29 June 2013

Merlin 3:17 “Passive Aggression”

Merlin 3:17 “Passive Aggression”

Magicians who love to love, have virtue and compassion, but after the industrious era are feared and dreaded, for while some are good in those beliefs, there are others who have malice aforethought to that effect on humans by way of the witchkrieg. There are places where men worship the gods utmost, with spiritual defense they deem witchery forbidden, and in time and conflicts adjourn each evening hating magicians who believe themselves divine above those gods. Obeontok is one of those towns Ana enters with Braden and others, comparatively ten and two times larger than the mining camp afore.

Far from her, Merlin follows silently and secretly behind Nick on the road to that mining camp, in paranoia Nick turns and throws a dagger at him, with an emanation of calm blue light it enters his hand without passing thru, with his other hand he tosses it to Nick’s feet, it is lifted exhaustively emote.

Merlin: “Ana is the other way.”
Nick: “Wait, do you two bloody know them?”
Merlin: “We do – not the best of company.”
Nick: “We need steeds.”
Merlin: “We do, are you hungry?”
Nick: “I could eat.”

Merlin and Nick travel heretofore, whilst they do Sino sits staring into a book of ancient words forgotten by much of the worlds, fires light the walls as the sound of breathing faintly resonates from a darkened tunnel. Thinking he has heard a noise, he stares at the dark, soon realizing the sound of pebbles comes from yet a different tunnel. Into the darkness he enters and emerges to the foremost sanctum bathed in outer light thru an opening in the mountain, of this door vagabonds of mercenaries make entrance

Sino: “I am overjoyed to have you in my employ, ready is the way for dedicated men, drink, those kegs are too full. Gareth, where is the other man?”
Garth: “It is our best to do and have done what was bade, tho these are times of the witchkrieg, the old war anew, and we must band against demise, but the road is harrowed, witches against us, or for us in the worst of ways, thus we have shortly fallen a man. The folk, they hunt for sorcerers and spies the like, searching for silver and giving trials of drowning and immolation, even for those bested by innocence, it is times like these that we cannot make into such hazard, it is our resolve to increase our recompense, lest you can bid our safety.”

Garth pensively looks around himself, his compatriots have gone from surprise to awed fear, Sino takes one step and places hand on his shoulder, being grabbed he realizes he’s alone in the coup.

Sino: “The problem with contemplating your existence is that it is dangerously close to melancholy, too bad you will only have enough time for pain and fear.”

Sino reaches into Garth and rips-out his heart, tossing it to the floor, the body drops as he licks blood sloppily, his eyes clouding with contentment of feast, clearing in consciousness he speaks to the others.

Sino: “Put him on the table, I want to show you where different stabs kill different witches.”

They do so nonchalantly, some without resting their mugs, as he consumes more blood, and soon defiles.

In this moment, meanwhile and elsewhere another abode of stone, this one the vampire House of Scarlet, from the mountain face a castle, from its front a narrow road carved of the rock with steep sides and archway road so very far below, the smooth grey bridge leads to the barbican castle doors. In front of the door-hall, sit two statues staring at the movable pieces of a chess game, around them three other statues watching and all sheltered from rain with the mark of dust. Two riders on horseback, the vampire Matteus, whom having escaped Nick’s wrath and by call of rank attained another guard, approaches in a light rain and a dark sky that follows them with torment, lighting, and thunder.

Dismount do the night warriors, approaching and spectating the game, they do not blink nor breathe nor adeptly of heartbeat as one of the onlookers turns to Matteus.

Rullianus: “What say you, Matteus?”
Matteus: “Always take the pawns first.”

He removes himself as this spectation of the tactic is differenced from that which concomitates. Not moving, not living, covered in dust, laying on furniture and floors, laying on tables and leaning on doors, as if their blood has dried and will expired, walking thru the rooms the floors are somewhat clean and each footstep sounds thru hundreds of lost souls with lackluster impetus, including the royals.

Of the throne room, fires burning on oil-filled saucers on pedestals, guards in full body armor appear as empty suits with visors closed, heralds and jester strewn over chairs and couches poised of disdain, tables of food long decayed to bones and dust, and even the king with eyes open looks to have immense malaise and dour. Yet of these things, his goblet made of gold is full with fresh human blood, and with approaching Matteus his eyes turn unto attention, all with slowness do the courtiers and courtesans slowly wake from solacing motionlessness to focus upon his arrival. The scribes however open inkwells and prepare to record every action and word. The king swirls the blood in chalice and with second hand tips his palm and fingers upwardly to encourage servants to raise the fires, looking to Matteus with cynicism and folly, as he drinks Matteus kneels to one knee.

Lord Scarlet: “Spare pride, it is an unbecoming rule, enrich us with becoming truth.”
Matteus: “The human abstract, the undying, I have found one, near the old mines of Ventuslamia, my guard lost his head to him …and I could not find our Lord Roan.”
Lord Scarlet: “What was he doing there?”
Matteus: “Unknown, but it has been a place of silver conflicts in the newest witchkrieg, my lord.”

The monarch contemplates with no timidity of fangs and complexion far less pale than those in the play of stillness do. From the standstill, a woman separates from the others, marked by the simple crown on her head.

Lady Scarlet: “Roan is not within the ether and the mages could not find him with the blood magic, we fear he is lost in mortality.”

She approaches the monarch and sits beside him, resting both of her hands on his arm then pulling his wrist toward her mouth, he hands her the goblet instead and stands.

Lord Scarlet: “Dark horses and hearses you will have, servant, take Matteus to the quartermaster and the stable magister, he is to leave in haste with armored caravan – Matteus, you have found a requiem for the falling night of the wind, but if you fail me, you will find reckless abandon.”
Matteus: “Yes lord, the shadow will be ours.”

The monarch lifts his hand from Matteus’ back and pushes him forward, the patrons in the adjacent room seem not to move yet posing as if had been listening.

In Obeontok, counted animals and travelers and else that resides, there are more than one thousand hearts in a small city with no walls, surrounded by farm and pasture, interred with public houses and patrons. Merlin rides in blue night light seeking the dawn, listening to the stars, he sees Nickolas asleep in the saddle adeptly, and he knows the night and then the day and then the shade are the cost of time until he and Nick find Ana and the others.

24 June 2013

Night Terrors: 17C “Moonlight Sonata”

Night Terrors: 17C “Moonlight Sonata”
by mjbanks

Act 3/3  |Moonlight Sonata|

The heavy metal band plays a muzak version of a heavy metal song from a millennium ago as they enter the gala. Ivalien walks determinately straight across the gala, a headache persistently toying with his focus, while trying to seem inconspicuous by walking slower and spending his conscious effort to watch for danger and keep a pollyannaish smile on his face. His state-issued acrylic windbreaker jacket closed and collar upward covers scars except the one peaking by an inch above his collar. Lara walk with more haste than he and gets to tell a friend of his that he’s sick from a food allergy, after his friend mentions that the infirmary is behind them, and her minimalizing reply. A fight breaks out near one of the bars, nothing more than a drunken scuffle over athletic fandom, but it is enough to get them across the dance floor unobstructed.

It is too perfect for escape and dutifully he spots guards ahead of him and not long thereafter, Cmdr. Ryu himself, following them. The bacchanalia, like all other beer brawls patrons allow to continue, for it is down to only two men trading blows that soon to end in one victim and one victory stopped by Ryu. In disgust, the Commander punches the prevailing fighter with a single blow that sets him unconscious, the prey of the pugilism on bended knee with bloody face takes a kick from the commander to lie broken but awake and breathing on the floor. The bandleader and secondary proctor of the event sees the dispute end as it has and jumps to the center stage and initiates his earpiece communicator that transmits to the audio entertainment broadcast system, urging the band to stop during the guitar stretching strings, and leading the entire event in a round of applause. As the people begin to clap their hands, Ivalien tries to hide among his peers, watching Ryu take the stage after the speaker lauds then announces him, his wounds show and drying blood slowly runs like primordial secretion and his face sullied black from the ash of charred molecules in the air during his hunt.

Ryu: “A prisoner has escaped. There is a traitor on this rock, who is one of us. He is wounded and in this hall.”

Ivalien coughs slightly, trying not to look around himself at the many people and soldiers, his lungs and innards scarred from the symbiote causes him to cough again, this time the patrons begin to distance themselves from him.

Ryu: “There, seize him!”

Before the Ivalien can reach for a pistol Lara’s allies open fire from the edge of the ceremony, the exit that he and she had hoped to use it taken by her friends with bloodshed and decisive action. Soon the lasers fly across the room as shooters with heat vision visors fire onto any being with a symbiote in their bodies, Lara already practically dragging Ivalien to the guarded line. Most patrons of the event are not carrying weapons, but the law allows all persons to carry pistols and all officers on duty it is a requirement, so the shooting continues even more intense. With the majority of weapons fire directed at the insurgents there are patrons firing at each other and others to the symbiotes who are unabashed in killing everything in their path regardless of station, people hiding and people fighting it is not a firefight for long.

