All the Time in the World

 

 All the Time in the World

Reedsy Short Story Submission

 

 

    Imagine if someone asked you, “If you could choose any superpower, what would it be?”.

    What would you choose?

    I bet a dozen different things came to mind.

    I know at least a few of you would probably say something like super-strength. Or the ability to fly. With how popular some of the big supers are, heroes like Cosmic Man or Power Woman, I know that’s probably first on a few lists. Big and powerful. Flashy. The epitome of what you picture when you think “superhero”.

    Still, maybe you’re rethinking that choice. Or maybe you had something else in mind. Maybe you even gave more than a knee-jerk response.

    What else did you come up with?

    Was it invisibility? The ability to hide from sight. To do whatever you want without worrying about being seen. Not very heroic of you, but still certainly superhuman. What about the ability to breathe fire? Would sure make cosplaying as a dragon fun. Or perhaps you chose something contrarian like “Money” just because you’re a fan of the playboy philanthropists with a penchant for justice and vigilantism.

    It’s funny. For a lot of people, they don’t think of the ability to manipulate time as being very high on that list.

    Until you mention it.

    “Gee, that sounds like a great power.” You’re probably thinking. “Why didn’t I think about that?”

    I wondered for a long time why nobody thought of time manipulation as a superpower. It just seemed obvious to me, but I guess it’s because I was born with it. A lot of people just take time for granted, I suppose. Everything exists within time. Everything is held by its laws. In a way, it’s easier to forget that it’s there. Now, though, I think it’s because some deep part of the universe knows better than to let too many people go mucking about with the very fabric holding everything together.

    It’s better if people didn’t mess with it.

    Now, don’t get me wrong, there are one or two comics out there that talk about the idea of a hero with the ability to manipulate time. But of all the big licensed supers out there fighting bad guys in the streets, not one of them has that power. You would sooner see a six-year-old fighting a t-rex with a tanker truck than you would see someone stop time.

    Why is that?

    I learned early on that the first reason is just because a lot of people can’t even conceptualize what we’re doing when we’re using our powers. Time manipulation is so outside of the scope of proper existence that, when it’s seen, people don’t even know they’re seeing it. There are a few different kinds of T.M.’s, that’s short for Time Manipulators, people like me that can alter the flow of time in the universe. But all of them are generally misunderstood for something else.

    Take me for example: I can stop time. But what do you think that looks like to some guy watching? That’s right, it looks like I just moved super fast. So they just generally think I’m a speedster or something like that.

    Easy, right?

    Well, what about those who can move forward or backward in time? Same thing. If they move forward enough that they can be seen, provided the whole spatial issue, then POP, it looks like they just teleported. So someone thinks it’s a teleportation power. And going backward in time? Same thing, albeit with odd accents and money you’ve never seen.

    The only thing I think could ever stand out for what it would be is if a T.M. was able to specifically mess with the age of a given object, but I’ve never seen one of us manage that. I’m sure it’s theoretically possible, but either it’s incredibly rare or you need to live long enough to develop it, and none of us have pulled that off.

    That brings me nicely to the second problem with messing with time and why you don’t see many of us: it’s fucking dangerous. Simply put, despite T.M.’s showing up at about the same rate as other supers, we just don’t have a long shelf-life.

    I mentioned earlier the “spatial issue”. While I’ve personally never dealt with it, an old buddy of mine explained it to me before he died. In short, while a lot of T.M.’s can manipulate time, the universe is made up of both time and space. Basic physics kind of stuff. But those basic physics make a big difference when you travel in time because there’s a fair chance that the planet you’re on won’t exist beneath your feet if you go too far backward or ahead. With very few exceptions, most T.M.’s couldn’t do anything about that and so any jumps they made had to be in weird, quick intervals to avoid leaving the Earth behind.

    Space is pretty fucking cold and you can’t breathe out there.

    Unfortunately, though, for someone like me with the ability to stop time, not breathing is also a big issue. As a kid, I remember seeing a bunch of comics about how cool it would be to stop time, to run around without anyone moving or even knowing what was going on, but those stories never took into account the fact that when you stop time, more than just people are frozen. And I don’t mean plants or animals or bugs or anything like that.

    Like I said earlier, everything in the universe is bound to time.

    You’ve heard of the speed of light, right? Maybe you haven’t thought of it too much, but speed implies movement. A lightyear is the speed of light measured against time. So naturally, if you stop time, you stop light.

    Do you know what else requires time to move around?

    Air.

    Oxygen. Nitrogen. Hydrogen. All those little particles that make up our ability to breathe. To survive. All of those are just as dictated by time as the rest of us. And if they aren’t moving. You aren’t breathing them.

