us!’
‘Stand down, citizen,’ commanded Torr. The fury in the woman’s voice was a spark to his own base instincts. He fought to keep his voice calm. He fought to stop his hands from reaching for the bolt pistol at his belt.
‘You are monsters!’ screamed the woman. ‘You oppress us! For what crime? Have we not suffered enough?’
‘Stand down,’ said Torr once more. A warm heat began to spread through his muscles as they loosened. He felt his hearts thump faster. His trigger finger itched once more. He found he had drawn his bolt pistol.
Her cry was taken up by the rest of the crowd. They pressed forward, towards Torr and the other Imperial Fists. Torr made to step in front of Falkar, but noticed the Sigillite’s agent had disappeared.
A howl of pain split the air. One of the black armoured figures tumbled from the horde of refugees, kicked to the ground. Their throat had been slit. Their face was a mass of bruising radiating out from caved-in eye sockets. Blood wept from stab wounds across their body. Torr’s eyes settled on their empty holster.
A gunshot rang out. Torr felt its force against his pauldron. Heard it ricochet against the dull steel of the cargo hold’s roof.
He raised his pistol. Squad Haster appeared in his periphery, shields locked together, bolters ready. There was no need to open the vox channel this time. Not with his brothers so close.
‘Fire.’
+++
Dead bodies littered the cargo hold. It was an abattoir. Blood coated the floor and splattered the walls. Bodies – of men, women and children – lay at unnatural angles, their limbs torn like petals from a flower by the explosive power of bolt rounds. The stench of shit and piss and gunsmoke filled his nostrils.
Accusing eyes stared back at him. Over six hundred dead. He had made the count himself. His eyes met the dead gaze of Patti’s father.
Why? they asked. In Torr’s own voice. It is the question he asked Falkar. Now it is the question he asks himself.
Torr opened his eyes, bringing his mind back from the slaughter in the cargo hold of the Destiny’s Daughter. Agony shot through his arm. He bit down, grinding his teeth and tasting the iron tang of his own blood as he shut out the effects of the Pain Glove.
Discipline and unyielding will, he reminded himself, but the question remained. It echoed through his mind.
Why?
But Torr knew the answer.
Because you are a weapon. A monster.
Because it is what you need to be. Because it is your purpose to be the rock upon which the Imperium can be built. To find victory, so that those that come after you can build a better world.
Torr knew this in his hearts. He had heard his father speak on it. He remembered giving his oath aboard the Phalanx. He remembered kneeling before his Lord Dorn, hand thrust into a brazier of fire, and swearing to be the weapon that the Imperium needed. To never give in. To find victory. No matter the cost.
No matter the cost.
He thought once more of the refugees. He thought of Patti and her father, Emil. Of what they suffered at the hands of his treacherous cousins. Of the danger they posed to the Imperium’s victory. Of what they had suffered at the hands of the Imperium.
He thought of Falkar’s words. ‘And what, lord captain, would be the purpose of your sacrifices should we lose this war?’
And he vowed anew that he would lose. That he would find victory. He vowed to do whatever was necessary. He vowed to be that monster now, so that the Imperium and its dream could live on.
For that was his duty. And duty is all.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
If you you enjoyed that, please give it a rating over on the website, and check out the other stories in that anthology!
https://40k.coldopenstories.com/dutys-burden/
https://40k.coldopenstories.com/category/short-fiction/anthology-xii/

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Autumn 4983, 20 Shinmoth
Shon stirred awake before the servant came in, but kept his eyes closed, slowly wiggling fingers and toes, waiting for her to gently shake him. He needed to confirm this wasn’t just an extension of the very lifelike dream he'd been having. She used the tips of her fingers to quickly shake him, pulling sharply back when Shon twitched away.
She stepped back and Shon rolled towards her to sit up. He blinked as she brought her finger to her lips. She didn’t usually bother, after two years all the servants knew Shon was more than capable of letting the others sleep for a few more hours. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the reason for her added caution. Only recently moved out of the nursery, the newest boy snuffled restlessly.
Nodding to the maid, Shon moved slowly, though it probably didn’t matter. The dorms kept the eldest near the door, the boys getting younger as the long hall-like room reached towards the window. As the youngest, the new boy had only two empty beds between him and the glass window, while Shon's spot was nearly to the door.