An explosion at the main exit disrupts the gunplay shortly, allowing them to escape, those of their allies trapped within the barrier fight with the armed attendees in unison firing on the bloodthirsty symbiotes. The lesser paths and terminals around the blockage, clogged by fleeing patrons some merely visiting the planet, become new course to chase after Ivalien, from instance of shootout to now that the blast has blocked the vehicle hallway.

Ryu is furious and he hunts with the type of trepidation exuded from pure hatred, his eyes are bleeding black tears that in his rage he notices not, his lips dark his skin white. With the rifle butt to his shoulder, he grasps at the handle and barrel with his hands, so tightly that they could be bleeding if not the sweat and the debris. Departure clearance is technically revoked, security records he can erase, if Ivalien escapes his agenda is imperiled, and despite this circumstance, he still kills every person in sight, as if by vengeance desiring to destroy all humans.

His steps track through chaos and blood, his pace quickens until his is nearly running and firing, few bystanders, catching sight of Ivalien he shoots Lara in her shin, as they leave a door to the outside world a fervor spills into green self-regulating grassland meadow, short blades that come to point. Lara’s comrades usher them into a vehicle, dragging her into the car as her friends fire on Ryu, two uniformed guards on alert from nearby collect into this firefight against those Ivalien has left behind their escape, Cmdr. Ryu kills everyone not in a vehicle and takes the security bike into hungered pursuit. Three cars in Ivalien’s caravan and Ryu, leaning starkly forward on the motorbike, his aptitude much greater than that of the host human body, the rifle over the steering bar he follows in a speed dangerous to any human. He reaches the velocity in which the acceleration rate lessens, but it continues to gain as he takes aim while closing the distance, forced to weave thru traffic of suburbia during regulation sleep hours in the first straight chase he gets chance, he takes a shot and kills the driver of the third car and it crashes into a house. In the first car Ivalien and Lara’s driver calls for help.

Driver: “Serious bug problem, major fucking mayday, can’t go home, need some help.”
Radio Voice: “This is swatter base, we’re going to cast a net, but you’ll have to stay on the road you’re using.”
Shotgun: “Can we do that?”
Radio Voice: “Already in place, just like we rehearsed.”

Shouting thru the telecom for support from further allies, one of them takes a can of medical foam spray and fills the wound in her calf, it quickly it quickly begins to heal soon to be natural flesh again.

Ivalien: “Give me that shit.”

Ivalien sprays some into his hand and spreads it on the gash on his neck across his collarbone, sighing about the medication relief. Ryu still follows, after each shot his rifle powers-up for larger longer distance shots, in the second vehicle one-passenger hit then a rear tire. As the second vehicle spins Ryu shoots the car at its side, killing the driver and flipping the vehicle, as it tumbles it jumps and he drives his motorcycle under the wreck and smoke, confident and malign. When his rifle recharges for firing he shoots their trunk, the car fishtails then regains course, closer still he shoots for Ivalien blowing a hole in the roof like a knife tear in fabric, yet even closer still thru the rear window and shooting the front seat passenger who fired at Ryu in a fit of glory. Blood everywhere Ivalien takes the dead man’s rifle and fires at Ryu, hitting him in the back the bike slows because his body has received the laser blast impact, but the acceleration continues, again he shoots at Ryu and misses, black blood leaks and sprays from his back wound. Ryu takes another shot and blasts an even larger opening in the car roof, burning the driver bad in the arm that in fear puts the accelerator pedal on the floor.

Radio Voice: “Okay, you’re almost there.”

The driver begins to scream pure adrenaline, Ryu behind them sees to mechanical units on each side of the road, he aims for one of the units and places his sight to assure the sight, but the rifle insufficiently charged enough to re-fire, and short wave laser blast would not make the shot in distance or accuracy. Ryu hopes the rifles charges and accelerates as fast as he can possibly hope to make his bike travel. The mechanical units begin to show signs of glowing and initiation, faster still to travel, harder yet to aim, periled ever farther, in glory of battle too little too late. Just as the car passes the line the laser grid initiates across a subtle road outside suburbia, Ryu is at the speed to collide with their car just ahead of the laser barrier. Just before impact, he tries to push himself from the cycle and crosses his arms before his face and body, the damage and fire pours slightly onto their car as they escape.  The laser defense is disengaged and its operators quickly abandon them after placing detonation charges to ruin the evidence.

The upper half of Ryu lives, halved by the laser lines, he laughs with black bile in his lungs and throat, he attempts crawling with ravaged with broken and burned hands. Two soldiers of the rebellion approach him and his humor in reluctance, he turns onto his back with his entrails trailing from his midsection, and he presses a button on a device wrapped around his wrist and rests while dying.

Ryu: “Father they escape, I have not.”

In a room elsewhere on a throne of melted sheet metal a creature from within a human abstract speaks, the symbiosis has been for long, enough that its joints protrude and skin with calcified growth as mutated armor. The knuckles and shoulders stretched with raised points, a face with fangs and dead eyes rotten and gone still gifted with sight it answers.

Chouko: “We see, we are prepared, die with dignity.”

The soldiers standing aside Ryu watch him reach for a pistol and shoot rapid fire until he is no more than offal and carrion. Ivalien looks back at what has happened, but it is too far to see clearly, the shots fired shine flashes of light with some certainty, ahead of the vehicle a medium shuttle flies to ground level and their battered car enters its cargo bay and the door closes.

Ivalien: “Why did you help me?”
Lara: “You are the chosen one.”

Chouko watches a live-feed video of the shuttle rescue, the trajectory of it from the surface is only by 1°, but the straight line it takes elevating into the atmosphere will soon depart the planet, the bony malformed creature moves to a computer screen and touches holographic controls to mark the shuttle as a target. The computer display shows vessels moving toward it and weaponry targeting it for destruction, John enters the creature’s room wearing the uniform of a soldier that is converted and insomuch loyal to the alien conquest, and scars around his collarbones that had hidden beneath the collar of his flak jacket, revealing that he is one of them, in rebellion.

Chou’ko: “We have survived detection, we have won.”
John: “We have.”

John slides the weapon strap and holds his laser rifle to his side, other guards enter the poorly lit room, in the hall, dead soldiers lay on the floor and more bodies are falling to stealth and revenged murder.

Chou’ko: “[What is happening here?]”
John: “[This is a raid.]”

John and his so-called men kill Chou’ko, when he seems to be without breath he moves to the computer and cancels the kill order, when ships call to confirm he reaffirms the order, and sets new target for the military ships in flight and the artillery stations at their current location.

John: “This is Captain Chou’ko, there is a Code 5 outbreak from a failed experiment in Research Facility 11, doors are sealed and most are evacuated, level that structure now! [Everybody out, right fucking now! Let’s go, let’s go!]”

John and his allies run to the hall and down its length to an emergency exit where one of them has already bypassed the lock, they escape on state-issued motorcycles straight over the cement and thru the grass, watching the munitions fly toward Area 11, Chou’ko sees artillery coming at him while his life enters eternal darkness.

| Moonlight Sonata | 3/3
17A “Integument"  
17B “Subcutaneous”
17C “Extraction”  

Night Terrors: 17B “Moonlight Sonata”

Night Terrors: 17B “Moonlight Sonata”
by mjbanks

Act 2/3  | Subcutaneous | 

Ivalien awakens in a room while strapped thoroughly into an examination chair, his ally bound the same across the room, a doctor prepped from surgery notices him wake and walks to a table in the room with a giant scarab. The sight of the massive insect fills all forms of his ethic with an utmost fear of the unknown, the surgeon takes his middle finger and strokes the center of the bug’s back shell, a trickling squeal voices from the insect and fear becomes the element.

Ivalien: “Ah, fuck me running, why couldn’t it be an undisclosed location?”

He writhes and violently jostles while strapped to the device, unsuccessfully escaping and retracing his journey in his mind when he takes a breath and pauses, exhaling and gyrating furiously to no luck. Another surgeon awaits orders next to the other captive.

Malek: “Calm down. Would you like to be unconscious for this?”
Ivalien: “Is it going to hurt?”
Malek: “Oh yes, you might not even survive.”

The words drive them to attempt shaking from their bonds.

Ivalien: “What the hell are you doing?”
Malek: “Well, my name is Malek, and I am your harvester of sorrow.”
Mark: “Like hell you are, get us the fuck out of here!”
Malek: “I’m going cut you open, and put the head of that live creature into your chest so it can eat your heart and take over your body.”
Ivalien: “Wait, what, no, I’m on your side, let me help you.”
Mark: “Yeah, fuck yeah, we’re the good guys!”
Malek: “You wouldn’t be helping me, I am one of them.”

Malek points to the insect with one hand and pulls down his collar with the other to reveal his scar. Ivalien hears only adrenaline and sees the silence of his futility.