    Even worse than that, if they aren’t moving, then you aren’t moving.

    Yet again, if time isn’t moving, then none of those little particles are. Fully stopping time is like locking yourself in a prison of darkness, unable to move any part of your body. My mom and dad thought they were night terrors when I was a kid. Turned out it was just my superpower developing and no one understanding that the “sleep paralysis” that wore off after I passed out was me accidentally locking myself in that prison.

    Who knew I’d put myself back in it willingly?

    To be fair, I figured out what it was years ago and I haven’t used a full time-stop again until today. Normally I do what I call “Extreme Slo-mo”. You slow down time just enough so that you’ve still got photons bouncing around and the particles in the air can move around. It’s like moving through beef stew, and you still can’t breathe, but it lets me do my job and save people. It also comes with the cool side effect of making these big explosions when I move through a lot of space because it displaces all the air super fast. Everyone thinks I’m a speedster because of it, and I guess for a long time I was happy to just accept that.

    Until today.

    Man, everything was going great today. It was supposed to be nice and easy. Just go grab some shmuck that had taken some hostages. My friends and I had dealt with similar stuff a hundred times over since we became supers five years ago.

    Why the fuck did he have a nuke?

    Maybe if I was a speedster, I could have done something. At the very least, maybe I could have gotten away. I wouldn’t just be sitting here waiting for my body to give up and pass out. It’s already been three minutes since I locked myself in my little time prison. It’s pretty impressive I haven’t blacked out already.

    Okay, maybe I’m being pedantic. I don’t have any light and I haven’t since that bastard set off the bomb.

    I just wish I had realized what he was doing. Wish I had been proactive and not only been able to react. He’d already pressed the button. Already primed it to go off. He had never intended to get out of there. He just wanted to take some supers with him and used the hostages to do it.

    I just wish I had a chance to do it over again.

    Who knows, maybe I can figure out how to.

    I’ve got all the time in the world.

   

Dualism

 

Picture Source: https://www.machinerylubrication.com/Read/616/gear-drive-lubricants

 

  Trigger Warning: Physical Violence / Gore

 

 ===

 

Dualism

 

    Drp.

    Drp.

    Drp.

    Blood dripped off of his body steadily, adding to the pool of crimson beneath him...wait...above him?

    Dorian arched his body this way and to try and get a better view. It was hard to really get a good angle given the dozens of large, metallic spikes that pierced his body at odd angles starting at the neck and going all the way to his feet. The giant skewers locked his body into place and made it difficult to really see anything, but given the blood was 'up' his face, he concluded that the most reasonable interpretation would be that the pool was above him.

    ...adding to the pool of crimson above him. Our stalwart hero once again found himself in the evil clutches of the Mastermind!

    "HA! HA! HA!" a boisterous and raucous sound echoed out from somewhere underneath of Dorian as...wait...

     Once again, Dorian twisted in place and tried to determine what his orientation should count as. His head was getting pulled towards gravity, so he was technically upside down. If someone else was looking at this other than stupid old Victor, they'd probably interpret that Dorian's feet were above him. But would it matter more about his own orientation or a global orientation to the room?

    "Do you mind? Are you even listening?" Victor demanded from his position above Dorian at the top of the spike contraption on a small platform overlooking the massive hole. Only moments before, the entire death trap had been covered by some well-laid lumber and a throw rug meant to catch Dorian in just such a predicament.

    "Yes, yes, yes." Dorian answered dismissively. "I'm listening, I'm listening. I'm just trying...to figure out..."

    ...underneath of Dorian as...wait...crap. What's the next line. Let's see, Mastermind above. Spike trap. Blood below...What's a good next line?

    "I don't think you're even listening." Victor accused the impaled man.

    "Yes, yes." Dorian called again. "Just...Give me a second. I'm trying to figure out the next line!"

    ...dripping blood. Right. Whatever.
    The evil Mastermind towered above our stalwart hero, standing only feet above the precipice of metal and malice that now threatened to...

    "Oh, come on, Dorian!" Victor yelled. "Are you doing the whole thing again? That narration thing?"

    ...that now threatened to consume...

    "Doriiiian..." Victor called again.

    ...to consume...Fuck!...

    "Yes! I was doing the narration thing! And you fucked it up!" Dorian growled back.

    "Ha! I knew it!" Victor yelled, pumping his fist in triumph. "I build this whole death trap and you can't even give me the time of day!"

    "It's not like that, Victor!"

