Rainy Days in Unnamed are Always Terrible

Into the room burst a black silhouette that even the roaring fire could not illuminate, save for the droplets of rain upon its hide. From behind the eyeless mask through which they somehow saw, a pair of drowsy green eyes turned to watch the shape as it stormed in, casting off its cloak to plop down in the next chair along.

Karl looked back at the fire as Klar shook her hair out.

"It's the absolute worst out there!"

"Oh, I'll bet it is. Don't leave your wet things on the floor." The smoke of the fire rushed up the chimney, with the occasional stray raindrop bursting through to be obliterated by the heat. The room was still smoky, though, for Karl had been experimenting with cigars.

His sister grumbled and waved the smoke away. "You remember we're having visitors, right?"

"I don't. Remind me."

"Antakristo's coming in half an hour."

A wave of black smoke poured out through Karl's mask, separated into four by the grill before joining up again and rising to meet its elders. "Fuck."

Gogglebox

They're in the television. The television is watching me!

The abomination...I can see it, I can see its eyes. They're hidden in the static, white eyes, black eyes, the pupils are all wrong and there's so many of them. They don't blink, they just sit there, sat in their flat expanse of grey flesh. Is that a face? I can't tell. It's like I'm seeing a close-up - how much more could there be? How many eyes are watching me?

It talks, too, talks to me at night when I fall asleep watching the static, keeping an eye on it. One time, one night I was drunk and I thought I could answer back and it would leave me alone so I shouted at it.

What are you and what do you want?

You must remain here until you die and then you will be with us.

What the fuck.

Do not say you will resist, do not think you will resist. We are enticing. Soon enough you will not tear yourself away from the screen.
Oh, and from now on any attempts to leave the house will be met with resistance.

It was right. I tried to leave the next afternoon and there were crows everywhere and my fence was collapsed by the wind. No coincidence I swear. Every step I took they pecked until I bled and the wind blew and stuff began falling off balconies, right above me I swear.

I went back inside and watched TV.

Watch Out

I could feel its eyes on me.

I tried to concentrate on my work, but it just wasn't happening, not with that sensation of being scrutinised...all day, it hadn't taken its eyes off me. Wherever I went, I could look and be sure to find a pair of wide, pale eyes - almost blank - staring deep into me. Often it wouldn't even look up to face me. It glared at my laces, or my fingers.

When I'd first seen it, I'd boggled at its appearance. It was almost laughable; looked almost like a...robot monkey. A humanoid, no taller than two feet, with sleek, steely skin and a ridged tail. It slunk noiselessly, the joints well-oiled. The very idea of a tiny robot coming after me was amusing at first; as always, reality makes things more serious.

My boss chastised me for my apparent laziness. I felt sick just looking at his pudgy face. Nowadays, though, I felt sick just looking at any of the people around me. I wasn't meant to feel like this, but I was glad I did. The humans I surrounded myself with were vile.

I snuck a glance back to the vent. The monkey was still there; what did I expect? It was so...graceful. A smooth example of perfect design. Perfect. Yes. That was the word.

Perfect.

The word echoed in my brain, somehow, for some reason. Perfect. Perfect.

I didn't notice what the monkey did. That everyone else stopped. If I'd looked, I could've seen a drop of water hang perfectly in the air. Perfect. A shining orb of light...perfect, like the monkey, like me.

I am too perfect to be myself. I must let go of time and mind and self. I must become like the monkey. Wash away the dirt.

Perfect.

Perfect.

So...

Ms. Bacon - A dark-minded individual made of smoke and dust. Dresses in brown leather rags. Always carries a cigarette holder. Channels spirits through herself, somewhat as an extension of her being. Very interested in messing around with natural norms, just a little, enough to twist them from their usual state.

Mr. Ach - A Posc with the behaviour of a packbeast but a sharply-honed intellect. Feels a compulsion to mutilate himself. Formed from blood and dust. Doesn't much interact with mortals. A good companion of Ms. Bacon and Sir Chickenshit.

Sir Chickenshit - The most thoughtful and contemplative Posc. Formed from pure air. Also the least human-looking of those we've seen, appearing more like a creature of the deep.

Sargeant Beaky - A rather angry fellow. Formed from two kinds of blood. Dresses in thick woolen robes and always wears a mask of some sort. His presence tends to cause others to swear profusely - though perhaps this is just because he does.