Malek: “Your friend you know as Timothy, is one of our highest leaders, he suggested your death, for your successful advances in improving infantry biology. These facilities have been using our biology to enhance and repair injuries, that technology that helps ‘people’ who have lost limbs, via their nerve endings communicate much better with far more advance, because you have helped us bring your demise.”
Ivalien: “You’re going to feed me to that thing?”
Malek: “I am, so say goodbye to your soul.”

Malek places his hand on Ivalien’s shoulder and begins to make an incision in his chest, the other surgeon the same with his friend. They begin to scream in agony, still writhing in pain it walks from him to the scarab and with some effort rips the head from the insect, entrails and poisonous veins hang from cephalic carnage, the victims scream again as the mandibles gnaw into casualties, as Malek injects him with an antibiotic. In moments, they faint from terror and trauma, the doctors walk to the dead carapaces and flip them on their backs to cut them open and casually cut then eat small pieces of entrails and smile in merriment.

In minutes, they attach devices to monitor host health, in an hour Ivalien’s friend rejects symbiosis then dies, killing the parasite with him. Ivalien has dreams of falling through a volcano of blood, imagining what the creature must think as he passes from prevalence, assimilating a language both similar and different.

Syngenta: “His conditions are stabilizing, he will be strong enough.”
Malek: “Yes, I cannot hear his thoughts, give him another sedative, we won’t know certainly until he wakes.”

More dreams of illusion and thoughts of reality another hour passes unto Ivalien wakes to silence the echoes of his thoughts. Malek feeds alone with Ivalien on pieces of his dead ally’s body.

Ivalien: “Where am I?”
Malek: “You are in your nest, new born, in new light.”
Ivalien: “I cannot move, release me.”
Malek: “[Please, speak to me with your thoughts.]”
Ivalien: “I can barely speak at all. I could use a whiskey. [I will now escape.]”
Malek: “[Wait, stop untying him! Poison him! Do it now!]”

Syngenta has already untied one arm and several straps that crossed his body, but too late for restraint, Ivalien breaks free stronger than he has ever been, he reaches for Syngenta’s throat and tears it open, while grabbing Malek by the arm and holding him against the wall by his throat.

Ivalien: “Why can I hear your thoughts and you mine?”
Malek: “Why are you still alive?”
Ivalien: “Minds, why!”
Malek: “We are the hive; the modifications of man gave us this mind… [Guards come in here.].”

Ivalien snaps Malek’s neck whose head falls lifelessly, as he throws the surgeon’s body to the floor the limbs crawl with head hanging, the body still with life although pitiful and acephalous, he checks his clothes for blood before closing his shirt, grabbing his jacket, and leaving the room. In the hallway, two guards confront him.

Migo: “[Here comes a breather, say something.]”
Ghroth: “Stop, show us your hands, how did you get down here?”
Migo: “What is your name?”
Ivalien: “Ivalien, I am going to the surface. Is there a problem?”
Ghroth: “[What kind of stupid name is that?]”
Migo: “You don’t have clearance, stand still.”
Ivalien: “Look at my scar, I have arrived.”
Ghroth: “[O, relax Migo, more we are hive.]”
Migo: “[Welcome newborn, but you mustn’t speak, thinking is safer. Where is your surgeon?]”

Ivalien strikes one guard in the face and twists the rifle from the other. He kicks a knee to lower the second and tries to break the neck of the first. When this does not work he struggles to obtain the other’s rifle, he wraps the strap of it around the first’s neck and strangles him over his shoulder while firing the rifle at the second, burning him with from head to toe. Ivalien turns with choking cord ahold and fires into the first, burning across the spine to the base of the skull. It is not an end for the surgeon Malek whose broken neck is healing by cellular regeneration.

Ivalien runs swift thru the white hallway by spirited step, the electric rifle in his hands readily, to the foyer where he had arrived, wares and fares of special treatment for the clandestine elite now conquering his all but conquered humanity. His thoughts quick of consciousness, agility and empathic ability empowered to his advantage, he aims and thinks of distraction, the closest drones to him sense him close and hear him as he comes round the corner with only an open hall for defilade. This thought of peril makes his own ears hear a slightly high-pitched note, as many look to the wrong direction imparted by his falsely messaged telepathic integration. He begins to fire on them all, the closest guards open laser fire on him but die by his siege, which the beam burns across one face of two, surging deep into crowding others maiming few, and powerfully burning with a surge of shortened beam length into the other.

Ivalien disregards the perils of firing the weapon at full power risking overload, for he slides feet first as the rifle continues blasting and nearing failure or reset, to catch a rifle of the falling dead opponents, lifting himself upward with reflexive shin and firing again, steady to hide behind a counter normally used for mingling dilettantes. Unable to stay behind the small wall soon razed by several concentrated fire, he lasers the bar and sets a fire while running to a vehicle, his head turns and runs blindly while shooting at his pursuers whom include Cmdr. Ryu with an angry face and a hole burnt thru his arm. He fires over his shoulder as the ATV speeds from conflagration, careful to watch the sensor on his weapon in the corner of his eye so that it does not explode aside his head, speeding into the long tunnel that leads toward the surface of the night jungle. He shifts his fire from them in pursuit to the fuel cells of the sidelined vehicles he passes, causing explosions to slow or halt his chasers, midst a blast of fire and smoke he locks his rifle in ignition aimed behind him and backflips from the shuttle into the catwalks overhead, escaping into the maintenance ductwork.

Back at the commons of echelon ranks Malek has looked over his digital terminal and watched chaos, frustrated he punches the view screen of his Air Deck terminal and rejoins Cmdr. Ryu. The bodies not burned thru their cortex are slowly crawling to consciousness like the unholy undead, the commander surveys the fire and destruction upon it climbs and lifts his hand to view chaos thru the hole in it.

Malek: “How bad is it?”
Ryu: “If you don’t find him, you will soon know!”
Guard: “His tracker isn’t showing in the system.”
Malek: “We took out his tracker!”

Malek rips the guard’s throat open and throws him to the floor.

Ryu: “Clean this mess and dismember this fool before he heals! [Malek, what did you say that upset the newborn into heterodoxy?]”
Malek: “[Commander he is not one of us, he is immune.]”
Ryu: “…he is an anomaly?”
Malek: “[He is, sir.]”
Ryu: “To my quarters, generals, we’re going hunting!”

Ryu walks with determination and the posture of a young gladiator, his minions slowly allow him to lead trace and follow, Malek strong and stoic to his shadow trying to see how badly is the wound. It indeed has a scorched hole, but the commander flexes his arm, opening and closing his hand, the burnt flesh recoils.

They enter into an elevator, large for cargo it almost silently flies to the top of the building and opens to a room with a fireplace, and mounted picture of card-playing felines. The cold inactive fire faces a wall of glass windows that overlook paradise, in the room’s center rests a shiny black desk three cubic length. He plummets into his chair, with his wounded arm bent at the elbow holding his burnt hand to his chest. He slaps his other hand to the security scanner built within it. Pressing a digital button on the computer desk and a drawer opens with a thick red alcoholic blood. He ignores the glasses in the opened drawer, drinks from the bottle, and even slushes some on his wound, a cleansing painful rinse. With the bottle in his hand, he ushers Malek to take a glass from the drawer then drinks pours for him and drinks again.

Ivalien runs thru a service tunnel, an occasional worker sees him but goes generally unalarmed, he changes his clothes and looks to his phone for the girl secretary’s information, committing the useful information to memory he drops his comlink into a fuel processing vacuum chute to destroy it. He takes a pen, writes down what he needs, and moves again, this time at any of the numbering security stations. His troop gathers weapons and tactical armor as it awaits orders from the commander, he watches his desk computer as a medic applies drops of a liquid to his wound. The attendant wraps a sleeve around the wound as Ryu notices an indicator in the factory 12 zone indicating where Ivalien had opened the furnace chute, he slams his good arm on the table jostling his bandaging.

Ryu: “There – he is on level 3 of factory 12, first to capture him gets their own island, let’s move!”
Malek: “Huzzah, let’s do this!”
Ryu: “[Not you Malek, you stay here, make sure nothing leaves atmo, keep me informed.]”
Malek: “[Yes, lord.]”

Malek bows closing his eyes, opening them to rise and sit at Ryu’s desk.

Ivalien approaches the nearest security station, listening with his mind for evidence that they are the insects or if they have any thought, when he cannot discern of such things he calls into their office door as if menially routine, as they acknowledge he turns into their room, grabbing the first rifle he can he aims at them. They halt movement with hands in air, Ivalien orders out their comlinks and destroys the devices, takes weapons and grenades, then welds the door shut sealing within the sounds of lasers He slips into the obscurity provided by the maze of underground energy facilities manufacturing, passing rooms with engineers making lead into gold for further purposes.