    Victor, pulling a controller from his coat pocket, hit one of the dozens of unlabeled buttons. The walls of the tunnel that Dorian was suspended in that weren't being used for a giant crushing spike trap slid open. Cylindrical metal tubes, not spiky on the end this time but, instead, hollow, jutted out from their newly exposed spaces in the wall. Dorian's body was consumed a few moments later in great gouts of flame that were so hot the spikes holding him in place began to bubble and drip with molten metal.

    Victor stared down at his nemesis, or, more accurately, the flaming plume where the now liquefying body of his nemesis was, and just soaked it in. The heat washing over his face. The stink of burning human. The sense of success and a job well down.

    By the time the flamethrowers had done their job, the spikes, and the body that they had been holding in place, had been reduced to molten slag and was little more than a stinky, softly glowing puddle on the hard stone below.

    Satisfied, Victor put the controller back away in his pocket. 

    ...joining the pool of blood that had once been inside of him... Wait...I guess it's now inside of me? Do I have an inside?

    "Question." the bubbling mass of remains called up.

    And, like that, Victor's satisfaction drained away and left him with the same old exhaustion that had been plaguing him for a while now.

    "What?" he called back down to Dorian with defeated acceptance.

    "If blood was in your body, and then out, and then...uhh...this happened. Is the blood back in your body? Does the molten metal cause a problem with how things are mixed up? I'm having trouble figuring out the in's and out's here."

    Victor glowered down at the pool where lips and, disgustingly, a throat and vocal cord set were already emerging and rebuilding from the gore.

    "I feel like inside requires you to have the rest of the body in one piece." the disembodied lips continued as cheeks and teeth started to form around them. "So a puddle in a puddle is just...what...a big puddle? Right?"

    Pulling out the controller again, Victor considered it for a long moment. He had several things that would shut him up for a little bit. He could freeze him. Maybe suck him into a giant spinning saw blade. Just melt him again. Call a Roomba?

    But what was the point?

    Victor let out a long, drawn out sigh and, instead, tapped a button that caused the platform he was in to start descending towards the floor. The metal spikes did their best to retract automatically, but some of them, now hardening in strange, half-dissolved columns of metal, jammed in their housing. Still, it was enough that he could maneuver the platform around here and there and touch down next to the remains of his arch enemy.

    "Dorian." Victor began before sighing again and pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "I really don't know. I just... I don't know."

    "Like, don't get me wrong." the grotesque amalgamation of meat and bone declared matter-of-factly. "It's probably already actually inside now, but I feel like making that proper distinction is important to really get a sense of everything going on."

    "A sense of everything going on." Victor echoed, pinching his nose tighter. "Dorian, do you even have a sense of what's going on?!"

    "Pardon?" the bust of Dorian asked as he continued to slowly regrow from his molten puddle.

    "I mean, do you have any idea why we're still doing...THIS?" Victor demanded, waving a hand at half-destroyed trap room as a well of annoyance that had been growing within him bubbled to the surface.

    "This?"

    "YES! THIS! This song and dance! This... Whatever this is! Why are we still doing this?"

    "Well, you see," Dorian began. "I find your evil lair..."

    "Naturally."

    "Break in."

    "Obviously."

    "Deal with the traps and minions and all that."

    "Clearly."

    "And when I'm just about to defeat you, against all odds, you escape to your actual evil lair."

    "Oh, yes, the real one." Victor remarked snidely as he considered just how many different actual evil lairs he really had and how many had been destroyed over the years.

    Honestly, the property taxes alone made him cringe to even think about them.

    "And then I go to break in there! The actual lair."

    "Yes, yes." Victor agreed. "I know what we're doing. I asked why we're doing this?"

    "Because that's what we do." Dorian gestured with a meaty appendage. An arm, perhaps? Hopefully an arm.

    "And we've been doing it for as long as I can remember." Victor agreed. "But how long has that been? I know it was at least before the British came about."

    Dorian seemed to nod and consider. "I vaguely remember something about you wearing Roman armor for a while..."

    "Oh yea, I remember that one. I really liked that armor."

    "So, I guess before the Romans?" Dorian considered.

    "Yea, we'd been doing it for a while before that. Definitely before the Romans."

    The two sat in thought for a second, Victor standing over the cooling pool of mess while Dorian slowly grew and emerged out of it, his body stitching itself back together.

    "Was there a thing with dinosaurs once? Has it been that long?" Dorian asked thoughtfully.

    "Well, there was, but that was pretty recent." Victor considered. "You meant the one with the pterodactyl, right?"

    "No, no." Dorian shook his head. "The tyrannosaurus."

    "Oh! Right! When I was trying to create a dragon!"