Madame Midden - Made of algae and saliva. A filthy Posc with the mind of a predator and little common sense. Constantly feels the urge to feed on the formative material of other Posc, such  that no-one can discover for sure how intelligent she truly is.

Sargeant Beaky and Madame Midden

"Fucksake."

The man in red wiggled his bare toes. Fuckin' stones, he thought, shifting pebbles out of his way with his feet. Fuckin' stupid stones.

A cold wind blew. The man hugged his robes tighter around himself. Though we was well-dressed and larger than most Posc, out in the wastes he was a tiny pillar of blood in wide open space.

'Blood' meaning both his stained clothes, and the lifeforce which flowed inside his humanoid shell. There were others who would steal such things...

...Such as the woman who was tracking him.

She sniffed close to the ground, following his trail. Even as she did, she left her own - her thick, sticky drool running down from her chin to the pebbles, tracing back into a thin line of frost.

The Sargeant had spent too long hanging around, shuffling the earth. Madame Midden, a hunter most famous, was looming dead behind him now.

Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit

"How's the weather today? Good?"

"Good, good, yes."


Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit were on a hill of sand, looking out at the wasteland before them. Sir Chickenshit had been sat there a long, long time - most of the week - and Mr. Ach was getting impatient. It was in their nature for one to ponder and plot while the other urged onward.

"Then we will be going soon?"

Sir Chickenshit curled a whisker around his fingers. "I don't know about that. Tomorrow's looking better."

"You keep saying that!"

"Shut your mouth."

Mr. Ach gritted his teeth. Literally closing his mouth was impossible, due to the wooden bar forced into it - which also ensured his mouth split wide up to the cheeks and was kept in a permanent smile.

Sir Chickenshit rolled his head on his shoulders, then heaved himself up (with a lot of puffing and grunting). His left arm, the one with a hand, pointed to the horizon.

My Writer's Block is neatly on hand.

(And oh my, the suggestion it gave me...)


The connections between every event in life, every detail that builds up into a meticulous plan, are seldom noticed by the ordinary folk. And of course, they most certainly can't see the silvery threads of fate that run across time, space and matter, signifying these often-ignored connections.

And of course, there are some who can. Some who would be called higher beings. Some who are merely...different.

For Ms. Bacon would most certainly not call herself a higher being; though as you can see, she would deign to call herself something much stranger. For the average mortal, however, she could certainly fit the bill - provided she wasn't in disguise. For Ms. Bacon was, to put it simply, a cloud of smoke and dust given sentience, and taking a few other souls along with it for the ride.

Not that this was how she would appear to most, of course. The smoke was ever-present, but the manifestation of a cigarette (and ornate holder) solved that problem. Where the rest of her human body could be seen through the billowing faces of the cloud, the skin was veiny and the clothes makeshift brown rags.

And in the hand that didn't hold her cigarette she nearly always wielded a riding crop.

Whatever purpose Ms. Bacon served was unknown and unanswered. For what reason she behaved as she did was a mystery; merely that she did as she did, following the threads of fate between people and getting them thoroughly tangled.

Not that she did that all the time. Ms. Bacon had a tendency to disappear for centuries.

Wait a Minute

A hand gripped my wrist, tight enough to hurt.

"...What? What do you want?"

"Just wait a minute." I turned back. He looked kind of nervous. "Wait a minute."

"I'm waiting." I shook my arm. He realised and let go.

More than a minute passed.

"...I'm going now, ok? It was nice meeting you."

"No! Just wait a minute. Please."

"We've been waiting half an hour. What are you waiting for?"

"...Just wait."

Is This Bending the Rules?

Elements
Dark - also represents creativity and colourlessness. Dark-element Vita Letali tend to be uncaring of society and revel in their cruelty. In order to attain the Champion symbol, Dark Vita must usually learn to utilise their nature to support others instead of mistreat them.

Light - also represents/is represented by purity and gemstones. Vita Letali of the Light element are some of the most powerful, but also often aloof and xenophobic. There are also many  monsters, such as Twofifty, which result from the Light element misusing its power and attempting to remove the 'dark side' of their selves. To attain Champion, Light Vita must instead accept these facets of their personality and fight for the good of all from within, not without.