Small shuttle pods carry the commander through tunnels, slowing unto slowly for the turns in the corridors, looking for any signs of irregularity, the transporter screen displaying what is behind him, the mapping program showing where they are and plan to go, and thru Ryu’s eyes forms of vision ungifted to nascent humanity.

Ivalien carries his bag of bombs and a rifle soon partially hidden beneath a taken lab coat, thru the factory to the shopping mall, thru there to the commons, thru there to the tunnel avenues with old restaurants beneath the young park, thru there to the dormitories for facilities 1100-1150. Calm he is trying to be with mental trauma and an affliction of fear that causes him to clench the collar of his stolen construction lab coat to hide the scars on his heart. The color of the halls in theme scrawled with a symbol thruout the building for residents to avoid disorientation between buildings by keeping mental note of it, a wave-like logo periodically on the black wall line that all dorms have. He inconspicuously slips into the stairwell and descends as Ryu attends the alarm triggered by the sabotaged door of the sublevel security office, unpleased he kills both officers and raids the last of their weapons then continues his hunt for Ivalien.

The refugee descends to the level he desires and enters the general social area filled with children and matrons, movies and card games by off duty scientists.

He approaches a domicile as intended, wary and weary of any surveillance, he knocks on the smoked glass door of the apartment. The secretary Lara he had met earlier answers the glass by pressing her finger to it, so that only a narrow portion of it becomes clear. Inside her quarters, she is readying for shower and puts on a robe before saying hello.

Lara: “Hey stranger, welcome, I have to get ready, but you can wait in here if you want? [Finally, some company.]”
Ivalien: “Yeah, that’d be good idea, great even.”

The sound of his voice is clear when the glass is, it muffles again as the glass digital door becomes smoky once more, yet it slides open silently allowing him to enter as she goes to her shower room.

Ivalien: “Nice digs.”
Lara: “I try. [I hope he is not too eager about the dance, what is in the bag.]
Ivalien: “[No…]…I’m really eager to see the band at the gala.”

An awkward deafening silence the sort of performance and slumber when dreams become reality, had he heard her thoughts, had she heard his, had she become one of him, thoughts of haste indistinguishable to dangerous context.

Lara: “[Did he just…nah….] hey, have a beer, drop the bag, I’ll be a few minutes.”

Peeking her head around the water closet door and smiling she ducks back and begins beautifully bathing, a scar on her chest. The stasis-fridge doors slide open to a contents of a meticulous supply for a vegetarian, taking the brown beer bottle he notices the common network interface in her lounge room.

Ivalien: “Hey, can I use your program terminal?”
Lara: “As sure is certain.”
Ivalien: “How do you say your last name?”
Lara: “Like reddish!”
Ivalien: “You’re kidding …a red head named radish.”
Lara: “It’s reddish.”

He snaps his fingers once in surprise of the name he had forgotten until now, his sentence mumbles closed as he uses her terminal to look for her car in the parking compound, the map opens to its location then swallows the radiant blinking beacon of it to show the pathway to it. He examines the route carefully looking for what dangers await between it and him. He begins to sense that she is trying to screen his thoughts now filled with worry of capture, he goes to the shower room where the water still runs and steam still fills, she awaits him with a charger pistol pointed at his head.

Ivalien: “Show me your chest.”
Lara: “That’s no way to start a date.”
Ivalien: “Are you one of them?”
Lara: “Did you say, one of them…?”

His thoughts become invaded and divided, his vision becomes split like two mirrors back to back between his eyesight shifting and slicing the world, her robe falls, and she puts down the pistol to begin seducing him.

Ivalien: “This is great, but I need your help.”
Lara: “With anything you need.”
Ivalien: “I need to use your car.”

With her hand in his, they walk thru the dormitory, his fear an ocean of thought that floats a vessel of escape motive.

Ivalien: “[Are you in control of your actions?]”
Lara: “You mustn’t think, speak to me with your voice.”
Ivalien: “Why are you helping me?”
Lara: “The, thing, in you is angry, that will help you hide among us, but not until you can control your thoughts better.”

She pulls her comlink from her pocket, it causes him some worry, her first emotive is to give him solace.

Lara: “[You must trust me, you are salvation.] – John, the liberty bells rings, it’s time for the turnaround, I have the one we’ve been awaiting.”
John: “What, how, where are you, what do I do?”
Lara: “We’re heading to the Section V Gala now; we need to get thru atmo.”
John: “Get into the gala, we’ll get you out.”

Ivalien: “Who was that?”
Lara: “Let’s try to meet him safely first.”

| Moonlight Sonata | 3/3
17A “Integument"  
17B “Subcutaneous”
17C “Extraction”  

Night Terrors: 17A “Moonlight Sonata”

Night Terrors: 17A “Moonlight Sonata”
by mjbanks

Act 1/3 | Integument |

A shuttle lifts from the ground and hovers shortly before aligning over the concrete departure area, it slowly lifts with effortless ease and begins ascent, leaving the Nevadan desert in the summer months en route to the moon, and in twenty minutes, it reaches a new orbit with a wide view of the pristine lunar atmosphere. In moments of nearing the endless green pastures and faint blue sky, security forces attend to verify the shuttle for security. A check of schedule, a check of shuttle, a check of cargo radio tags, and a visual comlink checking of the supplies transport pilot who has to remove his head-covering helmet to say hello.

On the surface without mountains, an endless nature preserve with scattered installation bases of operation where only the most esteemed of the scientific community can research. Each country after the wars decided that their meritless endeavors must subside to a more purposeful endeavor, this gave way to a new world order extraterrestrial, the allowance of capitalist technique isolated from political sanctions became a salvation for the humanity of Earth, giving rise to solutions without sanctimonious debate. As the prosperity became common influx to society, the moon’s military charter continues extrinsically intact and reciprocal to operations. Prior to terraforming and inhabitancy, the moon’s gravity was one-sixth to that of Earth’s, after an atmosphere was formed that was closer to one-fifth, and for a time combat operations had fun and games using ATV’s with roll cages and bouncy tires. Less than a decade later, in the middle of the dark side a particle accelerator built increased the overall gravity, and soon afterward three more accelerators beneath the surface that stretch around the entire surface, this brought the gravity up to two-thirds that of earth.

In one moon, a scientist can research in any of the many climates the earth has, but with more consistency. The jungles near the shadow horizon, the temperate zones where the dorms are, the savannah, and the desert commonly called the sun circle. The dark side has more restricted operations and belongs mostly to tactical researchers studying migration patterns of deadly nighttime predators, mostly how to war with the frightful creatures of the night. With the vegetation that grows in near darkness under close examination it looks most like another world, the camouflaged elevators rise to the dark side surface for the tanks and the hunters of hunters.

In the light, white complexes dot the landscape, each with different projects under research, in center 1138 a strapping young man named Ivalien Idonea sits, among the white walls, floor, and furniture, drinking a chocolate coffee and eating a simple sandwich. He watches the shuttle land through the slanted window wall that graces the entire north side of the building segment where he sits, the second and third floors have a runway that adjoins the glass panes and open around the cafeteria. As the shuttle lands on a parking lot just outside he stands and carries his cup and sandwich, and walks to the recycle unit. A section of the wall recedes where a conveyor belt waits, he drinks the last drop and puts the polystyrene cup on the counter, a red light glows and the cup compresses rushed to the recycling facilities.

He looks to his short sleeve at his last name, rank, and a third line with his research team and his current dorm location, for easy fraternization among the genders. He is new and in awe of acceptance to the lunar academy, he pulls his sleeve to admire and scratch the newish tattoo identical to the insignia on his shirtsleeve. Ivalien sees a friend of his and runs to meet him.

His feet stretch far in hurry and patters as he begins to stop still adjusting to the gravity.

Ivalien: “Hey Mark, I’m still getting used to the grav.”
Mark: “It’s like a dream about playing hockey while wearing your shoes on the ice, if they introduced bungee cords and piñatas, but it’ll be so worth it this weekend, look at this.”

He and Mark continue walking as Mark hands him a phone, with the press of a button Ivalien initiates a small three-dimensional projection of his private quarters, including a four-post bed with draping fabrics and a trapeze.

Mark: “I even have plastic cuffs so I can tell the lucky lady I’m the fuck police.”
Ivalien: “You’re one classy asshole, anybody ever tell you that?”
Mark: “What’s new with your application for Mars?”
Ivalien: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

They continue along the walkway against the glass, giving them a view of the serene pastures of the moon, the sun forever off-center the zenith, endless afternoon and immortal spring, the birds and the rivers and the childish forest of a young satellite planet. They arrive at a downward ramp, walking to a lower level a nearby escalator, over the railing near them and all elsewhere several beds levitating, the occupants in recovery from illnesses once considered terminal, but mostly soldiers and aristocrats, each wearing silver visors with neurological reprogramming disguised beneath major network television. Near the end of the ramp Mark and Ivalien, jump the banister where there is not a patient bed, an exploit in adventure and diminished gravity.

