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Mustafá is waiting for me right outside of the building, on a bench nearby. She is looking at her phone with a rather… intense expression. I’ve found it difficult so far to understand what this woman is thinking or feeling, and yet right now I can see that something is wrong. Deadly wrong too, to really get the mage in such a weird mood.

I carefully take a seat beside her, trying to spy on her phone, but she immediately pushes it in her pocket. Saints damn it, I wasn’t fast enough to really see! Mustafá immediately regains her usual chill, and without even blinking she asks:

“What’s your opinion on civil wars?”

“I, uh…” Well that was a bomb to drop on me all of a sudden! “Some issues, uh, can’t be solved peacefully if one of the sides is unwilling to cooperate or negotiate, so… I-I don’t know, I don’t want to say I like them.”

“Trick question. It doesn’t really matter how you feel about it, they happen anyways.” Mustafá shrugs softly.

“What is that supposed to mean?!” I turn to face my teacher, and she doesn’t answer me. Instead, she snatches the Spell Chart from my hands. “H-Hey!”

“Hmmm. Telekinesis, mending and water control. Basic stuff, inoffensive, hard to weaponize.” She shrugs again. “I guess some things never change.”

“The government wouldn’t want to arm its citizens, that’s basic ruling.” Now I shrug and then check the pamphlet I was given. “Let’s see, my assigned Elysium is at… huh?”

I totally expected them to assign me to Saüle University, and to have to endure the shame of walking around there again, but no? I've been assigned to a random building not too far from my apartment. Apparently it’s one of those ‘cat café’ thingies…

“Have you visited this one?” I ask her, passing her the pamphlet.

“I have not visited this city in decades.” She takes the paper and passes me the piece of cardboard back.

“...You don’t look that much older than me. How old are you?” Honestly, by the way people treat her, she must be either ancient, or the daughter of someone ancient.

“Never.” She points at me with her finger, finally turning to face me. “Never ask me that.”

“Alright then, duly noted!” Defensively I look away, already noticing that I have somehow touched a nerve there. “But anyways… I got my license! Hooray! What now?”

“Now…” Mustafá takes a deep breath. She seems a little distracted, actually, and that’s kind of unnerving. “... Now you go back home. I will get to you in a moment.”

“What?! What was all that about having a good breakfast a-and the talk we just had?!” I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“You should always have a good breakfast, and we haven’t finished speaking about that.” Mustafá gets right up, cleaning her hands and passing me Gato’s Guide back. “Talk to your therapist and schedule an appointment. Read a few pages of Gato’s book. Practice the runes you just got, writing them on paper and then pronouncing them. Do not try unwritten sorcery on these, you hear me?”

“B-But why not?” I try to protest.

“You hear me?” Again she looks me straight in the eye.

“...Y-Yes ma’am.” Gulp.

“Good. Now, wait for me at home.” Without another word, Mustafá claps her hands. In the blink of an eye, she vanishes.

… It’s the strangest thing, loneliness doesn’t bother me that much anymore, except in the moments after I get company. Maybe I can only really feel absence after experiencing the thing I am yearning for…? Or maybe my body just eventually forgets again what it is like to be in the presence of others. Of people who actually care.

With a heavy huff, I stretch a little bit and after some consideration, I decide to walk all the way home. Maybe the extra air in my brain will actually help me think.


Mustafá arrived at her room as soon as she could, mere seconds after disappearing from Tav’s view. She walked to take Universe Gamma’s feeder and hurriedly filled it with dried up insects, lettuce, nuts and fruits from the fridge. For a moment, the thought that her minifridge was often filled with more crab food than actual people food came to her mind. Truth was, while she advocated good habits for Tav’s sake, she never really took care of her own body… after all, she didn’t need to.

No matter how much hunger would cramp her stomach, she knew it wouldn’t hurt her. She could ignore it as long as it didn’t start affecting her faculties.

But now wasn’t the time to think of that.

After fulfilling her obligations to Plato and Socrates, the old alchemist jumped to her computer and checked on ‘The Belltower’.

The news were all over the place, and for the first time in a long time, the Brotherhood hadn’t even bothered to censor it: the Emperor of Bisontia, along with at least ten others, had been murdered. And the main theory right now was magical foul play. Of course, people were panicking. This was the closest the secret had come to being broken in a massive incident since the days before the Great Empires.

Ignoring the comments for now, the alchemist began checking each picture posted about the subject. They would never post pictures of the deceased, so she had no real way to analyze the situation, but she could glean a few hints from the pictures of the scene. Apparently, this all had happened in the bathroom of the Imperial Palace, or well, it had started there. Then it spread back into the Great Dining room.

The photographs showed charred parts of the building, blood staining the beautiful marble of the bathroom, burnt furniture and broken tables… it had been a violent and merciless affair.

The mage took a deep breath. She wouldn’t learn anything from afar… but she really, really didn’t want to get involved. Not now that the Brotherhood was taking care of the situation. They would start asking for favours if she did.

So, there was only one person she could call… and she hated him almost as much as she hated Giovanni.

Without any other choice, she picked up her phone and called Blanco’s number.

He picked up instantly. Of course he did, he had probably been spying on her all this time.

“Took you long enough~.” Said the vampire. “G already got his info-bundle from me. He’s ahead again~!”

“Shut up.” The alchemist had to bite her lower lip down to not yell. Keep composed… “Just, tell me how much and I’ll make a deposit.”

“I am sending the amount riiiiight…” Blanco had this whiney, annoying voice even when he was happy. Mustafá despised it. “... Now!”

A message rang on the computer and Mustafá stared at it for a moment. That was a lot of zeroes.

“You’re an abusive son of a whore.” She sighed. This would dent her apparently unending resources quite a bit.

“It’s gonna be war out there, baby! Bloodbags are not cheap and I am not hunting ever again.” The vampire was far too happy to scam his so-called ‘best friends’.

With another, deeper and even more defeated sigh, the mage accepted the transaction and deposited the money on one of Blanco’s many offshore accounts… Soon after, she received the grim, disturbing pictures of the dirty deed done in Great Bisontia.

Bodies had been twisted, dismembered, cut in twain. Bite marks covered their skins, sometimes charring it to a crisp black, sometimes leaving it nice and raw. The wild nature of the attack, the desperate claw marks left on the walls, everything indicated that this was not a mere terrorist attack. This was not a bombing, not a shootout.

This had been a beast. A magical creature.

That conclusion should be enough to appease the people at Tranquility Castle, “should” being the operative word there. The far-right members of the Council were just waiting for a reason to squash the Resistance and their screams for more magical freedom. The Sleeper authorities also wouldn’t shut up, demanding explanations and (worst of all) compensations for this. Favors would be traded, unscrupulous demands would be made.

And if the communications failed at this stage: War.

Mustafá couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow related to the coming of the End of Humanity.

People assumed it would be an instant thing, so once the year actually came, they just stopped caring about the prophecies… Sleepers and old Mages could be so alike sometimes, the alchemist thought.

Checking through the pictures of all the victims, she felt her stomach become smaller and smaller. Her emotions might have been dulled, but one never truly got “used” to seeing massacres and atrocities such as these. People coped in many different ways, yes, but it is impossible to become completely disconnected to it… at least, it was impossible without incurring some concerning consequences for the mind and the soul.

Eventually, the pressure grew too high on her, and Mustafá had to stop. She took deep breaths, closed her eyes and tried to meditate on those images rather than letting them just sear themselves in her subconscious without explanation.

It had to have been a magical creature. Mages didn't know this sort of violent, animalistic magic anymore… but, what creature? The beasts that roamed Jericho had either gone extinct or disappeared without leaving a trace after the First Sacrifice. All that was left were spirits, pixies and jinxes of many types, but none strong enough to do this sort of damage.

The answer was becoming clearer and clearer by the second.

“So?” Blanco said, still waiting on the line. “What do you think?”

“Dragon.” She finally worked up the courage to say it.

“Yeah, G said the same thing. He also said it was impossible.” The vampire didn’t seem really impressed, one way or another.

“That’s because it should be. But I will have to look into it…”

Mustafá hung up without warning, throwing her phone away and just laying on her bed for a moment, staring into the ceiling.

Problems kept accumulating, one on top of the other… for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel on top of the situation.

For the first time in a while.. she may need to visit Palien.


It didn’t take even five streets for me to absolutely regret my choice of walking home. Not only are streets gross, full of people and noise, it is also tiresome to walk through them! My depression soon gives way to a generalized feeling of discomfort and annoyance. Worst part? Every time I am tempted to just say ‘screw this, I’m taking a taxi’, my head laughs at me!

“Look at you, winded after walking a few streets! Oh how embarrassing, please, stop talking to me right now.”

And that is just way too much for me to take. I immediately take a deeper breath and continue walking, purely out of spite for myself.