    "Oh, yea! And you had that whole knight thing going on. Where did you even get that one?"

    "Bought it off some guy from Montana. Something... Brown? I think his name was Brown."

    The two stood there, just staring at each other. Remembering things that had come before and realizing that they probably only recalled a fraction of what had actually been.

    "Vic," Dorian echoed his nemesis's question. "Why are we doing this?"

    Despite himself, Victor tried again to recall, but knew that the answer was no longer there. Maybe he had just run out of space to remember stuff like that. Maybe it had been lost from one of the times he'd 'died'. Maybe it just hadn't been significant to begin with.

    "I don't know." Victor confessed.

    Another few seconds drew out before them as Dorian slowly reached his natural height. The man was nude as his clothes had been disintegrated in the conflagration earlier, but it was nothing that Victor hadn't seen before.

    For the first time since he could even remember, they regarded each other as men, as thinking people, rather than as the enemies they had been for so long.

    "Dorian." Victor began.

    "Yea?"

    "I'm tired." he confessed.

    "I- Me too, Vic."

    The two took in their surroundings, glancing around at the half-destroyed trap room again, but looking at it again with a new perspective. So much time. So much money. So much everything wasted in this endless rigamarole of back and forth, back and forth. They had been spending so much time trying to kill each other even though they both knew that neither of them could die. They had tried literally everything under the sun to invoke their own deaths that-

    "It was because you couldn't die." Victor declared, the briefest flicker of a memory bubbling to the surface.

    "Was that it?" Dorian asked hesitantly.

    "Yea. You said you'd never met someone else who couldn't die when...something happened. I can't remember what. And then you tried to kill me just to see. And then I tried to kill you."

    "Seems about right."

    "I can't remember what really started it, but I definitely remember bashing your head in with a rock." Victor recalled.

    "I think I tried to drown you." Dorian though.

    "Oh, right! I remember that." Victor said before shuddering. "I hate drowning. Always leaves me feeling weird."

    All at once, the silence of the room grew around them. Everything that had been said, everything that had been done for so many years. The maiming, the attempted murder, the property damage, the crimes against humanity, the tax evasion...

    "Do you want to-" Victor began while Dorian stared at him expectantly. "Do you want to go get a drink?"

    "Yea." Dorian said with a nod. "I think I do."

    Victor stepped further to the side of his platform and offered the space to Dorian who slowly stepped on, dripping with the remains of the pool.

    "Though, one requirement." Victor continued.

    "Don't drown you in it?"

    "Also good. But let's get you cleaned up first."

    "Sounds like a plan." Dorian agreed.

    And so, enemies no more, the dastardly duo ascended towards the heavens aboard the Mastermind's creati-

    "Stop that."

    "Sorry."

===

Story submitted to Reedsy for their Weekly Writing Contest with the following Prompt: Write a story about two characters who have been fighting for so long, they can’t remember what started it.

 

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

 

Just a Little Chip

===

    Late morning sunlight filtered through tall, stained glass windows resting in stone archways long since weathered by many years. While each window was emblazoned with their own images, some of battles of history past, others of myths and legends, and others yet of figureheads near forgotten, it was the light that entranced him most.
    The light, run through that stained glass, ignited into a rainbow of color every morning, using the stained glass as its paints to splash a spectrum of hues across every stone and brick that lined that long hall. And, with the miniscule bits of dust that drifted from the ceiling on particularly lucky days, the colors seemed to even dance in the air.
    Today was one of those lucky days.
    While RM-BH-022 lacked the mindful programming of some of his brethren to allow him to truly appreciate the beauty that the natural world provided, something about the light in that hallway always drew him back to it. He’d return to it day after day, mopping and sweeping and cleaning the corners like clockwork, even when his scheduling didn’t actually call for it.
    A bug. One of the arcanists called it.
    A quirk. Another said.
    Too much time to figure it out. The headmaster finally declared.
    Why would they care if the mechanized cleaner happened to clean one particular hall more often than required? It was doing its job after all. So long as it didn’t get in the way of the students attending.
    Perhaps that’s why they had spent so much time trying to figure out the little quirk.
    “Move it, tin-can.” one of the students said as they barreled down the hall, nearly slamming into him as he leaned over the mop, trying to get up a particularly stubborn bit of who-knows-what on the floor.
    A split second later, a human male, dressed in the long, flowing garments typical of the Illusion Branch, followed after the other student, calling after him and actually shoving aside the mechanical janitor.
    “Hey, wait up!” the human shouted as RM-BH-022 hit the ground with the clang of metal on stone.
    His mop, bucket, and several hand brooms went flying as he hit the ground, scattering cleaning implements in all directions with janitorial tools sliding across the floors, bouncing off the walls, and one particular brush banging against one of the stained glass windows.
    The hallway quickly filled with students as the period came to a close. No one paid the Forged in the hall any mind as he picked himself up off the stone, seemingly no worse for wear, began gathering the tools of his trade, and continued about his duties.
    After all, why would he, a drone seemingly identical to the twenty nine others that wandered the campus, stand out in any manner? They might as well pay attention to an individual brick in the wall.
    For that matter, why would they care about him leaving the hall? Surely he’s got somewhere to be and it couldn’t have anything to do with them being there.
    