Mark: “Look, Ivalien, it’s a long list, and she’s smarter than you, when terraforming completes, you’ll have your chance.”

He laughs at Ivalien and waits emotionally reposed.

Ivalien: “By then anyone here will look like second class rejects.”
Mark: “Allow me to take umbrage, dude, look man, fish, and sea, be captain hook, and get over it.”

Mark spoke with his hands weighing his presented options and curving his finger then bending it precociously. They approach an elevator and stop for computer commands.

Mark: “Open elevator.”

The doors open for them and they peacefully enter. Each wall of the elevator has two doors.

Ivalien: “This place, is, effin awesome.”
Mark: “That’s the spirit, look out there; did you have that view at home? Sublevel 76 A.”

Mark puts his hand to the palm-reader-verification-panel (PRVP) to the right of the doors. Ivalien is lost in a thought about his past while the golden light over green glades shines through the window wall. He has forgotten to put his hand as well on the palm reader to the left conditional regarding security for all personnel use. He escapes his memory and places his hand for the quick scan and the doors close, the white elevator doors glow with the words ‘Hold the Bar’ as they do awhile the elevator descends into the depths of the planet.

Ivalien: “Sublevel 62 C.”
Mark: “What are you doing?”
Ivalien: “I nearly forgot – you know Tim in Artificial Cartilage?”
Mark: “Wears the glasses.”
Ivalien: “He messaged me this morning about a breakthrough that might help us on hand shielding.”
Mark: “First news is good news, is even more good news!”
Ivalien: “Isn’t it?”

The elevator stops and the doors behind them open with a wisp, having missed predicting the doors to open they adjust and exit. A healthy young female receptionist with red hair welcomes them, her gun clear to her side, another beneath her chair, and another beneath the large desk, and the alarm at the ready. Surrounded by laboratories with windows electronically silvered to hide the contents, the two men sign a digital screen as a red laser scans and maps their entire face, particularly their eyes with second green laser. As both pass security clearance, the windows of each laboratory room turn clear as the occupants are mostly unawares, the blocking complete transitionally to only the outer side of the glass.

Mark makes an added effort to show his bicep as he waits for Ivalien to lead the search.

Ivalien: “What lab is agent McLaren using?”
Lara: “23, behind me left, right, left.”
Ivalien: “Thank you.”
Lara (Redosc): “Are you going to the gala?”
Mark: “Only if you are.”
Lara: “I’ll see you there.”
Ivalien: “I won’t credit you in my research.”
Mark: “Gotta go.”

Mark winks at her and runs to Ivalien, she bites her stylus as he leaves. He runs passed several labs, mostly biological prosthetic engineering.

Their faces turn into the first hallway.

Mark: “You’re messing with my magical charisma.”
Ivalien: “She was way more into me.”

Their faces turn into the second hallway.

Ivalien: “I bet you 20 credits she gives me her com address when we leave.”
Mark: “Ye have little faith, why not make it 200?”
Ivalien: “Sounds like you’ll lose.”

Their faces turn into the third hallway.

Mark: “So what’s the breakthrough, and why share it with you if you’ll lose the bet?”
Ivalien: “Let’s ask him.”

Timothy McLaren, second lead of molecular regenerative research, Artificial Cartilage division, waves to them thru a window, a smoky glass door open slides.

Tim: “Hello friend, welcome to my own private madness. What I have for you is a new particle solution set for regenerative growth that offers complete displacement of flawed substrate.”

On the table resides a slimy chemical bath where a steel bone clasped rests submerged and clamped, pressing a button on the table, a porous femur bone made of metal rises from the substance. One ends of the bone severed and tubes joining a soft core.

Ivalien: “So where’s the sample?”
Tim: “This is the sample, regenerative metallic substrate, complete with reproductive humanoid marrow.”
Mark: “My god in heaven, you’ve found the terminator god.”
Tim: “I’ll accept minor deity.”
Ivalien: “A wizard among men, but won’t the marrow die with atmosphere exposure.”
Tim: “In extended time, but I’ve got plenty more, this is merely the showroom toy.”

Tim pushes the button again, submerging the bone into the fluid.

Tim: “If you’re wondering why share, it’s because we’ll be working together after the gala, with, a rise in clearance and pay, I thought I just be the one to tell you first.”
Mark: “Is that everyone from biomechanics?”
Tim: “Put your hand on that screen, Mark.”

Mark puts his palm to the screen; Tim’s monitor turns green to signal clearance, Marks face shows excitement. A short tone sounds in the room, the nearest communication panel turns red and Ivalien’s full name and credentials show on the screen.

Tim: “It’s for you.”

Tim turns on his heel and begins to show Mark some of the specification to the equipment used. Ivalien moves to the panel, entering his passcode a middle-aged man of around 90-years-old appears on the screen, black hair and a grey eye aside one brown.

Ivalien: “Hello, can I help you?”
Cdr. Ryu: “So you are Ivalien Idonea. Your accommodation is in high regard by Timothy, has he told you about the project?”
Ivalien: “He has commander and I am very glad to be considered an asset in your project.”
Ryu: “That is most excellent, glad to hear you in good spirit on the matter. Let Tim relay anything he has not and later I will meet you in your lab. Sound good to you?”
Ivalien: “It absolutely does, sir.”
Ryu: “Excellent, see you this afternoon, close link.”

The comlink ends and the screen returns to displaying general planetary information.

Ivalien: “What the hell is, close link?”
Tim: “The com gets more impressive downstairs.”
Ivalien: “Holy Mary, mother of God, we’ve struck oil!”

Ivalien and Mark rejoice in their success award, screams of celebration, and soon revel with reluctant Tim who smiles until they calm. They laud themselves as they part, they humble brag to each other as they walk thru the halls to the receptionist desk.

Ivalien: “Have you heard, we’re special people now, working with commander Ryu, and I would love for you to be seen with me at the gala, if you give me your com addy we can talk it over.”
Lara: “Well, since you asked so nicely.”
Ivalien: “I’m as nice as a gen-cat.”

Her last name showing on her sleeve, after pausing she holds her phone and sends her credentials to his, it beeps making him smile.

Ivalien: “Big day, but I’ll call tonight.”
Lara: “I’ll see you soon.”

Her pleasing voice warms both of their emotions as they depart, the elevator doors open allowing them to enter, they put their hands on the security panels, as the door closes Ivalien looks upon his com-device.

Ivalien: “Sublevel 76 A, oh my fucking god, look at this.”
Mark: “Let’s see, she lives on the other side of the circle and she has regular shit cats.”
Ivalien: “No, you missed by a long shot; she sent me a picture with her number.”
Mark: “Sharing is caring.”

Holding the bar Ivalien leans and shows his phone to Mark, the picture is of Lara holding, not wearing, her dress in front of herself. As they enjoy the many forms of good news the reach level 76, but the elevator’s white walls turn red. With confusion they wait silently as the walls return to being white, a message on the doors reads what they have never seen, ‘Secure Transport: Destination Sublevel 110’.

Mark: “I always thought each hive only went to 100?”
Ivalien: “New security clearance, new secrets, we’ll probably have to get new vacx.”
Mark: “If we meet anyone named Dante, I will shit my Sunday best.”

A pleasant tone sounds and the doors open, beyond the elevator is a larger hall of white several floors tall, filled with all the recreations a VIP would demand, trays of delicious algae that regrow to fill their containers minutes after servings, juice trees, fungal cell meats, all common in officer quarters but lavish nonetheless. Physical entertainment, virtual reality pads and visors, robotic arms that play tennis or racket ball or handball, recreational hover bikes and hover trikes, military defense vehicles and weaponry and firearms typically outlawed to even the wealthiest of enthusiasts. It marks Ivalien’s mind as a retreat for the military elite, how a place like this would help his social stature.

Ryu: “Gentleman, welcome to the nest, come, come, we shall discuss what I shall put to you!”

Among the people, two seemingly irrelevant guards thought to be passing them, approach Ivalien and Mark.

Guard: “Hold up your hands for your markers.”

They hold up their hands and the guards use a demarcation device to pull their tracker nodes from beneath the skin of their hands. A beep sounds and three seconds pass, then a pass of air while clasping his marked hand, the device painfully removes the beacon from their hands. The guards give the devices to assistants and take jet injectors, immediately inoculating them.

Ivalien: “What was that, a new vacx?”
Ryu: “No, we’re not in the habit of saving the lives of our new test subjects.”

Feeling woozy, the two freshman scientists begins to fight, Ivalien pulls his arm from the guard’s grasp, he elbows the sentinel in the stomach, but in doing so barely and without effect he succumbs to darkness and sleep, the floor the last he sees.

| Moonlight Sonata | 3/3
17A “Integument"  
17B “Subcutaneous”
17C “Extraction”  

23 June 2013

Ex Filtration

So there's this immigration debate and I have no answers, call me a liberal. What I do know is an amnesty agenda would not help anyone trying to work, to say it would be is a lie. It really shouldn't be an immigration debate, use the front door, migration. Get legal-status papers, or, vacation here, and just stay. Enjoy your spirit animal. So much can be said about America, but since I'm not a politician, I'll talk-about what we're talking-about. No, fuck that, let's digress, for the record, if your politician won't answer the question asked, fire him for incompetence. What legal immigration needs is to widen the allowance, not the dole, I'll touch on that soon by the by, using an application that adds people, with questions such as, "Would you change your name to sound more American? If yes, what would it be?" if they answer that question, it becomes a free 'extra' point toward their immigration approval.