As Shon slipped on his boots, the maid shivered, breathing on her hands and turning away. He narrowed his eyes as she left then looked towards the window beyond the restless boy. Snow was falling beyond the glass. Shon rolled his eyes, reaching for the box below his bed and pulling out his short cloak, just long enough to cover his shoulders and arms. He would be expected to wear something extra now that it was officially snowing. He really didn’t see the point. It wasn’t that cold. But the others always looked at him funny, and the priests would yell about him getting sick. So rather than argue, Shon did as he was told.
The new boy whined in his sleep while Shon finished making his bed, and the oldest curled tighter into his blankets, stopping Shon before he could pass and leave. Glancing over his shoulder, Shon sighed and returned to pull the blanket off his bed. Folding it just enough not to drag on the ground, he tip-toed down the central hall of the dorm before slowly and carefully draping it over the youngest. His whimpers settled shortly after, and Shon shook his head. He would have to remember to grab one of the spare blankets before anyone noticed his was missing.
Leaving the dorm, Shon didn’t try to be as quiet in the halls. Servants scuttled about in their early morning duties, lighting candles and torches, getting everything ready for when the rest of the church began to wake for the day.
The head cook returned Shon’s nod when he entered the kitchen, going back to kneading the morning bread as Shon started his chores. This was the agreement they'd come to when he'd asked that they wake him up early. Every day he would get up hours before the other children and help prep the dining area for breakfast. It was simple work that he finished quickly, but it still freed up an extra servant to work the ovens.
When finished, Shon walked through the kitchens again, waving at the cook to let him know he was done before exiting into the courtyard for the real work of the morning. Soft snow floated lazily down between the naked branches of the central tree, dusting the ground like fine sugar on an expensive sweet roll. Shon hardly noticed the snow, reaching his usual practice area and breathing deep before sinking into his low stance to start his most basic drills.
This time of year, it would be hours before the sun rose, and though there were no lights in the courtyard, he didn’t need to see. Shon closed his eyes as he worked his muscles awake, breathing in the crisp icy air and feeling it invigorate him in a way that rarely happened during the warmer months. He thought of Master Veon-Zih, imagining the Monk standing beside him, matching his punches and kicks, occasionally offering a small lesson during the warmup. ‘Imagine your opponent with each punch. Where are you hitting? Be sure to aim through them, so you don’t stop short with barely a tap…’ His Master wasn’t here, though he was expected to arrive sometime this week. Still, Shon could see the man clearly in his mind’s eye as he worked, sweat beginning to bead on his head and neck.
He moved from the simple drills onto his kata. Working through the fighting forms and taking his teacher’s past advice, picturing his opponent with each strike. He tried not to let his mind wander as his muscles moved almost on their own. Over two years of going through the same motions every day had made them automatic, requiring him to focus harder now than when he'd first begun to stay in the moment.
His birthday was only a few months away, and it would be the last he spent in the church…
No, focus. His sweeping kick landed on an imaginary adversary at just the right spot in the middle of the shin, causing him to fall forward, perfectly in line for Shon’s next punch.
On the Spring Equinox, he would take the test to join the Temple. Everything else beyond depended on that…
FOCUS! Shon let slip a growl of frustration at himself, finishing his kata and starting the same again. He wouldn’t move on until he could maintain his concentration through this one.
Only one season until the rest of his life. Whatever that would be…
The snow was distracting him, it marked the start of winter better than the calendar. Shon stopped his kata, breathing deep and looking into the sky. The stars would be shining beyond the clouds, though they would fade soon as the sun slowly began to rise. He would go to the Temple again today. While the others tried to impress the Weavers Guild in the hopes of getting an apprenticeship with one of the trades after reaching maturity, he would pray. Though if that actually helped, he didn’t know. Was he making the right choice? Should he instead focus on something more practical? Or something he already had skill in? Gaven seemed to think Shon could make it as an artist at a Bard's College…
Shaking his head, Shon resumed his stance, taking an extra moment to breathe deep. In through his nose, then out his pursed lips. He'd been slated for the Temple. Everyone said so. But more than that, something deep in his chest cried out with a need to serve, to fight. Nothing better encapsulated that drive than an Hengist Paladin.