    The next day passed much as any other.
    RM-BH-022 moved from task to task, passing students, faculty, and Forged alike, bustling about the campus without thought. When he found a mess, he cleaned it. When he arrived at his scheduled regions, he sanitized them. He worked quickly, diligently, thoroughly, and always stayed out of the way of his betters.
    He was everything he was programmed to be.
    Except for that bug.
    At the same time the following day, late in the morning, when the sun was just beginning to filter through stained glass, the hall one again had a single occupant.
    Mop in hand, RM-BH-022 slowly wiped and worked the old stone floors while the dustmotes, always the last and seemingly regularly forgotten element of his work, drifted down from the ceiling.
    As always, the hall lit up with the rainbow of colors, dozens of stained glass windows illuminated by the sun behind them.
    With an exception.
    Looking up from his mopping, RM-BH-022 realized that there was something different about the light in this room today. It was miniscule, but a single, small beam of sunlight shined unabashed through one of the windows.
    No color.
    Only pure, natural sunlight.
    RM-BH-022 set down the mop and made his way over to the offending window, leaning down to examine the minute difference in color. To the average student, it likely would have been left unnoticed for quite some time; either til someone was looking directly at it at the right time or if the damage got worse. However, to a Forged meant to pick out the most mundane details, the small, centimeter wide hole stood out as plainly as if someone had put their fist through the glass.
    It was the same window he had been in front of the day before when he was knocked over. The one his hand-broom had hit.
    He ran his finger over the hole, watching the light appear and reappear and noting the slight difference in heat that it put out compared to the filtered light. Again, it would be nothing to any regular person, but he wasn’t.
    RM-BH-022 knew without checking that he did not have the ability to repair the glass. While all of it had been cast by artisans several centuries back, repair required a mage’s touch; someone with the ability to fix it without removing or warping the precious window.
    There was nothing he could do, so why should he waste anymore time than just reporting it and moving on?
    He stepped back away from the miniscule hole in to see the larger picture.
    The window before him, like the rest of the windows in the hall, was emblazoned with something significant to the original founders of the Academy. This one, though RM-BH-022 himself did not know it, showed the principle hero of the War of the Gryphons; a man by the name of Hrothnar the Wise.
    In the window, Hrothnar, cloaked heavily in red velvets and brown leathers, stands upon a hill, one hand extended to point towards something unseen, his other hand at his side, loosely holding a tome. Behind him, set in relief, before a boiling sea of blue and white, seemingly a hundred Gryphon-mounted Cavaliers wearing White, Silver, and Gold and brandishing swords, axes, and spears, fly forward towards where Hrothnar points.
    Were he actually studying here, he’d likely know that this was the turning point of that War. He’d know that Hrothnar, having chartered an agreement with the Gryphons using the aide of his brothers-in-arms, a Druidic Shaman by the name of Colgan and the Ranger Le’ara, used the power of the Gryphon riders to overcome the tyrannical Kingdom of Trevania. He’d likely also learn that this was the first recorded instance of Gryphon-Human relations and one of the founding moments that would eventually lead to a multitude of achievements for the Human species; in particular the dawn of the Erengale Empire, which still to this day relied heavily on the regal creatures.
    But, to be fair, he would have also likely fallen asleep were he to have that level of comprehension.
    “On your left!” a voice shouted behind him before, a moment later, something slammed into the back of his head.
    And his head went through the window.
    The glass shattered loudly, exploding outward in a sparkling array of ruby reds and emerald greens that showered the lawns four stories below the window, though RM-BH-022 only had a split second to comprehend this before momentum of the shove finished slamming his face into the stone windowsill.
    “Caleb! You broke the window!” a second, familiar voice shouted.
    “Yea, whatever. They can bill me.”
    RM-BH-022 leaned up for a moment, the action causing his neck and back to fight against him, and saw the same two from the day before. The second student, a human in Illusionist robes, and the first, a blonde haired half-elf wearing the same.
    Crick.
    RM-BH-022 looked up just as the weakened window started to crumble.
    ShhhCRACKcrack!
    And as it gave way directly on top of him.