For a moment I consider reading, but as I’ve already established, the self-consciousness would kill me if I even tried such a pretentious move! So, I am trapped! My music can only protect me so much from the noises of the entire world, the construction workers, the yelling drivers, the fact that I am being seen and perceived by everyone right this instant…

Eventually, after a tortuous way, I manage to get back to my apartment building. I wave at the guard as I walk right back into the elevator and sigh, finally getting a short moment to rest and recover my breath.

Saints above, I really am out of shape aren’t I?

“Yeah.”

“Just a little.”

I walk out of the elevator and trudge my way back into the house, straight to the computer and my comfy, soft, no-longer-reclining chair. I take a seat, closing my eyes and just letting the comfort set in, before I open my computer and go back to check the forum. It has been my main occupation these days, really.

There are a few new posts on the Sleeper threads, no new translation efforts… Everything seems chill in the world.

Until suddenly, I get a message. From Vito? Huh…he’s up early for a Saturday.

UndeadVito: sup boye.
xXxCallMeBigCookiexXx: Sup boy! n.n How are you feeling?
UndeadVito: in pain, but that’s normal.
UndeadVito: I’ll survive.
UndeadVito: how aboutcha? you’re up early
xXxCallMeBigCookiexXx: That’s my line! xD
xXxCallMeBigCookiexXx: And I am fine -u- just chilling before the day starts
UndeadVito: cool, cool

It seems like he just wanted to keep in contact. I can’t help but smile a little at that, this boy could be so nice when he wanted to be!

UndeadVito: oh by the way.
xXxCallMeBigCookiexXx: Huh? o.o
UndeadVito: what’s your opinion on civil wars?

I have been wavering on whether this story is good enough to share, but I'll leave that for you to decide, Reddit Jury. Below is how my MIL's visit turned into a banned guest, a spontaneous overseas flight, and an orthopaedic surgery.
My husband is from Germany and we make sure he sees his mom at least once a year. This used to mean us going to stay with her in Germany for a few weeks a year, but since we now have 3 children and can't afford 5 overseas plane tickets annually, we have flown her to the States to stay with us every year instead.
Well, we used to.
My MIL is chronically broke, so we have always fit her entire trip from flight to food. She and I got along famously, to the point that I called her Ma and she called me her Sweet Daughter. She has been sober for many years after battling alcoholism, for which I commend her, but she always had an issue with the fact that my husband and I still occasionally drink. Her aversion especially to MY drinking alcohol got more intense after we had kids.
I am blessed/cursed with UNBELIEVABLY miserable wretched awful hangovers when I overindulge even slightly, so I am very careful about how much and how often I drink. This fact notwithstanding, she came to the conclusion that any mother who drinks any amount must be an alcoholic (project much?), which must translate into my being a neglectful mother and wife. While staying with us one year, this inspired her to begin to pass little notes to my husband saying as much- that I were an alcoholic, wasn't raising my kids right, was a God-awful Catholic, among other things. In my house. Under my nose. To my life partner. Really nasty, hurtful, strong statements that somehow sound SO much more aggressive because they were in German.
My husband initially laughed these off and avoided the inevitable confrontation by ignoring them and not telling me about them. After a number of notes, however, he realized that this was something I needed to know about, and guilt drove him to tell me. I read all of them.
To say I felt hurt/betrayed/insulted/enraged barely begins to describe it. I was able to calm down enough before confronting her so that I didn't fly into a wild rage and commit my first Aggravated Assault. I told her how much of a betrayal this kind of behavior was and that to insult me in my own home and try to get my husband to similarly go behind my back was more than I could accept. My husband and I agreed and informed her that she was welcome to continue coming to the States to see her grandchildren, however I could never really trust her again and she wasn't welcome in our home after this stay.
I intended to let her complete her stay and just avoid each other, so I more or less kept to myself so that my husband could still spend time with his mom. One day I overheard a loud argument from the other room, and after quite a bit of Angry German screaming, my husband pushed a table aside and stomped out of the house. He was still Angry German-ing every vulgarity in the book when he walked to the back yard. I watched him kick a trash can, one of those big old school metal ones. This one he must have forgotten was completely full of charcoal, but he still managed to make it look like a car hit it and launch it in the air. He also managed to hurt himself doing it.
When he came back inside he was calm, and accompanying the calm was a limp. I work in clinical research and at the time was doing this research in Orthopaedics/Sports Medicine, specifically ACL tears. Later that day I performed certain movement tests on his knee and knew he had torn his ACL. This is an injury that requires surgery to repair, which ended up being an operation from which he is still not fully recovered 7 years later.
My husband, still limping, went to the guest room and came back with suitcases. He didn't speak but to ask MIL where her passport was and told her to get in the car. I figured things had just deteriorated to the point that we needed some space and he'd put her in a nearby hotel for the rest of the 4 remaining weeks (of a planned 6.)
Turns out he took her to the airport, a month before her flight, and left her at the Departures drop-off. By some miracle, she made it back to Germany.
6 months later, my husband had his ACL surgically reconstructed. The charcoal can is still badly dented, but complains less about its injury than my husband does. No one talks about any of her last trip to the States. I still encourage my husband and children to have a good relationship with her, and they still see her often. VIRTUALLY. My husband makes his yearly visits to Berlin alone, and stays in a hotel.
For anyone who can't help but run into conflict with family, we learned to plan in some space for everyone. It can completely change the dynamic to set time away from each other during a prolonged visit, whatever that distance and time looks like. (For me, time = all of it and distance = 4,669.41 mi/7,514.68 km.)
This ended up being longer than I expected. If you made it through all that, thanks for reading. Kind regards, E

I have been wavering on whether this story is good enough to share, but I'll leave that for you to decide, your honor Charlotte and Reddit Jury. Below is how my MIL's visit turned into a banned guest, a spontaneous overseas flight, and an orthopaedic surgery.
My husband is from Germany and we make sure he sees his mom at least once a year. This used to mean us going to stay with her in Germany for a few weeks a year, but since we now have 3 children and can't afford 5 overseas plane tickets annually, we have flown her to the States to stay with us every year instead.
Well, we used to.
My MIL is chronically broke, so we have always fit her entire trip from flight to food. She and I got along famously, to the point that I called her Ma and she called me her Sweet Daughter. She has been sober for many years after battling alcoholism, for which I commend her, but she always had an issue with the fact that my husband and I still occasionally drink. Her aversion especially to MY drinking alcohol got more intense after we had kids.
I am blessed/cursed with UNBELIEVABLY miserable wretched awful hangovers when I overindulge even slightly, so I am very careful about how much and how often I drink. This fact notwithstanding, she came to the conclusion that any mother who drinks any amount must be an alcoholic (project much?), which must translate into my being a neglectful mother and wife. While staying with us one year, this inspired her to begin to pass little notes to my husband saying as much- that I were an alcoholic, wasn't raising my kids right, was a God-awful Catholic, among other things. In my house. Under my nose. To my life partner. Really nasty, hurtful, strong statements that somehow sound SO much more aggressive because they were in German.
My husband initially laughed these off and avoided the inevitable confrontation by ignoring them and not telling me about them. After a number of notes, however, he realized that this was something I needed to know about, and guilt drove him to tell me. I read all of them.
To say I felt hurt/betrayed/insulted/enraged barely begins to describe it. I was able to calm down enough before confronting her so that I didn't fly into a wild rage and commit my first Aggravated Assault. I told her how much of a betrayal this kind of behavior was and that to insult me in my own home and try to get my husband to similarly go behind my back was more than I could accept. My husband and I agreed and informed her that she was welcome to continue coming to the States to see her grandchildren, however I could never really trust her again and she wasn't welcome in our home after this stay.
I intended to let her complete her stay and just avoid each other, so I more or less kept to myself so that my husband could still spend time with his mom. One day I overheard a loud argument from the other room, and after quite a bit of Angry German screaming, my husband pushed a table aside and stomped out of the house. He was still Angry German-ing every vulgarity in the book when he walked to the back yard. I watched him kick a trash can, one of those big old school metal ones. This one he must have forgotten was completely full of charcoal, but he still managed to make it look like a car hit it and launch it in the air. He also managed to hurt himself doing it.
When he came back inside he was calm, and accompanying the calm was a limp. I work in clinical research and at the time was doing this research in Orthopaedics/Sports Medicine, specifically ACL tears. Later that day I performed certain movement tests on his knee and knew he had torn his ACL. This is an injury that requires surgery to repair, which ended up being an operation from which he is still not fully recovered 7 years later.
My husband, still limping, went to the guest room and came back with suitcases. He didn't speak but to ask MIL where her passport was and told her to get in the car. I figured things had just deteriorated to the point that we needed some space and he'd put her in a nearby hotel for the rest of the 4 remaining weeks (of a planned 6.)
Turns out he took her to the airport, a month before her flight, and left her at the Departures drop-off. By some miracle, she made it back to Germany.
6 months later, my husband had his ACL surgically reconstructed. The charcoal can is still badly dented, but complains less about its injury than my husband does. No one talks about any of her last trip to the States. I still encourage my husband and children to have a good relationship with her, and they still see her often. VIRTUALLY. My husband makes his yearly visits to Berlin alone, and stays in a hotel.
For anyone who can't help but run into conflict with family, we learned to plan in some space for everyone. It can completely change the dynamic to set time away from each other during a prolonged visit, whatever that distance and time looks like. (For me, time = all of it and distance = 4,669.41 mi/7,514.68 km.)
This ended up being longer than I expected. If you made it through all that, thanks for reading. Charlotte: I absolutely adore all your videos- thank you for making sure I smile and laugh even on the hardest days. Warm regards, E

The showings are displayed in chronological order, divided into two sections: God of War (original series) and God of War (2018) - same canon.