Now that was very political, because it didn't answer any questions, it didn't give any answers, and it didn't touch on the reality of what the real issue is. The career-politicians have a way of saying "You got problems, i want to solve them, my opponents hate success, now kneel before me, I am your leader," which is a saying hard to forget as 44 has repeated it so many times with so little withal. I have to add, there was a country called the "Soviet Union" and it was the second largest country on the planet, that's the big round marble where you live, and it tried all these failures of making people pay for protected professional victims, subsidizing farms to not grow, when that food gets more expensive they print money for 'food stamps' or whatever it's called these days, taxing the workers until they subjugated to minimum wages and the dole, and now a tax for not buying insurance because I might use the healthcare that I'm already buying with my "Social Security" tax (the irony abounds, they're thick on the ground), the tax brackets that keep bourgeois from becoming rich, the small amount of inflation every year that is trivialized by bureaucrats as it annually increases the cost of everything while the collectors and the movers/shakers become one though payers cannot afford much. It worsens with the taxes on all business and the politicos that attack the wrong businesses, aggro demanding food stamps fueled by that monetary inflation from the costs they raised by lobbying for subsidies to not grow fuck all (subsidy to pay for lobbying), and the MSM lefties who doesn't know bad news with their head up their asses because their spoiled suburbanites who thinks their shit doesn't stink - and by the way THAT COUNTRY ISN'T EVEN FUCKING THERE ANYMORE.

Whew, that was a rant, it laid a backstory, it wasn't random, remember those immigrants, striving for a free society, they're also not going to have it if the libs continue their reckless abandon. The reason some citizens don't want to increase the population, be it by status or dole, by %15/50million (for ex) overnight is because of the socialism this country already has. All those problems exacerbate overnight if a shamnesty bill passes, it would be all for naught. I alluded to this not being a politician's platform, so let's face facts and not platitudes.

There are illegal immigrants who's caste only saw electricity 20 years ago, their employers hold the ability to make their lives hell. A threat of deportation keeps a servant a slave, slave labor is what we're talking-about, not immigration. It's why Republicans keep wanting taxes cut, to pay workers, to keep money in the hands of men and not the bureaucrats, (never all men, never none), and it seems why Democrats want amnesty. Blanket amnesty would destroy the job market, unemployment would at least triple overnight, and even the most documented man/woman would have that terrible leash of slave labor. I see things more surreal than you, for all our technology, the state still takes what isn't its. We've seen a disappointing first term and lame duck second term administration, create those minimum wage jobs while all-out leeching the private sector, and those of you offended liberals reading this in disbelief would know that, if you knew anything about feudalism. The monarchs and their dynasties enslave the world, not the corporations, not the businesses, not the capitalists, the thieves are ruination. The workers can't pay for the old, the new, and the benchwarmers.

Immigrants come to this country to escape totalitarianism, liberals are born free not knowing what it is, the conservatives have capitalist zen that even by this some of you will never understand. There are traitors in every midst, in every collective, for them there are enforcers or peace and the downward cycle continues as the protectors can be corrupt. It is important to play, dreaming is done while you're sleeping. If life is a game, I hope none of you were surprised when Polpot killed 2 million while Mussolini killed 5 million, while Hitler killed 10 million while stalling killed 20 million while Mao killed 50 million, yes this all happened in only 50 years and it all happened because of degenerate sociopaths who hated capitalism, simultaneously. Those aren't exaggerated numbers, so don't be surprised when it happens again.

Some dictator hates capitalism, so he steals everyone else's shit and kills them, so that he has the only capitalism, this is not a metaphor. North Korea hates capitalism and I hear in a recent year that passed 1 million people died of starvation, 21st century event, so don't come crying to me when your neighbor is trying to eat you, tears are just salted meat. Disgusting I know & I'm trying to close this blog session. So I leave you with my final thought of the day, communists are nothing more than secret pervy dynasties with recluse monarchs (no, not me) who don't want poor people to touch them, and for all their fight against capitalism they are fighting against nature. It is natural to have a collective, very much so, if society wasn't natural we'd live in holes in the ground and fight anyone we see, and kill and rape and steal like the last decades of the Viking hordes or modern-day terrorists, and if capitalism wasn't natural, I think we'd be fish, eating, and eating other fish, and sleeping with our eyes open, and higher lifeforms would say we sense not pain and I would say we had no sense, that much at mercy.

Maybe I've said it before now, cops are for the straights, there isn't any need to make your politicians take taxes b/c you couldn't join the commune that you scream until you're blue in the face to have, the people telling you how to think aren't teaching you anything, money doesn't grow on tree, but trees grow and that's all that's important, the entire overpopulation idea is a myth, there are many in cities, and none in the fields, except the slave labor that needs freedom first, citizenship second, respect to be earned third. Go, multiply, prosper, don't sin. Before I leave you with my new favorite quote, I want to remind you, there are a group of degenerate gamblers who have perverted clear thought and spill it into the minds of capitalists hoping to subjugate the world in total destructive domination, while they rush to horde power in bureaucracy, the groups of free will and private property and choice and sex and rocknroll, grow exponentially faster with every recursive counterproductive naive/liberal threat, that they were once the free thinkers who in their solitude from education and duty decided to become representative of cynicism the world thruout, then they were the people who told us "never trust anyone over 30" and now they're telling us (despite being bankrupt, as a nation, morally and physically) that if we don't trust everyone over 30 with absolute subservience, that we will all die.

Fuck, I always leave these on a bad note. There must always be something more powerful than you and you must always have a family that believes what you believe, but no cults, seriously, not cults. God is greater than that which can be most and greatest, a sharing faith is better than the golden calf. There were people smoking bath salts then eating faces of innocent strangers, tell me that's not a government plot to start a zombie apocalypse. Funny, you can also buy a pack of lips with your bath salts, because equality or some bullshit. Cops are for the straights, I don't like cartel violence and drug wars, but it is capitalism, so don't kill the innocents, or I'll have to burn your little town that smells like piss. We call it flushing out the game. Religious terrorists are best served with oregano, delicious.

Kill the communist, save the man.

20 June 2013

Merlin 3:16 “Porcelain Heart”

Merlin 3:16 “Porcelain Heart”

A ragged violently drawn surface, never carved by iced peak the rough terrain is a summiting area named Aordngtoumh on the oldest of maps, a mountain where the scarcity of rock goblins dare not hide. The sky is blue as the height reaches, near the top a small plateau resides the size of a yard, a smooth and grey clearing abraded somewhat like a bowl and in it bathing is a giant egret the weight of three horses, the collected water filled with the day’s rain so oft of heights. Preening with sense of stamina it flings water when it can, trying to bury its head in shallow water a task encumbered by the length of its beak, its wrists occasionally rubbing over eyes in the ways some have seen cats do. Nearby considerably accessible in terms a giant radiant white heronshaw understands a nest made of dead trees, adjacent the water is a cave entrance.

A red lady exits the caverns, suited for work, her gloved hands have exposed arms to the hooded shawl over her shoulders by her skin the color of a dark tree, the goods she carries are bound in a muslin sheet wrapped and at end with the limbs of bows uncovered. She stands before the heron, raises her left hand, the bird stands primly, and walks to her and bows for her to lift her belongings onto it. All to secure them with a belt of her possessions and foists herself upon it. Her hood she throws back to further reveal her face young with eyes of contrast hazel and hair of auburn fire brightened by many hours of sky and sunlight and station. They lift with grace swift and silently from hearthstone unto the heavens, trailing water from laggard avian legs, soon hiding in the baby-blue sky.

Troy meanwhilst rests on the phoenix, hiding from the ground his waking time to practice vaunted maneuvers and in even sleeps with phoenix Alerion in a field of healthy roses, burned in a small circle to nest until morning for a breakfast of rosehips and ash. On the second day, Troy sleeps in flight and in spotting a deer, the phoenix majestically lands without waking him, only to buck him abruptly to the side and ground to wake him. After arguing with the bird for a matter of minutes, he notices the stag in the distance and practices his longshot, as much as his manna, hitting the deer with one distant arrow let. On the third day, he trains with Alerion for combat, in how to defend against each other by sword, man, or arrow. In boredom, they take to flight and this day fourth find another in the sky.