Water - also represents space and cold. The Water element is home to many isolated monsters who are not necessarily as civilised as the other Vita Letali. Water-element Champions are the rarest due to this, but under influence from humans or others their attainment of this symbol is easiest.

Earth - also represents physical strength and death. Earth-element Vita Letali have long held forth that they know the location of a literal underworld, but despite their bragging keep its exact location a secret - if it does indeed exist. Like Water-element Vita, Earth-element monsters are often isolated and bestial in nature, but tend to be more sociable amongst themselves. Indeed, if their rumours are to be believed, vast numbers of them have formed their own empire under the Earth's crust.
What exactly triggers a Champion form for Earth-element Vita Letali is unknown; they treat the metamorphosis with great reverence and secrecy, like a lot of things.

Air - also represents time and silence. The Air element could be thought by a casual observer to be the most numerous element; though truly numbers are even amongst all the elements. Air-element Vita Letali are childish by nature, even mindless, making them easily manipulated by Devingarasp's empire. To attain Champion, they must break free of the control of both Devingarasp and their flock, and think individually, making their Champion forms some of the hardest to gain.

Fire - also represents metal and impulse. Fire-element Vita Letali have the odd quirk of appearing to be inanimate objects, were it not for their often fast-paced and passionate nature. For them, becoming a Champion is often a case of, much like the Dark element, curbing their instincts and harnessing them to keep from being purely a force of destruction.

Poison - also represents wisdom and nature. Vita Letali of the Poison element are believed to be some of the oldest varieties of monster, and their forms tend to be floral. Poison-element Vita vary wildly in their attitudes and ideas, but almost all claim to have been 'enlightened' in some way. As such, their attainment of Champion can be quite unpredictable.

Cloyed

I felt sick. Like, really sick. You don't know true revulsion until you see that sort of thing happen to your best friend. I feel queasy just thinking about it, even now - I don't mind, it lets me know I'm not...'dead inside', to use a cliché.

But really, it was disgusting. I mean, there was...I had a good idea of what was inside a human body, but...she just sort of tore open and stuff came out. I have no idea how I managed to keep from, keep from, I don't know, something, anything! I didn't puke, I didn't scream, I didn't run, didn't fight, didn't pass out...I just stood there.

I stood and waited for five minutes before she got back up again.

She looked at me...well, she'd already had her eyes torn out by this point, so it was hard to tell...what she was feeling, but...I don't know, maybe it was just my own guilt, but she gave me this long stare. She didn't speak, but I just had this unshakable feeling she hated me. Why hadn't this happened to me, and more importantly, why had I just watched it happen?

She still hates me, I think. What am I saying? Of course she does. I can't apologise, I can't make up for it. Not just what happened then, but everything that got us into this. I know I'm really sounding typical here, but it genuinely is all my fault.

I've Become

It felt so good to watch the hope die in his father's eyes.

The old man had hindered him every step of the way. He represented...to him, he was despair, fate. Holding him back. The brute had always assumed he held power over his son. His son had disagreed, and won. His son had earned freedom, and wasted it.


The house was layered in its own filth, inside and out. The garden was shaped into hills of rotting wood and litter. The floors caked in broken glass, the walls stained with...well, with everything a wall could be stained with. The stench gagged anyone who wasn't him.

That was if he didn't throttle them first. Why was he so angry? Why did he keep hurting...he refused to think about what he'd done. He was choked and blinded by the memories of last time.

...A knock at the door. He hadn't heard that in a long time.

Thick arms pushed him off a waterlogged armchair, before brushing his hair out of his eyes - a bright shade of red, enough to seem unreal. The door opened with considerable reluctance, jammed by the inches-thick layer of rotting scraps.

...A little girl, in a red dress. She spoke before he could.

"Your father is dead, Uncle."

Uncle? Why was she calling him Uncle?

"You killed him."

He killed him?

"Are you going to repeat everything I say? You killed your father, Uncle. Look what you've become."

That's wrong. No. You're wrong. You're wrong!

How dare you? How dare you? I'll break your bones, I'll smash your head in, I'll gouge your eyes out!

The girl held out a hand to him as he bellowed threats. The pity she had for him was obvious; it stopped him dead.