This is not an update

This is a replacement thread for Kerdicz's old Kratos thread. which got smote by Gfy. it is not updated with the latest game, and will be removed whenever anybody gets around to that.

God of War (original series):

The hands of death could not defeat me. The sisters of fate could not hold me. And you will not see the end of this day. I will have my revenge!

Kratos, a Spartan general and unknowing demigod, pledged his soul to Ares, the God of War, and became a servant of the Gods of Olympus for many years to come.
Ares, in order to make Kratos the ultimate warrior, coerced him into killing his own family. Cursed to forever wear the ashes of his wife and daughter all over his body, the Ghost of Sparta took revenge. After finding Pandora's Box, Kratos gained enough power to kill Ares, becoming then the God of War himself.
Little did he know that when he opened Pandora's Box, the Gods of Olympus were infected - Zeus, in particular, with Fear. Such Fear caused Zeus to betray and kill Kratos. Kratos came back from the Underworld and swore vengeance against anyone that tried to stop him on his god-killing-quest.
Having finally slayed the gods, Kratos succeeded - but at what cost?

Strength & power:

God of War: Ascension

• Swings a giant creature against a metal gate, denting it, then shatters a human-sized metal armlet with a strike
  
• Flips over an entire street block that is built upon a titan's arm, crashing a giant creature into a building
  
• Pulls a giant structure
  
• Stops and overpowers Alecto's tentacle, which can throw ships hundreds of feet of distance.
  
• Smashes Megaera through a stone pillar
  
• Overpowers Alecto's building-sized monster form and impales it on a ship
  
• (Blades of Chaos) Impales and blasts apart a giant tentacle
  

God of War: Chains of Olympus

• Pulls a several tons creature and crashes a wall over its head
  
• (Blades of Chaos) Breaks through a large rock structure
  
• (Gauntlet of Zeus) Punches a giant chain across a cave at high speed, embedding it into rock
  
• (Gauntlet of Zeus) Punches a giant chain hard enough to move the arm of Atlas, the Titan, imprisoning him
  

God of War

• Overpowers a giant hydra and impales it on a ship's mast
  
• Leg presses a large stone statue, toppling it over
  
• Pushes gigantic stone blocks around in a puzzle
  After opening Pandora's Box:
  
  • Kratos grows to be bigger than buildings
  • Overpowers Ares, who can throw a stone pillar several miles away
  • Picks up a sword the size of multiple buildings and uses it in combat

God of War: Ghost of Sparta

• Kicks a stone statue to pieces
  
• Topples over multiple stone pillars
  
• Craters Thanatos into rock
  
• (Arms of Sparta) Shatters stone pillars with spear throws
  

God of War II

• Stops a stomp from a godly-powered Colossus of Rhodes and pushes it hundreds of meters away
  
• Swings and tosses Colossus of Rhodes' hand at its head with great force
  
• Topples over a large stone pillar
  
• Partially shatters a giant stone statue with a blade swing
  
• Lifts and pushes down a stone temple
  

God of War III

• Grabs and stops an hippocampi's strike
  
• Plays tug of war evenly against Hades; Hades is strong enough to hold down Cronos, the skyscraper-sized Titan
  
• Overpowers Hades attempt to rip out his soul and rips out Hades' soul
  
• Leaps several meters of distance with no run-up
  
• Overpowers Hercules, who, in the same fight, lifts the entire arena off the ground
  
• Overpowers Cronos’ fingers
  
• Tanks and shoves back a slap from Cronos
  
• Stops Hephaestus from crushing him with a giant glowing-red metal chisel, and pushes it back
  
• Swings Zeus against a pillar, destroying it
  
• Craters Zeus into a pillar and punches him repeatedly, shaking and affecting the entire room they're in
  
• (Blade of Olympus) One-shots Perses, a Titan, pushing back his skyscraper-sized body
  

Durability & endurance:

God of War: Ascension

• Gets hit in the throat with a slash that shatters a metal shackle, bleeds a lot, is fine
  
• Tanks being slammed through three stone walls
  

God of War: Chains of Olympus

• Is unharmed after being chomped on by a basilisk, then stops its bite with his bare hands

God of War

• Climbs sheer walls for 3 days straight
  
• Is still alive after being impaled by a pillar thrown from miles away, but ultimately dies after a couple minutes
  After opening Pandora's Box:
  
  • Survives a town-sized explosion created by the death of Ares, which vaporizes the lake he was on

God of War: Ghost of Sparta

• Tanks being blown hundreds of feet away by the volcanic Minoan eruption, which sunk the city of Atlantis
  
• Deimos tackles Kratos through a stone wall, onto the ground far below, and smashes the spartan's face with enough force to shatter his own gauntlet; seconds later, Kratos gets up and heals
  
• Tanks being slammed against rock repeatedly
  

God of War II

• (God of War form) Falls from the sky as a meteor, shatters a building as he lands, unfazed
  
• Gets blown hundreds of feet away, goes through a stone rooftop and a stone floor, is fine
  
• Stops a stomp from the Colossus of Rhodes
  

God of War III

• Survives Zeus' massive lightning strike, which pushed back Gaia, the Titan
  
• Tanks and shoves back a slap from Cronos
  
• Takes a massive amount of electricity and is fine
  
• Is fine stopping a giant glowing-red chisel with his bare hands
  
• Stops the sharp Blade of Olympus with his bare hands, with seemingly no injury
  
• Impales himself with the Blade of Olympus, releasing the Power of Hope across the world. The blade is taken out and Kratos remains conscious for a while with the massive hole through his torso. He ultimately survives this.
  

Speed & agility:

God of War: Ascension

• Dodges Megaera and wraps his chains around her limbs before she could react
  
• Slashes Megaera across the stomach too fast for her to evade it
  
• Dodges a giant creature's strike with a jump then swings around a pillar with his chains
  
• Fights airborne with a flying creature
  
• Quickly swings back up a platform mid-fall
  
• Dodges a manticore's tail from behind and catches it with his chains before it could finish striking
  
• Swings on falling stone pillars fast enough to make them look near-stationary
  
• Fights a teleporting time-manipulator, dodging and blocking every move of his
  
• Running and swinging on and across giant tentacles
  
• Covering dozens of meters in seconds when swinging with his blades
  

God of War

• Dodges an arrow
  
• Slashes an hydra multiple times at high speed
  
• Leaps a great distance and swings around with a chain
  After opening Pandora's Box:
  
  • Kratos temporarily grows to be bigger than buildings but maintains his speed and agility
  • Quickly swings around a sword the size of multiple buildings
  • Swift combat with giant sword

God of War II

• Catapults himself onto Colossus' face and dodges its blows with good agility
  
• Nimbly moving along the Colossus while slashing it
  
• Stops his high speed fall with his blades with precision
  
• Dodges a projectile thrown by an invisible Perseus
  
• Swings and leaps between collapsing pillars, as they fall in slow-motion
  

God of War III

• Extremely fast and fluid rate of attack with his chained blades, with multiple wide slashes per second
  
• Reacts to an hippocampi's high speed strike and stops it with his hands
  
• Crosses dozens of meters in a second by swinging with his chained blades
  
• (Boots of Hermes) Can run on walls
  
• (Boots of Hermes) High-speed dash that ignites the ground behind Kratos while his enemies appear to be in slow-motion
  
• Fires a catapult and tags the projectile with his blades
  
• Crossing hundreds of meters in seconds while flying with Icarus Wings
  
• Performs incessant high speed moves against Zeus, slashing and throwing him around
  

Magic:

God of War: Ascension

• Fire of Ares: imbues the blades with fire, creating explosions and fiery swirls.
  
• Lightning of Zeus: electrifies the blades, and enables the summon of lightning strikes.
  
• Ice of Poseidon: gives Kratos the ability to breathe underwater, to freeze enemies and to create small icy tornados.
  
• Soul of Hades: enables Kratos to throw blasts of Underworld energy and summon the Arms of Hades, which can disintegrate enemies.
  

God of War: Chains of Olympus

• The Efreet: a Fire Efreet summonable by Kratos; performing the move Demon Rage, the creature slams the ground multiple times, creating massive flames that burn enemies in a wide radius.
  