Troy turns in flight away, due to without Merlin and others, his desired precaution-unattempting slight by unknown fate of peril allure.  The sky is patient as winds are calm so soon with day irradiant and horizon at bay of endless blue sky the warmth of sunlight in his palm. Nowhere in plight his morn the night reverse his sight recurs seeing tother in flight at his extreme peripheral to his right. Toward him, she flies and a smile in her eyes as she comes to pace and shows her face to he who spoils to speed and impress from this trivial of conventions. Toying with him she and her aigrette hesitate, letting him to think he can of her outfly, outré she turns white bird with speed absurd to him, with some helical display thru the airs across the meadowland, keenness and chase of flirtation, landing to speak with ease amongst the breezeless trees.

She, pulling her hair behind her ears, begins to speak in the warmly cold language of Niflhel, which he does not speak or understand. He rashly deduces she is giving greetings of her name or humble salutations to the phoenix, as her beauty keenly smites him. He confidently walks and impetuously kisses her, a humble moan of desire passes from her lips onto his. They inhabit emptiness with complete surrender, the miraculous something emerging from ethers of apparent kismet, the phoenix and egret walk away, the firebird twisting neck to look at the heron’s long legs and strange gait, into the air they fly, first the light then the dark as new lovers tryst.

It is by the afterthought of later he begins to attempt conversion of his name and ideas with a patting of his chest and gesture to her.

Troy: “I am Troy, you?”
Kylesa: “Kylesa Mara, bowyer, stringer …fletcher –“
Troy: “You speak the language.”
Kylesa: “It expected, I huntress the rooks off Niflheim, it helps me catch your soul.”

She crawls on his body, kissing and other intricacies, bareheaded into a furlough of worlds separated by waves of light and fields of erstwhile sight, and closer night.

Troy: “What would you know of bows?”
Kylesa: “Is first to a strong wood.”

She situates herself in his embrace, kissing him again, then sits upright and holds her hand into the air in hopes her egret returns, it still flies toying with the phoenix in speed but less agile in maneuvers, Troy slightly sits upright with his elbows locked and hands on the ground. Looking for the fliers, he lifts one hand into the air and snaps his finger, Alerion cuts away to return to him, a turn the air to burn.

Troy: “We must draw its attention with passion and fire.”

They renew sophisticated coitus until the phoenix lands with first its talons and its cubit-reversed elbows, secondly followed by the graceful landing of the majestic white egret. She whistles for her avian just as he has many times to his. Wrapping a blanket on her skin, she speaks.

Kylesa: “Seller longbow and standard armaments, forests bower so may bowyer and string-maker hemp.”

She rises to walk robed solely around her torso under arms to just around her hips and walks to her creature, persuasive to catch his thoughts from any elsewhere.

Kylesa: “And fletcher added importance, will give you one mine…there are none more it like.”

She drinks secretly a tiny bottle of something warm and red, Troy under coverture takes the bow in the light of dusk, he as at loss of words and again stricken by the beauty of its constructing, the moonlight to its grain, figure, and curves as much as hers as she disrobes and poses to enthrall him. The moonrise bathes the expansive meadow in rays of light behind her that match her wind-swept hair and fade into the colors of her complexion.

She kisses him again and a state of intense unnatural passion consumes his thoughts more than swiftly at a momentum alas too quick for him to notice his collapse into sleep. His body rolls back and head collapses into the meadow grass, in her periphery she notices Alerion enquire suspect so she pretends to ask why he sleeps and feigns minute pomp insult, ever cautious of the phoenix, petting its beak then leaves in the dark post haste.

Proceedings ostensibly lead her back to the cave that she had departed days four ago, it has rained and the water pool recollected slakes avian and aviator, into the cave she enters without light or torch. Thru the darkness she wanders with her hand on the wall for the silence that follows is for none and to all, that this darkest place has no shallows for the walls to let in moonlight her pace constant and an unseen calm on her face. Nearing the light of fires lit by hexed diamonds in clear oil and smokeless heat to fill a cavern by the climes of clandestine opulence the likes of witches, demonic grimoires, and Sino, full to intimidating armored untrustworthy armistice.

Sino: “A soon returns you have not safely.”
Kylesa: “It is done to know. Soon his hunger for my affection will match our own.”

They kiss with passionate affection with prowess of lovers, while holding her she pulls her face from his, and in his arms waiting for him to speak in adoration redolent he stares in memory.

Kylesa: “You don’t know when to silence yourself, do you?”
Sino: “Lesa, spirit, nay soul, of my song, I pride your gift, do tell me how it went with you in the arms of another.”
Kylesa: “I spoke Niflhel and as your magisterial plan, he bought more than he can handle, and even took the bow as you had hoped.”
Sino: “As I knew would be.”

He carries her step and tosses she onto a bedding of silken quilts and down beneath pillows, and smiles of pride and certainty, removing armor as he speaks revealing scars so much a many, the likes of surviving the death of a thousand cuts abruptly.

Kylesa: “What you need now? A Niflhel doll perhaps?”
Sino: “Poison, so strong the naïve fear the fang from whence it was drawn, verily its toxin and blight to air that it should dismantle even evil men.”
Kylesa: “I am what you need.”
Sino: “You are the best of both worlds.”

07 June 2013

Uboat Chirp

Twitter / pat11975: @mjbanks พี่คะเค้าบอกว่าผุ็ชายโชคดีถ้า ...

04 June 2013

White Pages

A little lost and go for broke the lives that cost maintain to choke, the lying game that voices play the suit and tie have worked no day, in tired sleep the open hands and screaming eyes closed huge demands, alibis to heads corrupt is charity prepared abrupt, some want for child and cheaper oil the takers burn and diapers soil, so sharing has a better face tho chosen gift will time erase, ungrateful words for those of will the speakers wonder why they kill, and while we're on the leeches' cloy I'll speak a cell on my new toy, disarming of the victims-race will put an aim to egg on face, the hypocrite doth die too soon below the bleeding breaking moon, I walk with grave and sacrifice to play the devil at least twice, suffer in the newborn storm is not the way of warrior norm, so pity me and pretty that more than one way to skin a cat.

02 June 2013

Merlin 3:15 “Sortie Exchequer”

Merlin 3:15 “Sortie Exchequer”

Braden and Katyenka ride on a wagon to the east with the sun of morn about to climb over trees and into their eyes having both been traveling thru the night. They ride on a padded bench of leather and wool, at the reins he slightly leans back and to the side, occasionally jostled by the road the undercarriage arching flattened bars that reflex to the unevennesses, she rests with back to the bench shoulder, her feet in his lap, a shawl over her, and her arm over the top. She holds a jaundice-colored leather-bound smallish collection of loosely gathered pages, beginning to read them as interim changes to afford the light of day. The wagon carries wheat not yet winnowed and still attached to stems, with them is their band of brethren, and a second smaller and empty wagon with a single seat for a single driver whose name is Agnar Mogthrasir, son of Geirroth Mogthrasir. Each horse has various lines of war paint and each patron modest. Agnar has the hands of a fighter and the strength of a farmer, now freelancer he is the largest of this lot.

Brad: “Read aloud for interim.”
Kat: “Care, you would not.”
Brad: “Appeal to ridicule.”
Kat: “These pages seem as recorded hunting myths, possibility is supposed actuality.”
Brad: “It is observations of heaven that built the worlds.”
Kat: “Listen this, ‘the eagle is a vulture; I will raze the tyrant and fell the beast.’”
Brad: “Aren’t we all.”
Agnar: “Mirror mere or under all.”
Brad: “At another otherwise, read us more, den-mother.”
Kat: “Well, is much nonsensical, some pages antique, others written ink-blood.”
Brad: “Seems legitimate.”
Agnar: “A hunter’s word is better trusted than childish kings.”
Kat: “All kings are childish.”
Brad: “And all queens princesses.”

Braden leans and kisses Katyenka, the wagon unevenly during a small sentimental peck of sorts as she closes the rusticated pages and puts some of her fingers into some of his hair.

Kat: “Do not sell princess for dowry, or I’ll give you another reason hadst sleepless nights.”
Brad: “I shan’t and daren’t, mine liebchen, when you look in my eyes what do you see?”
Kat: “I see my favorite childishness.”

With them and their two wagons, rides their fourth, one named Digraldi son of Thraell, his body is the same that made the dead leather heavy and heaping with earthen magic, and now so the miniscule pebbles seem to part from his horse’s path. Scouting he says little and scurrilously hums like he laughs, dissimilar and humble.

Deep ahead another rider from earlier scouts their path, in the flatland below the lowly mountains he watches a crow far ahead of him, it sways and swoons and plays in the distance of a meadow, opening its wings it glides directly downward and slips into the earth. The scouting fellow stops his horse and returns toward his compatriots. Once they are in sight small on the horizon he stands in his stirrups and largely swathes his right hand and arm, sitting and returning slowly next.

Digraldi sees him wave and turns his horse back and waves to the sixth and last to be mentioned member of their party, a rider with black leather straps the suit of warrior assuredly in saddle, trailing in the distance the rider sees the waving arm of Digraldi and starts a faint trot forward.