Shon started his kata again.
***
Veon-Zih found Shon in Hengist's chapel. Though the most decorative of the rooms in the Temple, even it was considered utilitarian compared to the worship halls of Soleil and most of the other gods. Stone walls were lined with alternating windows and niches, the latter containing scale statues of Hengist's Chosen. Pews were separated on each side by a simple blue carpet leading from the door and officer's balcony to the altar with its blue and silver tapestry of an upright sword.
With no sermon scheduled the chapel was nearly empty. A young Paladin stood guard at the entrance while a priest dusted statues, and Shon sat alone in a central pew, head bowed. The knight nodded silently to Veon-Zih as he entered and made his way down the main aisle to pay his respects at the altar. The priest rushed forward to grant the Monk a quick blessing before he made his way toward Shon.
Sliding into the boy’s pew, Veon-Zih saw Shon didn’t have his head down in prayer. Instead, his ever-present journal was spread across his knees as he drew. Veon-Zih snuck a peek at the drawing. It was more elaborate than anything Shon usually drew. He had already finished a decorative border, that consisted of each of the knights lining the walls, and was just putting in the fine details of the man in the center, the god himself, Hengist.
“You didn’t want to join the others at the Weavers?” Veon-Zih spoke softly, not quite a whisper, but not loud enough to disturb the chapel's peace.
With his characteristic silence, Shon merely shrugged and nodded to confirm the observation.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time for morning exercises. After a few months away, I’m sure you're eager to continue your lessons?” Veon-Zih had warned Shon that this last journey would keep him away far longer than any of his previous missions. With no new evidence surfacing of possible Warlocks in Clearhelm, he'd run out of excuses to stay away from his Monastery. Whoever these magic users were, and whatever they were doing, they were able to stay hidden for years at a time.
In the meantime, for the first time in nearly forty years, Veon-Zih had spent his time between missions in one place. Training Shon.
Branston had made the observation that Shon seemed to be opening up to Veon-Zih in a way the Cleric hadn’t seen before. Veon-Zih disagreed. The longer he spent with the strangely silent and stoic boy, the more Veon-Zih realized that Shon wasn’t as closed off as Father Branston’s statement implied. Most people just didn’t know how to approach him or translate his silent cues.
In answer to Veon-Zih’s question, Shon looked up from his drawing, meeting the Monk’s eyes and nodding resolutely. Veon-Zih didn’t bother to hide his smile and returned the nod, watching as Shon returned to his drawing. He could appreciate the simplicity of the boy’s communication. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to talk at all, just that he didn’t see the point in answering verbally when it wasn’t necessary. All you had to do to get him to talk was ask a question that needed words to answer…
“Why Hengist?”
The light scratching of pencil on paper stopped, the chapel ringing with silence at its absence. “He protects.” Shon’s voice was a soft whisper in the stillness of the worship hall, “Everyone is worth protecting, and it’s the duty of those who can fight to protect those who can’t.” he looked up, focusing on the tapestry and the altar, “I…” he faltered, “I want to be like that, like him.”
“You don’t have to be a Paladin to do that,” Veon-Zih said. He hadn’t tried to convince Shon to abandon his goal and join him. Often, he wanted to, but whenever he thought to try, he would see that look in the boy’s ice-blue eyes. The intensity and… longing, and Veon-Zih’s voice would die in his throat.
Shon didn’t look away from the tapestry, “But…” the chapel doors opened, and Shon turned with Veon-Zih to watch another young boy, no older than Shon, enter with his parents. They were obviously well off, possibly even noble, their clothing the height of fashion and well-made of expensive fabric. The father passed the boy something, and he walked alone down the central aisle. He met Shon’s gaze, the two exchanging a nod as he continued towards the altar, where he made his offering and received a blessing before turning to leave again.
“A friend of yours?” Veon-Zih asked once the doors had closed behind the family.
Shon shook his head, going back to his drawing. Veon-Zih tapped him on the shoulder and arched a questioning eyebrow when Shon looked up. Shon shrugged, “He comes almost every time I’m here, makes a large offering, and leaves.” he sighed and looked toward the altar again, “He wants to be a Paladin, but you can’t buy your way into the order.”