• Light of Dawn: the power to summon orbs of light and throw them as high-speed projectiles at your enemies.
  
• Charon's Wrath: green ravenous flames that can be shot as projectiles, setting an enemy on fire and easily spreading around.
  

God of War

• Poseidon’s Rage: a lightning strike blasts through Kratos and electrocutes anything in a few meters range
  
• Zeus' Fury: fast lightning bolts capable of shattering metal chains
  
• Medusa's Gaze: the head fires a beam that petrifies beings in seconds. Can also create a shockwave that instantly petrifies what it touches.
  
• Army of Hades: Kratos' blades summons flying souls that chase and attack his opponents
  

God of War II

• Cronos' Rage: creates an orb of lightning that targets multiple enemies and explodes once its over
  
• Atlas Quake: Kratos slams the ground, creating localized earthquakes, shattering his surroundings and sending boulders flying
  

God of War III

• Divine Reckoning: Kratos summons a whirling vortex with the Blade of Olympus
  
• Army of Sparta: a phalanx of Spartan spirits shield Kratos while attacking with spears and dozens of arrows spawning from above
  

Weaponry & equipment:

God of War: Ascension

• Blades of Chaos: a set of blades forged in the depths of the Underworld by Ares himself, seared onto Kratos' flesh by chains. They are imbued with fire, igniting with every attack. The Blades' chains stretch out for a set distance, allowing fluid movement.
  • Sharp enough to slide through stone, marble and metal with ease
• Amulet of Uroboros: an amulet that can manipulate space and time, by slowing down time or moving things through time by decaying or healing them
  • creates a sphere where time is slowed down, with a target at its epicenter; Kratos is immune to it
  • restores a collapsed bridge by rewinding it through time
• Oath Stone of Orkos
  • creates a black energy clone of Kratos that teleports around and attacks his enemies
  • the clone can take Kratos' place at a simple task
  • Kratos uses it to escape a trap that restrains him, with the clone taking his place
• Eyes of Truth: can see through the dark magic of The Furies and their illusions

God of War: Chains of Olympus

• Sun Shield: Helios' shield; it can block and reflect back attacks and projectiles.
• Gauntlet of Zeus: it boosts Kratos' striking power, enough to chain Titans to the Walls of Tartarus
  • Olympic Thunder: the gauntlet generates lightning with each strike

God of War

• Blades of Chaos
• Blades of Athena: a Blades of Chaos substitute, gifted by Athena
• Poseidon's Trident: it allows Kratos to breathe underwater.

God of War II

• Blades of Athena
  • Easily slices through the godly-powered Colossus of Rhodes' brass
• Blade of Olympus: forged by Zeus to end the Great War.
  • Shoots fast energy blasts that blow through godly-powered brass
  • Can fire multiple long-range energy blasts and create energy barriers
• Golden Fleece: a bracelet that blocks, absorbs and reflects back projectiles by timing them
• Barbarian Hammer: giant hammer that summons souls and creates shockwaves
• Spear of Destiny: giant spear that extends and shoots blasts of energy
• Head of Euryale: the head of the Gorgon boss
  • Fires a beam that quickly turns the enemies into stone
• Typhon's Bane: a magical bow that fires wind
  • Fires multiple arrows a second, multiple homing arrows, gusts of wind, and creates tornadoes
• Poseidon's Trident
• Icarus Wings
• Amulet of the Fates: can only be used near specific statues, slowing down time

God of War III

• Blade of Olympus
• Blades of Exile: the third and last set of chained blades wielded by Kratos, much similar to the previous ones, with a large range and extremely fast and fluid rate of attack
• Claws of Hades: a set of long-ranged chained claws that move on their own in combat; the claws allow Kratos to rip out souls by hooking it and pulling it out, as well as summoning the soul of creatures he's killed:
  • Flying skulls
  • Sentries
  • Archers
  • Gorgon serpent
  • Chimera
  • Centaur
  • Siren
• Bow of Apollo: magical bow that shoots multiple fiery arrows per second.
• Nemean Cestus: large extendable gauntlets that create powerful shockwaves with its hits.
• Nemesis Whip: long-chained bladed whips infused with electricity
  • Creates an electrical current that conducts through several beings
• Head of Helios: the ripped off head of the Sun God
  • Stuns and blinds enemies with extremely bright flashes of light
• Boots of Hermes: boots from the God Hermes; allow Kratos to dash forwards at high-speed, igniting the ground behind him with his enemies in slow-mo.
• Poseidon's Trident
• Golden Fleece
• Icarus Wings

God of War (2018):

Being a god... it can be a lifetime of anguish and tragedy. That is the curse.

Kratos, through unknown means, survived the consequences of killing the Gods of Olympus. Over a century passed, and the Spartan ended up in Midgard, husband to the now-deceased giant Faye and father to Atreus
Kratos tried his best to leave his past behind, with a newly built life and a son he very much loves, on a quest to bring his wife's ashes to the highest peak in all nine realms.
However, attacked by Baldur, son of Odin, the Spartan is dragged once more into the game of the gods, who torment him throughout his and his son's quest. Ultimately, Kratos and Atreus kill the sons of Thor and Baldur, finishing their journey but making new enemies.

Strength:

Lifting, grappling, pushing and pulling:

• Lifts a massive tree trunk and carries it around on his shoulder; handles the now wet tree trunk with ease
  
• Hits Baldur with a giant tree then tackles him through wood and rocks
  
• (Spartan Rage) Breaks through the rocks that were trapping him
  
• (Spartan Rage) Breaks a thick tree in half with a punch, then uses the tree to ram Baldur through rocks
  
• Topples over a massive stone monument
  
• His struggle with Baldur splits a mountainside in two, creating a canyon
  
• Lifts a large rock slab
  
• Finishes off a troll with its own giant weapon
  
• Pushes an entire bridge for an extended period of time to realign it, moving it through water
  
• Lifts a giant boulder overhead and throws it
  
• Pushes a big wooden platform, hitting a giant dragon with it
  
• Holds a giant dragon's mouth open with one arm while using the other arm to slash it
  
• Impales a giant dragon on a crystal by pulling him with a crane, then kicks the crystal further into the creature
  
• (Spartan Rage) Can tear boulders off the ground and throw them
  
• Pushes a gigantic hammer, causing it to fall over; then, Kratos briefly supports the hammer overhead to prevent it from crushing his son; (the hammer's size
  
• Slams Baldur against a stone pillar, shattering it
  
• Pushes and tears off the bow of a ship
  
• Flips over the entirety of Tyr's Temple, which is a gigantic structure built on an axle
  
• Lifts a giant's hand over his head
  

Striking and slashing:

• His kick pushes back a giant troll, making it hit a pillar
  
• Punches down a troll and breaks its neck
  
• Sends Baldur rolling with a punch
  
• Can destroy multiple trees at once by hitting Baldur against them
  
• Smashes Baldur through a wooden-clay roof
  
• (Spartan Rage) Can destroy trees and shatter boulders while fighting; his punches create shockwaves
  
• Throws Baldur against stone, cracking it, then craters his head into it
  
• Shield-checks a tossed stone monolith, shattering it
  
• Knocks down an ogre against rocks with an axe swing
  
• (Spartan Rage) Shatters stone with his punches, opening a hole
  
• [Limit] Can't get through a several meters thick layer of ice by normal means
  
• Overpowers Magni, creating a shockwave, then kills him with 4 consecutive axe hits
  
• (Spartan Rage) Overpowers Modi's electricity, disarms him and punches him, sending him flying against a pillar hard enough to crater it
  
• (Blades of Chaos) Blasts apart Hel's Bridgekeeper's giant stone totem
  
• Sends a metal gate flying with a kick
  
• Uses the shield to punch through a thick stone ceiling
  
• Impales Baldur's torso with the blades then tosses him against rock, cratering it
  
• Throws his axe against Baldur, sending the god flying against frozen rock hard enough to crater ir
  

Leaping and climbing:

• Leaps across a few meters gap with little effort
  
• Nimbly climbing on icy surfaces and leaping good distances
  

Durability & defenses:

• Gets punched by Baldur across a house, shattering wood and landing on solid ground, is fine
  
• Shatters a tree when hit against it
  
• Tanks being slammed against the ground then tackled against a house
  
• Is fine after being suplexed then kicked across a field, destroying a tree on the way
  
• Takes multiple punches from Baldur, then gets body-slammed into rock
  
• Gets punched high in the air, then kicked into a canyon, destroying a lot of rock to stop his momentum, and is fine
  
• In pain but not pierced by a giant ogre biting his arm
  
• Can keep fighting while on fire
  
• Stops a trident with his bare hands
  
• Is fine after falling quite a distance on his back onto solid metal
  
• Resists Modi's massive electric discharge for a solid minute, and is fine after overpowering it with Spartan Rage
  
• Gets impaled on the pelvis all the way through with a rock, is in pain, but removes it and keeps fighting
  
• Shot on the chest by an electrified arrow, eventually pulls it out and keeps fighting
  
• Tanks falling over a hundred feet onto dirt
  
• Tanks an exploding crystal, which sends him flying for a distance
  

Guardian Shield: a magic retractable shield, given to Kratos as a gift by his wife.