    “Testing. Testing.”
    “Seems like audio cues are working well. Visual should be coming online shortly.”
    “You sure you aren’t worried about that chip?”
    “It’s fine. The restrictions the inhibitor chip place on them are just redundant backup. Their programming is really what takes care of it. Besides, mending the broken head and shoulders was already a nuisance. We’d have to replace the entire chassis to replace that chip.”
    “Okay. If you insist. I’m just wondering if we shouldn’t wait til it can be replaced.”
    “Yea, right. You want to talk to the headmaster about ordering a party down to Ironrock Keep to find the gems required to make one?”
    “Not really.”
    “It’ll be fine. It’s just a custodial Forged. What’s it gonna do? Mop aggressively?”
    “Yea. You’re prolly right.”
    The world, all at once, snapped into stark relief. Brilliant blue and white lights glew all around and at him while a smaller gnome male, his hair shock white and tied back, leaned forward with some sort of metal instrument.
    “Begin tracking.”
    Doing as he was told, RM-BH-022’s eyes focused on the metal instrument before him and the gnome, no, the biologic known as Felros, the head artificer, proceeded to test his visual acuity. The other biologic, a dwarf female called Elna, the head arcanist, took notes as they worked.
    “Good.” Felros declared proudly.
    The two started saying something. Was it to him? Was it to each other? He was having trouble focusing on them. What were they saying? Did it matter? It probably didn’t matter, right? Why would it matter?
    And for that matter, why was the other biologic so flushed? Her skin seemed oddly red. Was it always like that? Had he just never noticed. And she was so…wet around the edges. Particularly under the arms. Actually, so was the first biologic. His lips in particular. Everytime he talked, he could hear the saliva slapping on his lips. And everytime either of them moved, they sounded…squishy.
    Were they always squishy?
    “Repeat.” Felros said with a snap of his little meaty appendages. “Designation number.”
    “Sir…” the other biologic said, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Something seems off.”
    “Enough, Elna.” the old, frail little biologic snapped at the stouter one. “Designation number. Now.”
    “Designation Number: Ru..Ru… RuM-BuH-022.” RuM-BuH-022 responded in an unfamiliar, chipper voice.
    “Seems like that replacement voice circuit might be bad.” the fat female biologic commented.
    “Whatever. It’s not like they’re conversationalists.” the little, easily broken biologic said dismissively. “Objective.”
    “Objective as last: Monitor, maintain, and Sanitize grounds for Academy.”
    “Retain Objective as Last and begin primary programming.”
    “Acknowledged.”
    RuM-BuH-022 stood and walked past the squishable, disgusting little biologics and made his way promptly out of the room without another word.
    “See. Voice circuit works fine. It was just his designation number that was the problem.”