“Hengist accepts all willing and able to serve,” Veon-Zih quoted. Though people often forgot that not just anyone was ‘able’ no matter how willing. “You were going to say something else,” the Monk prompted, “before your friend so rudely interrupted.”
Shon narrowed his eyes, moving his pencil away from the drawing and tapping it absently on the opposite page, “I don’t know.” he finally said, “I’ve tried to describe it, but I can’t find the words…” he starting drawing again but continuing to speak, “I feel like this is what I’m supposed to do. Like there's something inside me that reaches out for it. Whenever I try to imagine myself older, I’m always a Paladin, serving the people and fighting evil. I’ve drawn this picture of myself, and I can’t erase it. It just feels… right.”
He took a moment to finish his drawing, paying close attention to each detail, going back and adding shading and texture so the art seemed to come alive in a way even the statues couldn’t achieve with their added dimension. “Paladins…” Shon muttered, finally setting his pencil down, “They're never alone. Hengist is always with them, even in the darkest times and most dire situations. The gods love us, they made us, but only the Paladins and Clerics ever truly feel it.”
Veon-Zih felt guilty. He'd taken many missions from both the Temple and Church, so he spent as much time out of the city as in it. The boy never seemed to begrudge him, appearing to enjoy the stories and lessons Veon-Zih would bring back. Shon often spent time alone, but the Monk had thought it was of his own choosing, preferring to read or draw than play with the others of his age. Had he actually been lonely all this time?
“You would hardly be alone at the Monastery. It's fairly bursting with Monks who share your passions and interests in the art-” but Shon was shaking his head, slowly working the finished page out of his journal.
“It’s not the same. People… people are annoying. They always want to talk while you’re busy. They get upset when you don’t answer right away or with what they want to hear. Even some of the gods would want me to change, to better fit what they teach, just like people. But Hengist… I already believe what he teaches. It just fits.” Shon ran his fingers over the drawing and that small smile Veon-Zih loved so much colored his features, “Discipline, service, honor. He wouldn’t be uncomfortable. If I could reach out and touch him, he wouldn’t pull away…” his smile faded, and Shon shook his head as if to dismiss that particular thought.
“Hey,” Veon-Zih reached over, patting Shon’s hand. The boy’s skin was cold, not unusual considering the weather but made strange in the heated chapel. But he didn’t pull away, “Why don’t we learn something fun and impressive today?”
Shon looked up sharply, his eyes wide and eager, then, with some concentration, he arched a black eyebrow. The Monk had to stifle a chuckle, saying, “It’s rather inefficient to have to climb back to your feet if you fall down, and downright deadly in battle, but there's a nifty little technique you can use to jump from your back to your feet in an instant!” he stood as he spoke and Shon jumped up after him, still a child despite the earlier seriousness.
Exiting the pew, Veon-Zih bowed respectfully to the altar while Shon shuffled past, walking to the altar and laying down his drawing reverently as an offering. One might not be able to buy themselves into the order, but it didn't hurt to try.
***
“I think I hate the gods…” She sat on the floor with Her back against the locked door of Her room. A book rested on Her bent knees, and She stroked Her hair over Her shoulder. It was finally the length She liked, meaning they were probably going to cut it today…
“Careful saying such things Red,” Ran spoke from the other side of the door, “they might decide to smite you.”
She scoffed, tossing the hair back over Her shoulder and leaning forward as the lock clicked, “What are they going to do? Make this somehow even more boring?” She pushed against the door as Ran tried to open it, snickering as he struggled to push Her weight. “Inryuu won’t take me because I’m too good, and Yoryuu won’t have me because I’m too bad.”
“Red…” Ran said disapprovingly.
“I guess she doesn’t want to see the puppies after all…” Brom’s voice. She could practically feel his shrug, and She scrambled forward on Her hands and knees, letting the book, ‘Gods of Dragons and Men,’ tumble open to the floor.
She jumped to Her feet with an extra hop and spin toward the open door, causing Her dress to swirl around Her knees, “She had them? How many?” She bounced on the balls of Her feet, clutching Her curled fingers to Her lips in barely contained exuberance.