• Blocks a large stone monolith tossed at him
  
• Blocks fire balls
  
• Can block shockwaves from great impacts
  
• Can block magic shockwaves
  
• Blocks Magni's massive sword
  
• Cushions a great fall, where Kratos was traveling fast enough to visibly heat up the air in front of him
  
• Kratos uses the shield to go through a thick stone ceiling
  
• Blocks Baldur's fireball and his freezing punch
  
• Countering Blast: blocking an attack at the last second absorbs the impact and redirects it back
  
  • Blocking and redirecting a fire projectile, creating a shockwave
  • Blocking and redirecting a physical strike

Speed & skill:

Agility and reflexes:

• Dodges a giant troll's hand, quickly grabs Atreus' bow from the ground and kicks the troll in the face
  
• Quickly hits Baldur with a tree then runs across a field tackling him
  
• (Spartan Rage) Runs at high speed while using a giant tree as a battery ram
  
• Quickly puts up his shield to block a stone monument thrown at him, then catches Baldur's high-speed punch amidst the debris
  
• Evades Baldur's high-speed punch
  
• Quickly intercepts an ogre's bite with his arm to prevent Atreus from getting injured
  
• Slashes an ogre in the face before it can finish charging at him
  
• Nimbly runs across a dragon's back
  
• Steals his opponent's weapon before he can fly away and finishes him off with it
  
• Blocks Magni's surprise sword swing with his shield then tosses him over the shoulder
  
• Quickly puts up his shield to block Magni's sword
  
• (Spartan Rage) Swiftly puts up his shield to block Baldur's fireball and his subsequent punch
  

Skill and speed in combat:

• (Spartan Rage) High-speed dashing and multiple consecutive punches
  
• Throws multiple consecutive high-speed punches against Baldur
  
• Puts Baldur in a rear naked choke and breaks his neck
  
• Swats away an elf's arm and quickly grabs his face, restraining it
  
• Quickly breaks free from a surprise chokehold
  
• Defends himself from a surprise attack, stopping the opponent and throwing him overhead
  
• Swiftly finishes off a Wulver with multiple punches, ripping it apart through its jaw
  
• Headbutts his opponent then puts him on a hold and tosses him
  
• Breaks free from a grapple by elbowing the opponent and throwing it over his shoulder
  
• Dodges Baldur's punch, elbows him and lifts him overhead
  
• Jumps off a ledge and freefalls onto a flying dragon
  
• Fighting against Baldur while hanging onto a flying dragon
  
• Hits Baldur with the shield then quickly impales and tosses him with the blades
  
• Blocks Baldur's kick, tosses him away and throws the axe into the god's torso
  
• Uses his chained blades to pull himself towards Baldur
  
• Kratos and Atreus overwhelm Baldur with a multiple strikes
  

Amulet of Kvasir: when with the Amulet of Kvasir, a last second dodge will activate Realm Shift, which slows down time around Kratos for several seconds.

• Example of it being used against a Valkirye's high-speed strikes, slowing them down to a crawl

Endurance, healing & physiology:

• Kratos is seemingly unbothered by the extreme cold and the blizzards of Midgard in winter, living and traveling with minimal clothing
  
• Actively heals the flesh wounds, scrapes and blood around his body
  
• Exhausted, stops and focuses for a few seconds to fully heal his injuries and blood loss
  
• Kratos is unbothered by Hel's cold, which not even Odin can survive according to Mimir
  
• Is fine under a giant's freezing breath for an extended period of time
  

Leviathan Axe:

The Leviathan Axe is Kratos' main weapon, passed to him by his dying wife, forged by the Huldra Brothers to oppose the power of Mjolnir. It is mostly referred to as "frost axe" because of its ice runic enchantments. Kratos can call back the axe at will from any distance, making it fly back to his hand.

General usage, sharpness and toughness:

• Chops down a massive tree in five axe swings
  
• Lights up a fire with friction
  
• Throws it through wooden planks, shattering them
  
• The axe's head skids through several meters of solid rock
  
• An apple tossed against the axe's blade is cleanly sliced in two
  
• Embeds it into stone
  
• Hits a flying opponent with accuracy
  
• Shatters a metal shackle that's holding a giant chain
  
• Sinks the axe deep into Baldur's torso
  

Magic:

• Instantly freezes a large gate mechanism
  
• Completely freezes an organism in a few seconds
  
• Uses the axe's handle to zip line
  
• Quickly freezes two large gears
  
• Freezes a giant saw, stopping it
  

• Light Runic Attacks:
  
  • Njord's Tempest: a rapidly spinning melee attack combined with a freezing wave that clears out surrounding enemies
  • Fury of the Ice Troll: quick radial shockwave attack that slows enemies and sends them flying back
  • Tyr’s Revenge: the axe rapidly spins over the target, with a follow-up freezing slam to the ground
  • Leviathan’s Wake: a powerful axe throw that plows through and freezes the enemies in its path
  • Charge of the White Bear: a quick dash attack followed up by a freezing shield slam, while Kratos is protected by a magical barrier
  • Wrath of the Frost Ancient: a long range ice beam
  • Strike of the Utgard: axe slashes that send out wide freezing waves
  • Hel’s Touch: an extremely quick burst of energy that stuns the surrounding enemies
• Heavy Runic Attacks:
  
  • Ivaldi's Anvil: area-of-effect attack that freezes the enemies caught in the blast radius
  • Thiazi's Talon: axe swings that launch vertical freezing waves
  • Mists of Helheim: a lingering area-of-effect attack that creates a hazard that slowly freezes the enemies inside
  • Frost Giant’s Frenzy: several powerful freezing axe slams
  • Blessings of the Frost: powers up the Leviathan Axe with small explosions of frost damage on every hit
  • The River of Knives: an axe slash that sends out a long and wide line of ice shards
  • Glaive Storm: an axe throw that automatically seeks out and hits the enemies, inflicting freezing damage
  • Breath of Thamur: a massive area-of-effect attack that deals freezing damage to all enemies within a large area

Blades of Chaos:

A relic of Kratos' past, the Blades of Chaos are a set of chained blades forged in the depths of the Underworld. They are imbued in never-ending fire magic that can burn even in Hellheim, where no magic in all the nine realms can create a blaze. The Blades' chains stretch out for a set distance with each attack, allowing fluid and powerful attack patterns.

• The chains extend for several meters while the blades release fire to burn Hel's Brambles
  
• The blades completely sink into a giant stone totem and blast it apart with their flames
  
• The blades go through Hel's Bridgekeeper's chest, all the way to his heart
  
• Slice through the entirety of a dragon's wing with ease
  
• Quickly lights up a massive fire on Hel's Brambles
  
• Can send explosions through the chains from a distance
  

• Light Runic Attacks:
  
  • Cyclone of Chaos: a circling sweep attack
  • Nemean Crush: an explosion caused by slamming the blades together, with a shockwave that sends the enemies flying
  • Rampage of the Furies: a robust flurry attack that ends in a powerful slam
  • Rage of the Titans: a rapid blade attack that ends in a devastating swipe that launches enemies into the air
  • Icarus Storm: a wide spinning attack that slices and burns the surrounding enemies
  • Wrath of Artemis: frontal slashes that push back and burn the enemies
  • Blast of Hephaestus: a quick, fiery blast of energy that burns the target
  • Spartan Charge: a dash attack that slams the target with a fiery shield and finishes off with an explosion
• Heavy Runic Attacks:
  
  • Tartarus Rage: two powerful blade slams that end in explosions
  • Fire of Ares: lets out multiple powerful fire shockwaves through the ground
  • Prometheus Flame: a blades slam and swing that summons a large pillar of fire under the target
  • Hyperion Slam: a massive slam attack that causes a destructive explosion with a lingering fire
  • Hyperion Grapple: Kratos tosses the blades into an enemy, then pulls himself towards them delivering a bodyslam that stuns and burns the target
  • Meteoric Slam: a slam attack that rains down fireballs
  • Gift of Apollo: temporarily enhances the blades so that every hit heals Kratos

Spartan Rage:

Spartan Rage is an enraged state of godly power which Kratos can enter during the stress of battle.
It amplifies his power and his speed, sets his fists on fire and heals him slowly.