What choice did he have? He took her hand.


What had he become? He looked at himself. A caricature, a shadow. No identity save a few scant facts - Uncle, red-haired, behemoth of a man. The angry man who hurts little children. The rest was inferred by his victims as they awoke and grew up.

More Samuel. And Cats!

"We are going to kill you."

...The cat spoke.

"It's true. I have no qualms with this action."

...And it apparently had more than one personality, too. Logically - if logic could be applied to this situation - there would be two feline personalities, or perhaps two with the addition of a third overriding personality, represented by the purple and red halves of the cat.

Being as the red half of the cat appeared to be worse for wear - and sizing me up - this would be the aggressive personality. The purple side, then, was the one which had just claimed to have no qualms against killing me (I doubted they could, regardless of severe mutation), and therefore the one which would presumably have stepped in and stopped the red personality otherwise. The purple, then, I assumed to be the stronger personality, and the one I should appeal to.

However, before I could appeal, the creature had already leapt for my face - if you are wondering why it took so long, please bear in mind that what I have written was processed much faster by me at the time than it has taken you to read it now.

Now, I know to always be prepared in a combat situation. However, most of my combat situations are not against cats. I was already at a distinct disadvantage.

Roman

Some boy in an oversized Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts was standing outside our apartment. He appeared to be holding a red disc, with black markings on it.

Being as I was the only one at home, and he didn't seem to be about to rob me, I decided to let him in. From the way he charged through the doorway, I began to suspect I'd made the wrong decision.

"See? Look at this!" He thrust the disc into my face.

"I'm...I don't understand?.."

He stared straight into my eyes, his misted glasses obscuring his own. Then, after a moment, he relaxed and continued. "This is mine, he told me about yours. Show me."

"I'm sorry, I -"

"He means Devin." The disc...spoke. In a surprisingly refined and gentle voice, no less. "You must beware, David. Your new friend has many enemies."

The boy smirked at my shocked expression. "Well then? Where's Devin?"

Meet Samuel

Every morning, Sam got up at 6am. He combed his hair just-so, he wore a starched white shirt, he wore his tie just-so. He made his own breakfast, washed up his bowl, and left the house before his parents were even awake, looking like he'd never even been up at all; indeed, Samuel and his parents were rarely in contact of any form.

He arrived at school half an hour early; his mother thought he was studying. Samuel was instead stealing as much as he could from any child smaller than him; and if they had brothers and sisters to defend them? Well, he'd just have to get into another fight.

At school, Samuel was just as attentive and studious as his parents believed, however bloody his face might already be. Once outside the premises, however, he went right back to his true self; brawling with any teenager bigger than him was his one hobby.

I knew Sam somewhat - enough to avoid his fists - and I'd once dared to ask him: Why?

"Because my parents don't care about me as their son," he replied, nursing a black eye (he told them he'd tripped). "They care about me as a bragging right."

>~*~<

Hmm...this might sound a little pretentious, which is a shame because I really like Samuel. Just take whatever he says and does with a pinch of salt, please.

Towers Are Bitchin'

It was solid black on the outside. Neither light nor shadow affected it.

The tower had either grown from the earth itself, or been designed by a very mad architect. It twisted in on itself, bent from side to side, tilted and tipped and became altogether crooked - the higher, the worse.

Was it related to the Gate? Huh. The Gate and the Tower. Not exactly creative names. Either way, it appeared to have an opposite effect. The Gate threw paths out. The Tower drew things in.

Then again, maybe I'm overthinking this. There's probably no relation.


Of course, it's useless to just observe and ponder from the outside, especially one so chaotic and featureless.

I must ascend.

Even as I climb the rough sides, I begin to hallucinate. This seems to be its effect, but I see things I never could have imagined alone. These were my fellow climbers. I refuse to describe them; they were indistinct and uniformly horrible.

 Next time, I'm taking the stairs.

Might As Well Get Some Practice In

An immortal being kept captive in some sort of interdimensional Hell would not be expected to look so good as Sola did.

Oh, he was still very unwell, of course. For a being that needed no food, nor breath, nor sleep, he was still a skin-and-bones ragdoll with scars smothering every inch of his body. His eyes, apparently once dark, and burning with passion - they were faded now, blearily searching for the source of the voice that spoke to him now.