Ran chuckled, holding the door open while Brom made a sweeping gesture towards the hall, “After you, Firewyrm.” With that, She ran past them both and down the only hall. She managed to slow somewhat before passing the first open door, its tables filled with bottles of glowing liquid and colorful stones. The Archmage looked up from his massive tome to watch Her pass. She waved at him, giggling as Brom and Ran stuttered their apologies in a rush to keep up with Her.
The next few doors were closed, but from the last came the shuffling of many pawed feet and the quiet mews and yips of Her treasures. She smiled at each of them as she entered, but was pulled inevitably towards the only open cage and the other Archmage blocking Her view of it. She squeezed past Archmage Shaloon and gasped at the golden wolf with her five shimmering puppies, crowded around her belly, fighting each other for prime spots and suckling eagerly.
“Oh,” She cooed. Dropping to Her knees, She stroked the mother’s head, “You did such a good job. They're so cute.”
“Hmm,” Shaloon pursed her lips, muttering, “We will see.” then louder, “Where are Ran and Brom?”
“Here, Archmage…” Ran puffed as he rounded into the room.
“The Firewyrm is not to be left alone,” she snapped at them while the Firewyrm in question scratched the golden wolf’s chin.
“They were right behind me,” She said absently, sitting back on Her heels and cupping Her hands before Her. In Her palms, She summoned a little fire and spoke to the wolf, “I made something for you to chase when you feel better…” She focused on the fire, shaping its heart with Her will...
Archmage Shaloon took Her by the wrist, breaking Her focus as she pulled the girl to Her feet, “Not now, Firewyrm, we are short on samples. You two,” she let go of the girl's hot skin and turned back to Brom and Ran who stiffened, “Blood and saliva.”
“And hair?” Ran asked, taking the girl gingerly by the shoulders.
Shaloon waved a dismissive hand as he led the Firewyrm away from the wolf and her new puppies towards another door, “We have enough for now.”
The Firewyrm did a little happy dance. No hair and no scales! It was indeed a good day. Though even that good news couldn’t bring too much spring into Her step as Brom opened the door, and Ran ushered Her into the lab usually used for taking samples from Her treasures. It was even smaller than Her room, holding only a tall cabinet, a wooden stand with jars, tubes, and vials, and a steel table with heavy leather straps dangling from the sides.
Dutifully She moved to the table and clamored on. Laying down and staring at the stones of the ceiling, She tried not to listen too carefully to the clanking of glass and creaking of wood as Brom and Ran busied themselves getting ready. At least they weren’t going to cut Her hair.
They didn’t strap Her down. They hadn’t needed to for many years. Brom approached Her left side, lifting Her limp arm and examining the fold of Her elbow with a hum, “Still bruised, better use the right side this time Ran.”
She closed Her eyes, listening to the soft rustle of Ran’s robes as he rounded the table to lift Her right arm. The cold cleaning agent made Her twitch, and She focused on trying not to flinch as the long needle entered Her vein, trying to breathe through the discomfort as a pulling sensation accompanied the taking of Her blood sample.
“Open up, Goldy,” Brom stood at Her head, and She obeyed, taking a large swab in Her mouth and soaking it with spit before he pulled it out and replaced it with another. She didn’t bother to count them or try to keep track of the time. It always seemed to go so much slower whenever She did. Instead, She thought about Her newest treasures.
Ever since She'd first been allowed to help care for the other subjects of the tower, She'd claimed them as Her own. They were a strange and beautiful lot, predatory animals with metallic fur or gem-colored scales. This generation was still healthy, but She knew they would grow sickly the older they got, their bodies unable to handle their own power. She couldn’t do anything about it, so She focused on keeping them as healthy and happy as She could for the time She had them. Until the next generation was bred.
The newest puppies were a variety of red scales or gold fur, just like Her. Maybe they would survive longer. After all, She was perfectly healthy…
She grew drowsy, Her hand going numb as Ran continued to take his samples. Her mouth was dry enough to feel as though it were still stuffed with cotton even after Brom had stopped giving Her swabs to soak. “I want to play with them… before… I go back…” She gasped out, opening Her eyes to see Brom shake his head at Her.