    The next day did not pass like any other.
    RuM-BuH-022 moved aimlessly from place to place, passing students, faculty, and Forged alike, seemingly dragging as he was unable to focus on any task. His head and body felt strange. Almost foreign. As though he were wearing the metal of another and someone had left a beehive behind in his head. He didn’t work though he notated those locations that really should have been.
    He felt like he was drifting and, despite answering what he knew he was supposed to say, he felt no direction.
    No programming.
    The only habit that felt right came at the same time the following day, late in the morning, when the sun was just beginning to filter through stained glass.
    The damage from the day before had already been fixed. The mages had been by, no doubt due to dozens of complaints from students about the dangerous conditions of a broken, twenty foot window, and already mended Hrothnar the Wise. The window was good as new without even the minor chip to speak of.
    For long minutes, RuM-BuH simply stood there, staring up again at the stained glass window. From time to time, he’d glance to and fro, marveling at the glittering colors that seemed to drift in the air and paint the walls, but mostly he just marveled at the window.
    Who was this man?
    What was his story?
    Where could he fi-
    “Watch it, Ro-”
    Rum-Buh spun in place, already anticipating the shove that was coming, and perfect, metal fingers clasped around fragile, meaty wrist. There was a crunch as pathetic bone splintered under barely trying servos and the ensuing scream of pain from the little Illusionist biologic was promptly cut off as a single metal hand closed over his mouth.
    “What?!” the second biologic Rum’Buh already knew was going to be there shouted. “Caleb!”
    A thousand things ran through his mind in a moment, but something bubbled up that felt right. Felt correct.
    “Please. Do not interrupt the Custodians. We are helping to make this your home away from home.” came out a chipper, robotic voice.
    Releasing both the little biologic’s mouth and shattered radius and ulna, Rume’Buh shoved him harshly to the stone floor.
    “Caleb!” the second one shouted again as he dropped to the ground by his friend.
    “It appears you have suffered an injury from tampering with facility maintenance Forged. This would be inadvisable in the future as the machines that maintain this facility are much stronger and more durable than you.” He continued in that same chipper voice. “I recommend reporting to the physician. Would you like me to take you there?”
    “No!” the second biologic shouted as the first sobbed, holding the purple and red mess of an arm. “We-we got it.”
    “Carry on then.” Rume’Buh said as he turned and walked away, admiring the gleaming colors of the hall.
    They were gone before the rest of the students arrived.
    And neither saw the smile that graced his metal lips.
    Pushing his way through the quickly crowding hall, he continued on through the gathering flood of stinky, sweaty bodies until he crossed outside into a small courtyard that looked down onto others below it. Flowers hung from vines sneaking through trestles above and snaked their ways along columns and benches. Some students were gathered here, but many were thankfully quiet.
    With an exception.
    “I’m telling you, you need to stop talking to that guy.”
    “You’re telling me. He’s the one that keeps showing up in my dreams. At least your’s doesn’t talk.”
    “I don’t think the talking is the problem.”
    Two male biologics, similar in appearance despite the difference in hair color, sat off to one side speaking over a small lunch. One, the blonde speaking about dreams, appeared particularly haggard and looked like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest in several days.
    “What’s up, boys!” Rume’Buh heard shouted from behind.
    Turning to look back at the third voice, another blond haired biologic came walking through door of the courtyard, waving to the first two.
    “What’s Up?” Rume’buh responded.
    The two biologics both fell silent and a queer smile cross the third one’s lips as, looking to Rume’buh for the first time, a chuckle escaped his lips.
    “What’s up to you, too, big guy.”
    “Rume’buh.”
    “Sorry?” the blonde biologic responded.
    “I think you made a friend.” One of the two said as they walked up to the third.
    “Didn’t know they could talk.” the other said.
    “I am Rume’buh.” Rume’buh clarified.
    “Arioch.” the third one responded before pointing to the other two. “That’s Locke and Pal, though don’t make me tell you which is which.”
    “Nice to meet you.” Rume’buh declared.
    “Huh. I didn’t know they could talk.”

The Tales of Raythia: Trojan Horse | Chapter 3: "Assignment"

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The Tales of Raythia

Trojan Horse

Chapter 3: Assignment

    “Alright. One last time.” The NCO said as he cycled back a few slides to the topographical map.

    Pvt. Marie LeRoux let out a long, slow sigh and sat up straighter in her chair after realizing that she was beginning to list off to one side out of sheer, absolute fucking boredom. Her hand drifted up to her hair and traced the valleys of her tightly knotted locks with her fingers; the old habit of running her fingers through her curly hair replaced once she joined the army and had been required to wear it regulation.

    She glanced over at Diego, or Sergeant Olvera as the baby-faced Team Leader insisted on being called, as he stared intensely at the slide for the third…no…fourth? Fourth time they’d gone over it.

    LeRoux had always thought the Sarge was a little cutie and she’d even taken a swing at him the first time they’d met, but he’d been just as straight-laced then as he was now. Hell, he was actually maybe a bit MORE straight-laced, but that wasn’t here nor there. He was a good lead but not her type when it came to personality.

    Still, he was good eye candy. Sharp brown eyes, brown skin, and clean-cut brown hair that shaped his face nicely even with that softer chin.

    “You day-dreamin’, girl?” Johnson whispered.

    “Only about throwing you through a window, Johnson.” She whispered back with a side-eye towards her Grenadier Rifleman.

    “You promise to try?”

    If she was honest with herself, it would probably take hitting the massive man with a dump truck to actually do so, so try was really all she COULD do in that scenario. Part African American, part American Bison, and probably part cinder block, Pvt. David Johnson worked out about as religiously as a priest went to church and probably was near three-hundred pounds of pure muscle.

    “Yea. If you promise to eat shit, lug-head.”

    “Stow that shit.” Sergeant Olvera barked, glaring at both of them for a half second before looking back at the map.

    Spc. Andrew Merrick, FireTeam Bravo’s remaining member and the team’s Dedicated Marksman, gave them both the side-eye before smirking wordlessly and looking back towards the map. LeRoux frowned and did likewise.