Digger: “He follows up.”
Kat: “Very little I’m sure.”
Agnar: “The way he spills war, he wouldn’t have us blamed.”
Brad: “I would not let him hear you speak of him so highly, noble.”
Agnar: “I see Varin without urgencies.”
Digger: “Should I pull him come this way?”
Braden: “What say you, liebchen?”
Kat: “…is only which you must.”

Digr holds a coin and flips it, holding his palm outwardly it attracts then sticks to his palm, with this manifestation Varin feels his saddle and soon his shoulder armor drawn to the party, he leans forward and high as he nudges his steed into a charge loftily residing, in this much and soon he doth arrive.

Digger: “How goes the way?”
Varin: “Vastly, save without undertow.”
Kat: “Could I hear another mischief needed? Oh please.”
Brad: “What did you see?”
Varin: “Riding on a head, a crow flew into the earth, or…”
Brad: “Or it is what, Varin?”
Varin: “Or it is irrigation.”
Digger: “A wanton word for bounty had.”
Agnar: “…and Katy can buy feline attention.”
Kat: “Graces fie.”
Brad: “Hell, I’d, pay to see that, but a bounty and a bath could be related.”

From here they travel forward where the trees and roadside part for farmland, untilled and deforested, wide and large with the hills to one side and a level earth t’other, across the level field are wagons parked where the road reenters forest domain. There a blue ox, a red bull, and a yellow ass yoked to plows await their chore to seed and sow and sheer the earth by cleave and coulter. Each beast of burden is driven by a grandfather, led by a son, and followed by the grandchildren boys and girls planting seed no more than dozen and half. Into the rows behind the children diligent as the mages approach them, two of the animals have one child on their backs each, too young to work the other tasks they wave of cordial hap and neighborly, their third pass to and fro the fields length they halt of greeting and salutation.

Brad: “Hail to thee.”
Remraf: “Hail to riders.”
Rohatsu: “Hail to riders.”
Brad: “Good weather to crop this summer?”
Rohatsu: “It snowed so heavy a mountain broke, flooded everything, ought it turns nice.”
Kat: “An avalanche you say?”
Remraf: “Reckon I never, save rains fall not by summit freeze, ditches might be dug in time.”
Varin: “When did the peak collapse?”
Reginald: “It was midst winter, Lokk said he saw it, but I don’t believe him!”
Remraf: “Reginald, behave.”
Reginald: “It is my apologies.”
Brad: “He’s alright. What woods are these?”
Remraf: “Well…I think these are the Neaera, this is Remraf farm, that’s me, and D’nahwolp ranch and hamlet a few miles ahead of you.”
Agnar: “These haven’t been Neaera for many seasons. You have no king?”
Remraf: (stretches) “Oh no, not since I was a boy, many moons ago. Where are you heading?”
Brad: “Off toward Mornaland.”
Remraf: “You’ve departed from the West?”
Agnar: “That is how we are.”
Remraf: “Then you’re on the right path, far, but the right direction.”

Slowly walking his horse again the rider from behind the trail approaches, holding stirrup and shaking the heat from his hair without smile he approaches, Jonak of Songfir, his very presence upsets the animals and frightens the farmers. He looks to them knowing they are timorous and shaken, about to pass he stops aside Katyenka.

Remraf: “Respectfully you sir put a fear into my stock.”
Braden: “Take the lead.”

Doing as Braden has instructed, Jonak punches Agnar in his shoulder as he passes and leads into the second forest-covered stretch of road, Agnar behind him into the calm of day and shaded growth. Ahead of them another wagon approaches, this one with the worn frame from carrying untethered plow now carries simply seed, Jonak discretely points to it and slows to follow behind Agnar. To share the road and move distractingly as Jonak blocks them from view if the farmer driver were to irritate him.

Let loose in fresh and growing forest air the thought of these things, for the ensorcelling Ana in the hamlet of D’nahwolp where she has been in rest.

Within the village are miners and families, more so now the mountain has avalanched and deposited new silt to sift for precious metals might ought be found, the mountain is strong and called Skatalund to the peak closest to D’nahwolp, so strong that the avalanches never damage the tunnels, thru the winter they dig new tunnels. Ana sits in town, after breakfast she enjoys making a wreath and humming with two little girls who begin to hum their own song causing her to observe with smile and joy and maternal thoughts in provision of quietude.

The village was not a dozen domiciles before Sino’s incursion, and in departure of conflagration is not but fewer, henceforth enough space, distraction, and obfuscation allows Braden to arrive and direct himself to the sentry post near the single cave entrance in D’nahwolp. The floors bedecked with smooth wood and lean-to walls ramshackle just over four rooms, the back leads into the mountain, but only to a staging room that leads directly to the main tunnel and is sealed by steel door and guarded moderately. Ana watches a boy play with a candle, lit by fire unattended, hoping to catch the flames that she extinguishes with her mind before the youngling harms himself, reigniting it with the same magic to his contemptible frustrations.

Braden and Katyenka attentively walk up the large ramp to the town office, Jonak rides slowly into the cave from another direction of the village, Ana sees him and he her without signs of affiliation, unsure and suspicious of his bleak and black demeanor she trails him. Watching as he approaches the guards inside the cove of stone by the steel door in a wall of prehistorically carved ornate designs of runes and elder symbols, with an incantation of growl and whisper the guards fall sickly before him. She moves from line of sight, around homes to the mountain face in hopes of sneaking to the opening.

Braden opens the door for Katyenka and sooner than the magistrate of this station notices the paleness of her skin and eyes with darkness around both features, Braden points his silver wand, his elbow bent and forearm up, wrist bent the wand circles, and most of everything on the official’s desk soon bestrews. The older man puts his hands in air beside his ears.

Krelc: “I want everybody to live, so I’ll tell you, everyone in this town is a miner or a hunter, here you dost.”
Braden: “Relax, grandfather, no one gets hurt, she’s going to show you some pictures, and I’m going to withdraw your argentine.”
Kat: “Do you know these symbols?”
Krelc: “These are army patches.”
Kat: “Which is closest one?”
Krelc: “Most of these here are gone; children paint them on the rocks, this one, Odessa, is probably, closest, some of these, bandits use in memorial.”

Braden hears footsteps on the wooden floor the room next, he stands by the door, when it opens Braden coldcocks a young man who falls to the floor despite a brief warning from Krelc. Ana hears the body fall knowing not what fell, she sees their first wagon empty and the second arrive with the large Agnar, both appearing legitimate as livery transportation and grains for workers in the quiet morning. Inside, she shows him sketchings of artifacts from a small patchwork book, Braden exits the storage with a small pouch, pulling out a handful of silver.

Brad: “Is it any good?”

She sparks electricity and tiny lightning faint and dark that resembles the reflection of watery waves affixed to the pale skin of her slender hand. A pure lack of emotive response from her looks, Braden looks intently eager to know, she speaks as she stands her slender figure from waist.

Kat: “Is good. Bursar needs take painful infliction; he should not look he gave no opposition.”

Braden leaves for his wagon and nods to Agnar who approaches and enters, as Ana walks to make her presence known to him.

Ana: “An eagle doesn’t catch flies.”
Braden: “For your effort you should plough the seashore.”
Ana: “Art is to conceal art.”
Braden: “The stars incline us, they do not bind us.”
Ana: “Of your sins, from one, learn all.”
Braden: “To the waves with these dogs, light is to be nourished where liberty has arisen, rights abused are still rights.”
Ana: “Such as the universe, which was created out of time, and is where you’ll be if they catch you.”
Braden: “We are all leaders, I will set their arms back, come with me and my brothers, you should not be unattended your days.”

She releases her wrist from left-hand grasp and walks silently toward their wagon.

Agnar is ever quite large and bows his neck to enter the doorway, and his stature raises the heartbeat rate of Krelc who sweats from brow by fear. He drops the large sack of wheat and stands broadly shouldered largely chested.

Agnar: “It will only hurt once; left or right face?”
Krelc: “The right I suppose.”
Kat: “Is best close eyes.”

Krelc warily and frightened closes his eyes reluctant, Agnar stretches his right arm and smites the bursar, from outside thereon a description of swift raucous pummel sound, exiting with two bags of silver like cotton pillows, in addition to what the others carry, adding them to his cart. The others leave on horseback, without the wagon Braden and Katyenka hath drawn. Ana rides with the giant Agnar in the filled wagon atop the leather tarp atop the silver as they depart, beyond the edge of town just as the last home obscures in distance and forest, Nickolas approaching town sees her in the wagon and slows his pace to halt as she passes.

Ana: “Hello sir, you need a good horse.”
Nick: “I truly do.”

Nick stands watching confused, Ana rests bestridingly situated a queen in her own right, she looks over her shoulder to be certain large Agnar and others look not her way, and folds the fingers in one hand repeatedly, motioning discretely for Nickolas to follow her.