It spoke in a calm voice, a gentle voice. But the voice was rasping, like it wasn't used to speaking like this. And as its blurry owner turned away, it switched back to the harsh yells it felt so comfortable with.

It spoke to Sola again. This time, with effort, he managed to hear it.
"Are you okay?"

He couldn't respond in time; the speaker reached over him to the crowd of medicines and liquids, scattered on his table.
Sola forced himself to speak. "I'm fine...really."

The speaker stopped; moved back. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"No you're not." It reached over again; hesitated, drew away. "But I'll leave you, if you want."

"...Yes, you can leave me here. I'll be fine."

"You've been alone so long..." The way it said that, it sounded almost like a question.

"Another few minutes will be nothing, then." Minutes were like seconds; worse than seconds. Days were hours. Years were weeks. A billion years...alone...

The door to the room shut. Sola rolled over. As long as there was no-one but him, time didn't matter anymore.

But when was she coming back?

Two Bad People

We have something in common, you and I.
I have the feeling we're both scared of the same thing.

I think you're dealing with it better than me. You've seen me, I act out.
I wish that none of this had happened.
I wish I could sleep at night.

Do you think he knows? He probably does.
Do you think he recognises how big a part he plays? He probably doesn't.

At some point in the future, things might turn bad. It's always kind of been lurking in the background. I'll try to avoid you. I think we'll still have something in common.

Pit Trap

I'm not sure how many people have those dreams, where you're falling. I think it's a fair few.

I think that, for a lot of people, it's a momentary sensation, just as you fall asleep. And you always wake up, just before you hit the ground. That's the bit everyone knows.

Why am I still falling?


Everything's rushing past me. I can't see. I can't feel anything, this place is airless.

I wonder when I'll hit the bottom. I wonder if there is a bottom. There has to be, bottomless pits don't exist.

Then again, how did I get here? Oh, right - this is a dream. It's hard to tell, it feels real...I look at my hands. I pray it's truly a dream. How can I not be sure?

I think I see the ground.


Ouch. Yes, that was the ground.

...Now where am I? At least I can see now.

...Oh God. What is that? Why aren't I still falling? Why did there have to be a bottom?

Get me out of here!

Bullies in the Sky

"I've eaten too much."

"You? Eat too much? Goodness me, how many people died this time?"

"Sh-shut up!"

"How about another pie, tubs?"

"Shut up! I s-s-swear, when the time comes round again I'm going to thump you so hard!"

"Or you'll just roll around on your flab."

"Sh-sh-sh-sh -"

"Shuh-shuh-shuh?"

 "Sh-sh-sh-shut up!"

"Ha! You keep saying that. You're so pathetic."

"I hate you!"

"Ooh, stronger this time!"

"I'm going to make you suffer."

"...Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Couldn't you tell?"

"...Wait, you're not..."

"Recognise me? My, you're stupid."

Lol Missed Days

I totally missed a bunch of days. I have an excuse! (Just about...)

I got one of them things that pretends to be an antivirus, and I got rid of it by emptying an entire computer of my scent. So I've been on that one since then, doing thangs. Wild thangs.

Speaking of Phangs, let's reward your patience with something involving her!

Something longer than usual. And thick. And meaty...lol no. I'd get my eyes scooped out of my head.


Across dark skies and warty clouds a wide-winged figure swooped and dived.

From the ground looking up, it was too high to make out anything of the creature save the wings. Every inhabitant of this land, though, knew exactly who and what it was. They dived for cover, fearful it flew in wrath or hunting.

The great-winged creature drew a pair of arms out of its filthy body. Compared to its usual attempts at growing limbs, these were surprisingly accurate and well-constructed - the right amount of digits, solid joints, a healthy size - and it admired its work for a moment, before plunging the hands back inside itself.

It brought out an orb of light. Shining a weak silver, it seemed so fragile...the darkness inherent in its surroundings threatened to swallow it forever. The creature recognises this, letting the orb hover free of its hands now it is in the open, slowing its flight.

It speaks. "Are you stronger today?"

The orb somehow responds, speaking with a strained voice. "If I am, it is so small...I cannot tell."

The creature looks away, over the horizon, deep in thought.

"...You shouldn't have done it."

"Don't say that. Never say that."

"They could have escaped by themselves."