   The blonde man always made her just a little bit uncomfortable. He was practically her antithesis. Cold, calculating, and collected, not to mention tall, thin, and was always perfectly trimmed well beyond regs. She knew he could rely on him like a brother, but that didn’t make his silence and cold perfection unnerving sometimes.
    Still, she liked the college boy. He tended to be unexpectedly fun even if she didn’t see it coming half the time.

    “As I was saying…” the NCO began again. “Satellite and Drone imagery have confirmed the presence of an enemy encampment here on this hillside.”

    The man motioned towards the far end of a topographical map that had been highlighted with a red circle and a variety of scribbled information.

    “While we have been aware of it for several weeks, it appears well-fortified and, while it could hypothetically be taken care of with drone strikes, we believe a high value target Hassan Asghar calls this place home. If we can take him alive, the rest can be dealt with cleanly.”

    “Now, as of yesterday, we have identified movement on the far end of the hillside.” The NCO now motioned towards the opposite side of the map. “Here.”

    “Following this discovery, we scanned the hillside and confirmed with thermal imaging that there are a series of tunnels that appear to potentially lead directly to the enemy encampment and that these individuals are potentially using the tunnels either as a primary or secondary route into the camp.”

    “Unfortunately, we cannot confirm this at this time as the individuals we have spotted have been dressed primarily in civilian clothing, mostly robes and shawls. Additionally, we have been unable to confirm any weaponry, leading to the possibility that this is an unrelated farming or herding community, though we have not identified any cattle or produce as of yet.”

    “Now, it’s possible that this community, if one exists, may have ties to the enemy encampment and are providing aid or it’s possible that undercover operatives dressed as civilians are using it as a backdoor before slipping off into the cities. We need to find out what’s going and, more importantly, if whether we can use this backdoor ourselves to secure Hassan before calling in the big guns.”

     “Your mission is simple. Recon. Go in, investigate the tunnels, see if a community exists and extrapolate what their purpose is. Identify if a route exists through the tunnels to the enemy encampment and report back. Engage only if engaged and no heroics. In. Out. Debrief.”

    LeRoux looked up and down at the faces of her team. Sgt. Olvera’s eyes were hard set and he was giving a curt nod. Spc. Merrick was motionless as a statue except for his eyes being ever so slightly narrowed. Pvt. Johnson was also nodding, though he looked about as bored as she felt.

    “Any questions?” The NCO asked.

    No questions.

    “You have your orders. Dismissed.”

   

    “Man, I fuckin’ hate Recon.” LeRoux growled.

    “Trust me, we all know you do.” Johnson said with a barking laugh.

    The four of them were geared up and on their way towards the Humvee that would be dropping them off in the middle of bum-fuck-egypt. They’d get to hike the lovely two miles across open terrain under the cover of night to keep anyone from spotting the transport bringing them in. When they got out, they’d call for a ride and get the fuck out.

    “No listen to me, man…” LeRoux began before Johnson perfectly echoed her next words. “…it’s because it’s so fuckin’ boring. We go in, we look, we don’t shoot any-Hey. Stop that. The fuck? Stop that, man. Johnson. I swear to God you…”

    Johnson stopped echoing her when LeRoux reached up and slapped him on the back of his helmeted head.

    “Fout toné! Get manman ou! Tét zozo…” she swore.

    “Knock it off!” Olvera snapped at the two of them. “I swear, you’re both like bickering children.”

    “She started it.” Johnson said with a smirk.

    “And I’m ending it. Straighten the fuck up. We’ve got a job to do.”

    “It’s shit-detail, that’s what it is, Sarge.” LeRoux muttered.

    “Yea.” Johnson agreed, far louder than the little Creole woman. “It’s, how do you say it, LeRoux? Makakri?”

    “ENOUGH!” Olvera bellowed, stopping short and getting his face not inches from theirs. “You will pull your heads out of your asses this instant or I will ensure that the next time you want to do so, they’ll have to be surgically removed, comprende putas?”

    Johnson and LeRoux’s jaws both snapped shut and they both gave a quick nod.

    “Malditos chicos estúpidos…”Olvera mumbled and turned to keep walking, Johnson and LeRoux trading glances before Merrick walked up beside them.

    “You know,” he said in a whispered tone. “maybe if you ask ‘are we there yet?’ enough times, he’ll turn the hummer around. Won’t get McDonald’s, but what’s it worth to ya.”

    Both Johnson and LeRoux snorted, looking at the tall man as he passed, his hands in a shrugging gesture.

    “I don’t know, man. I like my McDonald’s.” LeRoux whispered.

    Johnson snorted again but said nothing further before the entire FireTeam gathered into the Humvee; the armor vehicle heading out into the darkened desert towards their next mission.