• Lights up his surroundings on fire and allows him to break free from rock with little leverage
  
• Amplifies his strength enough for him to easily overpower Baldur, who had him completely subdued just prior
  

With my head throbbing and clutching my handbag tightly to my chest, I walked quickly through the indoor parking garage. A massive concrete structure, every space was full, cars of all makes and models squeezed between the lines.
I was running late for my niece's fifth birthday. I find family occasions overwhelming. The innocent yet gut-wrenching questions like, "When are you going to meet a nice young man and settle down?" and the worst one, "Have you tried online dating?" I just smile and give a rehearsed answer about my career.
I continued to hurry through the parking garage. I stopped and scanned the area. I simply couldn't remember where I parked. My head was still throbbing, pounding to be exact. I never suffered from migraines but that's the only way to describe it. That, or a jackhammer to my temple. I reached into my handbag and took out a small bottle of pills. I swallowed a few pills, no water needed.
A slight relief, I continued to look for my car. My car was a Mini, the opposite of all my friend's giant soccer Mom SUVS. It suited me, small and understated. When I was young, my grandparents called me their little wallflower. However, unlike most kids, I never blossomed.
Where did I park the damn thing? Although no one was nearby, I felt acute embarrassment. Let's be brutally honest, everyone at some point has forgotten where they've parked, but they usually remember pretty quickly.
Okay, let's regroup. My car must be here otherwise how did I get here? Determined, I searched every row, car by car. I must have seen hundreds, maybe thousands of cars. The parking garage felt endless. The more I searched, the more my head began to pound and pound. It felt like my temples were going to burst.
Again, I reached into my handbag and popped some pills. With hindsight taking this sheer amount of medication should have raised alarm bells or rendered me unconscious. But at the time I was so focused on getting to my niece's birthday party, it didn't even register. I would never forgive myself if I missed my niece's birthday. It hit me, would anyone even know that I wasn't there?
I wandered around the parking garage aimlessly. This is crazy, my car has to be somewhere! I spotted a tiny security booth by the entrance gates. Great, the surveillance cameras will show me exactly where I've parked. Soon this ridiculous ordeal will be behind me, and no one will ever know.
I looked inside the security booth. There was an empty chair and a grainy old monitor. I waited for a while, but no attendant showed up. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I strained to look at the monitor. The parking garage remained perfectly still. The time on the screen was 5.30. It suddenly dawned on me that since I entered the parking garage no cars have arrived or left.
I had no choice but to leave the parking garage. The security attendant never showed up. As I went outside, my headache roared back. It was relentless. I couldn’t shake it. Swirling thoughts raced through my mind. Why did I not see anyone else in the parking garage? And did I actually park there?
In the distance, I saw a large shopping mall. Maybe someone in there can help me find my car? After all, it must be where the shoppers park.
I entered the bland 1990s shopping mall with two levels and a giant escalator in the center. The mall was packed with shoppers of all ages and ethnicities. I was forced to weave through several shoppers. I tried to catch a few of them in the eye, but they never looked back at me. It was like I was invisible. But I was used to that.
I walked past several pointless stores where young store clerks mindlessly stacked shelves. One store that caught my attention was a clock store. It seemed misplaced. The store had every type of clock imaginable, from Grandfather to Cuckoo. I noticed that the time on each clock was 5.30. Surely that can’t be right? That’s the same time as the security monitor.
I quickly checked my cell phone, and the time was indeed 5.30.
I continued on tentatively. I had this nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I passed a small drugstore, and my attention was drawn to a young, disheveled homeless guy with a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. He clutched his back as he picked up a packet of bandages from a shelf. He turned and stared at me. We locked eyes for a little too long. It wasn’t sexual. I just knew that I had seen him before but I couldn’t remember where or when.
I broke eye contact and moved on. I didn’t have time to hang around. I needed to find someone who could help locate my car. I needed to get to my niece’s birthday party.
I looked up to the second level and saw the holy grail, an information desk. I stepped onto the escalator but they stopped working, so I was forced to walk up. My legs felt heavy and my head continued to pound. The escalator on the other side worked fine. Shoppers whizzed past me, looking straight ahead, their eyes glazed over.
I finally reached the second level. As I stepped off, shoppers whizzed up behind me. I rolled my eyes. Did the escalator really just start working? I wasn’t surprised based on the day I was having.
Irritated, I marched over to the super large information desk which would fit perfectly in a nineties sitcom. As I arrived a young female attendant flicked over the “I’m on a break” sign and left.
I shouted out, “Excuse me, excuse me!” but she didn’t hear me.
I stood there in disbelief, my head pounding harder and harder. I instinctively popped some pills. My headache remained. The relief was becoming less every time. The guilt of missing my niece's birthday preyed upon me.
So, I impulsively followed the attendant through a back staff door. What’s the worst that can happen? I get thrown out by a mall cop and they escort me to my car.
I entered a dark corridor with a faint light at the end. I slowly walked along the corridor. My inner monologue was telling me to turn back, but I couldn’t stop. I was drawn toward the light but it became dimmer with every step I took. I heard a sloshing sound. At the end of the corridor, a middle-aged janitor slowly mopped the floor back and forth with dirty water. He didn't look up, oblivious to me standing there.
“Sir, do you know where the young lady went?” I meekly asked. He turned his back and kept mopping slowly, back and forth.
Losing patience, I raised my voice, “I need help to find my car.” He moved away and continued to mop, a little faster.
I snapped, “I’m late for my niece’s birthday party!” He tilted his head and looked at me with black eyes. He spoke with a mouthless face. “You shouldn’t be here!”
I ran for my life back along the corridor. As I reached the door, I heard the sloshing sound. I couldn’t help but look back. The janitor slowly mopped the floor, back and forth.
I raced down the escalator, which was no longer working again. My heart rate matched my pounding temples. A blur of shoppers on the other side of the escalator flashed before my eyes. I headed for the mall exit.
I started to hyperventilate. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs empty of oxygen. I swayed from side to side.
The shoppers continued to browse the stores. No one stopped to help.
I stumbled toward the automatic doors. I needed oxygen, my body was shutting down. But the automatic doors wouldn’t open for me. I dropped to my knees, gasping for breath. Shoppers stepped past me, and the automatic doors opened. Unable to breathe, I reached out my hand.
A hand grasped my hand and pulled me outside. I desperately sucked in oxygen. I gazed up and saw the young homeless guy looking back at me.
“Little breaths, little breaths,” he tells me.
His presence made me calmer, and I breathe in and out. I know him, but how? I quickly rose to my feet and looked him straight in the eye.
“Who are you?” I bluntly asked.
I immediately regretted my tone, but I needed to know. The young homeless guy looked at me with his kind yet sad eyes.
“I’m Thomas, but everyone calls me Beansy,” he replied. “I prefer Thomas, but no one calls me Thomas.”
“Why did you help me?” I bluntly asked.
I regretted my tone once again.
“Cause you’re the first person who’s looked at me today,” he replied. “We’ve got that in common,” I replied.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Penelope, though my parents only called me that when I was naughty, " I answered. "I was rarely naughty so everyone called me Penny. I prefer Penelope.”
Thomas smiled, “Penelope, we’ve got that in common as well.”
We shook hands.
“What brings you here?” Thomas asked.
It seemed like an innocuous question, but I felt there was more behind it. Does he know why I’m here? But how can he know when I don’t even know? Of course, deep down I knew why I was here, but if I couldn’t admit it to myself, how could I admit it to a stranger.
I hesitated. “I’m here to pick up a few things for my niece’s birthday party.”
He studied me for a moment. I quickly changed the subject.
“I forgot where I parked,” I told him.
Thomas chuckled and I tapped him on the side.
“That’s not funny”.
He winced and clutched his lower back.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m fine,” he sharply replied.
He glanced at his watch. I noticed that the time on his watch was 5.30. Before I can say anything, he told me, “My train’s about to leave soon.”
“Thank you Thomas,” I said. “Will you be okay?” he asked. “I’m just going to get an Uber. I’ll figure out the car situation another time,” I replied.
Thomas smiled and walked away. I noticed that every few seconds he clutched his lower back. I watched him till he was out of sight. Will I see him again? Something told me inside, he knew the reason why I couldn’t remember where I’d parked.
Okay, so I need to refocus. I’ve been here way way too long and my niece's birthday party will be over soon. It hit me again, would anyone even notice that I wasn’t there?
I took my cell phone from my handbag and tried to book an Uber. There were no drivers available in the area. That’s strange. I know it’s not New York, but it’s still a town.
Undeterred, I Googled for cab agencies, and there was only one agency. I went straight through to a male operator. I could hear sirens in the background.
The operator asked, “Where is your location?”
My head started to pound again as I realized I didn’t actually know where I was. I quickly tried to search Google Maps but I couldn’t focus on the screen. It was all a blur.
The monotone operator repeated, “Where is your location?”
I tried to ask a passerby, but they ignored me and entered the mall. In desperation, I grabbed an elderly lady's arm and asked her, “Where am I?” She turned, and her dark eyes pierced through me. I quickly released her arm, and she carried on into the mall.
The operator repeated the same question, “Where is your location?” I tried to describe the town. “There’s this mall.” The operator repeated, “Where is your location?”
My head felt like it was going to explode.
I shouted at the operator, “I can’t find my car!”
The operator gave the same cold response, “Where is your location?”
I couldn’t answer and I was forced to end the call. I looked around the town. I was lost.
I popped some pills and walked quickly through the grey concrete town. I arrived at a small, old railway station with two empty tracks. I had no idea which direction I needed to go, but it didn’t matter. I just needed to leave this place. Something was terribly wrong.
On the platform, Thomas sat on a bench with his headphones on. He was singing a country song. I couldn’t make out the song, but I remembered thinking he had a pleasant voice. I must admit I was relieved to see him but also concerned he was still waiting.
I tentatively sat beside him, leaving plenty of space. Thomas removed his headphones and looked at me with his kind, sad eyes. I noticed there was no song playing on his cell phone.
“So, what happened to your Uber?” he asked. “No driver’s in my area,” I replied.
I was too embarrassed to mention the cab incident. It’s too bad he knows that I couldn’t remember where I’d parked.
As he was about to put his headphones back in, I asked him, “When’s the train supposed to leave?” “5.30,” he replied. He checked his watch, and it was still 5.30. “It must be broken,” he added.
I checked my cell phone and the time was 5.30. I stared at him. “It’s not just your watch that is broken.”
We both waited in silence. No trains arrived or left the platform. I couldn’t tell you how long we waited. It could have been minutes or hours. It’s difficult to judge when time appears to stop.
Eventually, Thomas broke the silence. “Where are you going?” “My niece’s birthday party,” I replied. “How old is she?” he asked.
With a glint in my eye, I answered, “Five, and I’m her favorite aunt.”
He quickly followed up with another question, “Why are you late for the party?”
I glared back at him. It’s like he already knew but wanted me to clarify. But how does he know? And how does he fit into all of this? Of course, I knew the answer but it was still too painful to admit.
I quickly changed the subject. “Where are you going with such a large rucksack?” I must admit it did cross my mind that instead of going he could be escaping.
“Going home,” he replied. “It’s been too long.”
I smiled, “I’m sure your family will be pleased.”
He then proceeded to tell me his life story about being the black sheep of the family. I could see the pain and rejection in his eyes.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why his parents kicked him out. But everyone deserves a second chance. I hoped that my family would forgive me for missing my niece’s birthday party. By now, I realized I wasn’t going to make it. My only focus now was to leave this town.
Thomas looked me in the eye and told me the real reason he was going back. “I need a good bath.” He jokingly smelt under his armpits.
We both chuckled and went back to staring at the empty track. I popped some pills and Thomas looked at me. “What?” I said defensively. He replied, “You’ve been taking pills non-stop since I met you.”