"Not if I hadn't shown them how. Come on, Redwing. You understand."

"Of course I understand. But you know I love antagonising you." Redwing slowly turned his hand, the orb drifting to the side of his palm... "It's what I do."

Snatching his hand away the orb fell into the frothing clouds, making a high-pitched scream all the way down. Redwing soared up, then down after it, falling with much greater speed.

"And I taught you everything you know!" He shouted, reaching the orb. "I know how you bully that 'sister' of yours! I am Redwing!"

If it wasn't falling, the orb would have said, 'I wondered when you were going to say that!', or something marginally more witty. Or maybe just, 'fuck you.' But, as it was falling, it continued to scream.

"I am inspiration! I am ideas in their purest form! And -" Redwing reached out, catching the orb, "- I'm never as bad as I seem."

"...Yes you bloody are, you bastard."

Robot Monkeys Perfection

"Sir, the...the translation has come through, sir."

Something in the way he spoke was off. Anticipation turned to panic in the High Commander as she turned from her screen. All she said, though, was "Don't call me sir."

"Oh, of course, Si - Madam. I forget.
"But, the records appear to be the last left by these creatures." These creatures - these bizarre lifeforms they'd found. Deathless, mindless, peaceful. Their only imperfection - the way their utter perfection deeply disturbed everyone on the project. "They...they turned themself into this, Sir."

Even the computers silenced, letting this idea sink in. Panic turned to fear in the eyes of Commander and Subordinate.

"That can't be right."

"Their language is - was - very simplistic. The chance of error is -"

"It cannot be right!" She leapt to her feet, scattering papers. He dropped his in shock. "Why would they? What possible reason would they have?!"

"'It is both our punishment, and our reward.' ...That's what they wrote."

Breakin' Faces

Martial artists undergo rigorous training to ignore the subconcious limitations of their strength and break bricks with their hands.

For GESS, this is unnecessary. They do not have the limitations in the first place.

So when Min 'Eisendonner', GESS 3016, began an enraged charge down Unnamed's high street, people knew to get out of the way.


Min's target sat at a table outside his favourite café. Something about the man, despite appearing to be a slight, short fellow, seemed to absorb the scenery and draw attention towards him. Perhaps it was the way he dressed (a purple suit?!); or the way he slouched (as if he owned the place!); or the way his companion, a teenage girl (half-dead, she looks!), cowered and made herself barely noticeable in comparison.

Or perhaps it was because some part of the observer's mind still recognised that he was taking up a lot more space than he appeared to.

Min had learnt to spot this man - he was calling himself Roy Elfial today - from a distance of several metres, a distance which was closing at increasing speed. Onlookers would later say it appeared Min's feet never touched the ground.

Brothers

'The Boss' made it his duty never to show emotion. Which is why, when he recieved the news of his brother's death, he ordered everyone out of his office - and sat quietly for half an hour.

When he recieved the news of his brother's subsequent revival, he ordered everyone out of his office and howled like a madman.

Words were formed without the thoughts or the breath necessary to express them. The boss of Paeniton Processing, Scott Amda, staggered side to side - gasping two words over and over:

"He must...he must..."

Scott had spent a long, long time forgetting his brother. Bartholomew's cheating of death was the last straw; memories had come flooding back to Scott - memories he had rather not recall, memories which fed the rage inside him. Memories he wanted to eradicate.

"I should...have kn-known." Scott pressed his cheek against the cold metal walls. The heat of his anger flowed away, his hatred flowed into excitement. A plan formed in his mind, a mind sharpened by years of cruelty. He had made it his duty never to show mercy, and now his brother would face the ultimate end.

"Should have known, known. Can't just b-b-bottle it up. Have to...have to forget.

"Drop him out. We'll drop him out."

why, brother? A familiar rumbling sound brought It's answer, the last words of Bartholomew Amda a whispering prophecy in the crowd of noise. It could be done, and it would be.

Good Morning.

Being as this is the first post, and I don't know how easy it is to stumble across these things without a direct link (and therefore explanation), just to point out - this is where I intend to write something - anything - each and every day, as I have been suggested to. This is not where you're going to find facts, but if you're interested in a daily dose of fiction, you could do worse.

You could do better, too, but we'll tactfully ignore that.