“For a little while, maybe…” he answered. She smiled. It was the best She was going to get. They were always too busy to let Her out for long on sample days. Tomorrow, perhaps the day after, She would be given more time...
She jerked awake as Ran slid the needle from Her arm, “All done, Red. Don’t sit up too fast.” She didn’t sit up at all, rolling off of the table and climbing to Her feet, eager to get back to Her treasures before being forced to Her room. She felt a bit woozy and hadn’t intended to fall asleep but tried not to show it as Brom opened the door for Her to sprint out.
Archmage Morndancer had joined Archmage Shaloon. They stood together outside the wolf’s stall, “Useless…” Morndancer muttered, holding a puppy with glints of gold fur beneath each of its red scales.
“Perhaps it will better show the relationship between-” Shaloon started only to be interrupted by the puppy squealing and wiggling in Morndancer's suddenly tight fist.
“We’ve seen it a hundred times before,” he snapped at his colleague, “It will grow, but it can not breed. Can not evolve or further our efforts.” They hadn’t noticed the Firewyrm. She slowed, eyes fixed on the struggling captive pup. “Useless…” Morndancer said again, then threw the puppy at the far wall.
Its yip was silenced by a sickening crunch and wet plop as it bounced off the wall and landed unmoving on the floor.
The Firewyrm screamed.
She was still dizzy, but She lunged for Morndancer anyway. He disappeared beneath her clawing fingers, reappearing further away. Her neck itched, and Fire flickered at the hem of his robes, spreading to the pile of straw used to pad the cages.
“Red, don’t…” someone grabbed Her shoulders but let go immediately, cursing in pain at the heat causing Her hair to undulate in the shifting waves.
“Firewyrm, calm down,” Shaloon ordered, stepping between Her and Morndancer, who was trying to pat the spreading fire out of his robes. Her heart pounded in Her ears. crimson bleeding into Her vision, narrowing Her focus on the man who had so callously killed one of Her treasures. Her arm tingled and Her neck itched. Her vision wavered, She was too dizzy, too drained.
Fingers snapped, and She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at the tightening collar around Her neck, Her fires going out in a blink as She fought for air that wouldn’t come. The voices around Her seemed to come from far away, their words barely registering, “If she has enough energy for this, then obviously we have been skimping on samples.” She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even cry out as the collar continued to squeeze, “Take her back, we can never have enough blood. And cut that damn hair…”
***
Her head hurt. She squeezed Her eyes shut tighter, but that only made the pounding worse. Struggling to move Her fingers, She eventually managed to lift Her hand only to flinch as the move put pressure on Her sore elbow, Her left side. They had drained Her on both sides the second time then. She moved past the pain and brought Her hand up to pat Her head. Her hair was shorn short, right up against the scalp.
Letting slip a groan, She rolled over and flinched violently as the shift put pressure on Her left upper arm. They had taken a large patch of red scales as well, ripping them free by the root. She finally managed to squint Her eyes open to find She was back in Her room. The only light the shine of the moon reflecting off the snow through Her window. She looked at Her candles, but they wouldn’t light, and Her head pounded harder.
Curling into a tight ball, She tried to scan the rest of Her room, but it was empty. The books and comfortable chair, gone. Squeezing Her eyes shut again, She cried silently, the pitiful yip of Her lost treasure ringing in Her ears. “I hate the gods…”
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All comments and communication are welcome and wanted!

So when I first got covid I developed insane extreme panic attacks, they were relentless and honestly I have no idea how I survived that period. Think there is definitely some buried trauma, I came very close to suicide at my worst and torture does not come close to how I felt then. Fast forward to today, I haven't had any anxiety for more than 6 months, my brain has been calm and I'm not on meds, managing my symptoms reasonably well and getting through each day one at a time. Yesterday I started noticing that icy prickly feeling in my arms, today I have woken up with numb arms, ice feeling in my veins, elevated heart rate and boom the dreaded panic is here. I'm not coping at all, I keep telling my mind it's a minor set back, I'll get through it, I'll get back to the calm but here I am totally freaking out and terrified I'm relapsing. I honestly can not go back to that period of my life. Why now? This makes no sense? Any thoughts?