It was now dusk, and clearly no trains were ever coming. Together, we headed back into the town. In the background, the unnerving sound of sirens. Thomas winced and clutched his back. Blood seeped through his jacket.
“You’re bleeding,” I remarked. He quickly replied, “Just a scratch.”
I wasn’t convinced.
Thomas dropped back, struggling to lift his large rucksack. “Would you like some help?” I asked. He didn’t answer and picked up the pace.
We arrived at the shopping mall, and Thomas stepped towards the automatic doors. I stopped, afraid to go inside. I had a strange feeling that once inside, I might never be allowed to leave. I came over all woozy. Thomas caught me as I fell.
“When was the last time you ate something?” he asked.
Inside the mall, nothing had changed. Shoppers continued to mindlessly browse the stores. We entered a sixties retro diner where customers sat in silence across from each other in booths. It was like they had nothing left to say.
We queued at the counter and gave our order to a cashier, who barely acknowledged us. I kept the order simple, coffee and cake. One of life’s simple pleasures. Thomas just ordered a coffee. I guess he lost his appetite. He was starting to look weaker. The cashier rang up the bill. Thomas looked down. I didn’t mind paying, so I reached into my handbag, and to my surprise I lifted out a wad of cash.
Why the heck do I have cash? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas staring at the cash.
We sat opposite each other in a booth. “Do you get the feeling these people don’t know we’re here?” I asked. Thomas gave a response I wasn’t expecting. “Can you remember the faces of everyone you meet?”
I felt guilty. He’s right, we never stop to take the time to get to know one another. Even our close friends and family don’t truly know who we are. My head started to pound and I instinctively popped some pills.
We waited for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. The diner owner, a large jovial man in his sixties wearing an apron walked over and put down our order. He spoke with a gentle southern drawl, but like everyone else here, he couldn’t look us in the eye.
“Ma’am, latte with a slice of cake,” he said. “And sir, one Americano.”
I stared down at the slice of pink birthday cake. The diner owner casually left.
Starving, I started to devour the pink birthday cake, but it was chalky and tasteless. Thomas sipped his black coffee which became slick like oil. He recoiled in disgust. At that moment, every customer stood up and left.
The diner owner returned to our booth. “Mall’s closing,” he told us. “I need to speak to someone about my car!” I remarked. “Better eat and drink up,” he added.
It was like he was on autopilot. He then told us something chilling in his gentle southern drawl.
“You don’t want to be here when it’s dark. It’s different when it’s dark.”
The diner owner casually left. Thomas and I exchanged a look of deep concern.
We exited the mall diner, still hungry and thirsty. The shoppers were leaving the mall in droves. I heard the familiar, disturbing sloshing sound.
Dozens of janitors were mopping the floor, back and forth. They looked up with their black eyes and circled toward us, mopping faster and faster. We ran through the mall toward the exit.
“You shouldn’t be here!” they chanted with their mouthless faces.
It dawned on me, they weren’t chasing us, they were warning us. We sprinted to the automatic doors which were closing. I knew they wouldn’t re-open and we would be trapped inside forever. As the mall lights went off, we scraped through the automatic doors.
Outside was now pitch black. Sirens roared in the background. Maniacal laughter echoed through the streets.
I turned to Thomas. “We’re getting outta here! My car has to be in the parking garage!”
With only the moonlight to guide us, we headed toward the parking garage. Clutching his lower back, Thomas could barely lift up his rucksack but still wouldn’t allow me to help. A fleeting thought crossed my mind. Is there something in the bag he doesn’t want me to see?
The maniacal laughter grew louder and louder. I glanced behind to see if we were being followed and to my horror, the moonlight shape shifted into demon silhouettes. This must be a hallucination. It can’t be real. I looked behind again and the demon silhouettes grew larger and more defined. We arrived at the parking garage.
Once inside the parking garage, the roaring sirens and the maniacal laughter stopped. The demon silhouettes didn’t follow us in. Are they not allowed in here? Are there rules? The parking garage was still packed full of cars.
“What car do you drive?” Thomas asked.
I struggled to answer him. I couldn’t remember. My headache had been getting progressively worse. It was as if someone stabbed a screwdriver through my temples.
I popped some pills and closed my eyes. I flashback to earlier when I drove my Mini into the parking garage. Back to reality, I shouted out, ”Mini!”
We scanned the parking garage, and every single car was now a Mini. I stared at the rows upon rows of Minis in sheer disbelief.
“Use your fob!” Thomas told me.
I fumbled to find my key fob in my handbag and noticed the wad of cash. Why do I have that amount of money? I pressed my fob, and every single car flashed open.
Suddenly, a wave of shoppers and staff from the mall enter the parking garage. They simultaneously got into their Minis and drove off. One of the Minis drove straight at us and I yanked Thomas and myself behind a concrete pillar. I heard slow, loud footsteps. I peered from behind the pillar and saw the diner owner walking toward the last remaining Mini.
I jumped out from behind the pillar. “That’s my car!” He spoke in his gentle southern drawl. “You don’t want to be here when it’s dark. It’s different when it’s dark.”
He gets into the car and closes the door. “Please, take us with you!” I cried out. “We need to leave this place!”
The diner owner casually reversed out of the space. I desperately pounded on the windshield.
“Help us! Help us!”
The diner owner drove off and I was forced to step away.
My head was on the verge of exploding. I chugged back the bottle of pills. The parking garage spun around me. I snapped out of my trance and looked over at Thomas, who was lying in a pool of his own blood. I removed his blood-soaked bandage and to my shock saw a large, gaping hole from his back to his stomach.
"You've been shot!" I exclaimed. His eyes glazed over he whispered, “I know.”
I wrapped my T-shirt tightly around his wound and called for an ambulance.
“My friend’s been shot!” I cried out. The monotone operator asked, “Where is your location?”
I was forced to end the call. I realized no one would be coming to save us. I turned to Thomas, who struggled to keep his eyes open. “We’re leaving this Godforsaken town.”
With my arm around his waist, we exited the parking garage. Thomas limply dragged his rucksack along the ground. He refused to leave it behind. Outside, I nervously scanned right and left. There was no sign of the demon silhouettes. Maybe it was just a hallucination from my headaches. I decided to turn left. It didn’t matter as long as we could escape to another town and get help.
I struggled to pull Thomas along, who was getting progressively weaker. He still clasped onto his rucksack like his life depended on it. Blood dripped from his bullet wound, creating a trail. Sirens raged in the background. The demon silhouettes shape shifted from the moonlight and laughing maniacally followed us. I tried to move faster, but the demon silhouettes got closer.
“Let me go,” Thomas gasped. “We’re in this together,” I told him. “We’re going to leave together.”
We were forced to hide in an alleyway. At the end of the alleyway, I saw a bright shining light. I had a sudden awakening. We needed to pass through the light. It’s our only chance to leave this town.
A jarring pain seared through my head. I collapsed Thomas and myself hard to the ground. We both lay there incapacitated.
The demon silhouettes towered above us like skyscrapers. I desperately reached into my handbag for my bottle of pills but it was empty. Thomas strained and reached into his rucksack. He took out another bottle of pills and passed them to me. I instinctively paid him with the wad of cash.
We locked eyes, and at that precise moment, I knew who he was and he knew who I was.
I flashback to earlier when I walked quickly through the streets. I clutched my handbag tightly to my chest as I passed a large, hooded gang who laughed at me. I spotted a young homeless guy in a side alleyway. I nervously approached Thomas and asked him if he had any drugs.
It wasn’t the first time I’d searched the streets for drugs. I was ashamed, but the humiliation of attending my niece’s birthday party single was too much to handle. I just had to take the edge off. I had no choice but to get high.
Thomas seemed unsure but reached into his rucksack and handed me a bottle of pills. I took out the wad of cash from my handbag.
Back in the strange town, the demon silhouettes engulfed me and pulled me away. I tried to fight back, but I stood no chance. They were too powerful. With his final surge of energy, Thomas lunged off the ground and pulled me back.
I flashback to the hooded gang robbing me of my cash. They grabbed my neck from behind and were choking me. I desperately tried to fight them off, punching, kicking, and clawing, but they were too strong. Thomas lunged at them and pulled me away.
THUD, a hooded gang member shot Thomas in the back, who collapsed to the ground. I saw his eyes roll back. With sirens in the background, the hooded gang threw me to the ground and ran away.
CRACK, my head hit the concrete. Everything went dark.
Back in the strange town, the demon silhouettes now had us both. They pulled us further away from the light into darkness. Thomas was too weak to fight back, his eyes glazed over. But I refused to give up and pulled us back toward the light.
I screamed out, "We need to leave this town!"
I woke up being rushed on a gurney by EMTS into the ICU. I passed a janitor with his eyes down, mopping the floor back and forth. I dipped in and out of consciousness. The doctors checked under my eyes with a light and called out my name. "Penelope." I caught a glimpse in the neighboring room of doctors performing emergency CPR on Thomas. Everything went dark again.
Back in the strange town, the bright light exploded toward me like a supernova. I reached out my hand which was absorbed by the light. I was ready to pass through.
I looked behind at the demon silhouettes dragging Thomas out of the alleyway. What would be his fate? Would he be destined to live for eternity like the other soulless entities here?
The light had now absorbed half my body. But I couldn’t leave him. I must save my friend. So I pulled away from the light and entered the darkness.
With my head about to erupt and blood pouring out of my ears, I chased after the demon silhouettes, who scraped Thomas along the ground back toward the mall. Thomas’ eyes turned from white to black.
But I refused for him to become another mindless drone and grabbed his rucksack that he still clung onto. A symbol of him going home to his family. I pulled with all my might, but the demon silhouettes wouldn't release him. The light from the alleyway became faint.
I gritted my teeth and channeled every negative emotion from feeling unloved, unworthy, and embarrassed of who I am.
I screamed at the top of my lungs. “This little wallflower deserves happiness!”
And with one final burst of energy, I ripped us away from the demon silhouettes into the light.
My eyes opened wildly and I found myself lying in a hospital bed. I spoke to a kind nurse. “What happened,” I asked. “You were found unconscious in an alleyway,” she replied. “What about the young guy with the rucksack?” I asked.
She hesitated to answer. I presumed it had something to do with patient confidentiality. I looked at her with desperate eyes.
“Please, I need to know if Thomas is alive?”
The nurse was taken aback that I knew his name. She leaned in close and told me. “He’s alive, but it was touch and go. At one point he was pronounced clinically dead.” I took a long, deep breath.
While recovering from my head trauma, I regularly took trips to see Thomas. He was always asleep and hooked up to machines. A few weeks later I was declared fit to leave. But I didn’t want to leave. I needed to speak to Thomas.
I needed to find out whether the strange town was real or a dark part of my subconscious. If we were there, and the events actually happened, there would be proof of an alternate reality. Some would call it purgatory. I wasn’t sure which answer I was looking for. Both terrified me. Only Thomas could provide the answer.
So every day for over a year, I waited on a bench outside the hospital for him to leave. I was banned from going inside, so I had no choice. One nondescript day, Thomas walked out of the hospital with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. He was slimmer than I remembered but looked fresh and healthy.
Although I had longed for this moment, I decided to let him pass by. The strange town was my burden to carry and I wanted Thomas to be free to move on with his life.
Thomas continued to walk away. He stopped and turned to look at me. We locked eyes and I knew at that moment what happened to us was real. There was an unbreakable bond. We had both experienced the strange town.
Together, we left the hospital and walked along a busy street. We passed people grinding through their everyday lives, oblivious to the truth. Thomas and I don’t say anything to each other. We don’t need to. We know what happened.
Up ahead was a street diner. Thomas turned to me. “Shall we get a coffee?” “It can’t be worse than last time,” I quipped.
Inside the diner, we sat across from each other in a booth. The diner owner, a middle-aged, slim Italian American woman, put down our coffee and cheesecake. She spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent.
“Better eat and drink up.”
Thomas and I looked at each other.
“You don’t want to be here when it’s dark. It’s different when it’s dark.”

Has anyone had good luck with losing weight during their second year on tirzepatide?mounjaro/zepbpund? I was SW223 and CW 183 and I am 14 mos in. The first 30 lbs came in 5 ma, the next 10 took 6 mos and I am on a plateau after a lot of travel. I think my GW is roughly 140 so I figured I was roughly halfway there and I was mentally fine with this taking another 12-18 mos. But I just heard about the clinical study that was done (I think on Novo and Ozempic, but maybe it was Lilly and Mounjaro) that said people tend to plateau after 15 mos and stop losing weight. I am wondering if this is because the appetite suppression goes away over time and people start eating more, or if you keep on eating well, watching calories, working out, etc. you have a shot of keeping it going? I have been a slow loser compared to a lot of people on here but I figured with patience I would get there. So the study was discouraging. I was 135-155 my whole adult life until I went up to 230 in pregnancy and could never lose the weight. I am in my 50s now. My eating and exercise habits were pretty decent before the Mounjaro, but no amount of calorie restriction made a dent. Not sure if I am losing so slow because of my age or because I wasn’t overeating that much pre meds so the change is less drastic than it is for some people. I have definitely gotten more lax about eating high protein/low carb over the last several months. Was hoping a return to a more strict diet regimen could kick start a reacceleration of loss. But the study has me worried that I squandered my window for the drugs to work. Any one with encouraging stories of making good progress year two? PS - after almost a year on 10 mg, I went up to 12.5 a week ago.

Best of the last 30 days! This monthly thread is intended for more general and informal discussion on legal issues discussed over the last month (May 2024). For the avoidance of doubt: Rule 1 does not apply to this post. Hot takes, non-legal comments, politics, irrelevant asides, and spicy opinions are welcome for discussion. Other rules remain.

Top three LANZ posts in May:

1. [actual title] I didn’t get the job because I’m not white? https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/RvE8zMaT0r
2. Nightmare Bridesmaid https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/QJgl2mSZ1M
3. Is this shit legal? Boss wants to pay in wine and supermarket vouchers https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/mSiBTjfuGS

Honourable mentions from Casio:

• “I did not have owner-pet relations with that cat” https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/mxLmNDBkE4
  
• First time in Court: LANZ weighs in with fashion advice (and more!) https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/Uao31jvG4I
  
• Insurer wants to write off a car with sentimental value for a small dent. What are OP’s rights? https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/s/wiYx87BDae
  

Honourable mentions from Phoenix:

• Does the language being 'official' mean your employer can't stop you using it? (despite the significant amount of rule breaking) https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/comments/1d4w352/told_to_not_speak_māori_in_the_workplace/
  
• Disney lied to us, it isn't always an evil stepmother! https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/comments/1d07d7d/wicked_step_dad/)
  
• Can the repo guy really break into my house? https://www.reddit.com/LegalAdviceNZ/comments/1czyxwn/advice_regarding_repo_agents/
  

Other stuff

Minutes to hide comment scores: we’ve introduced an initial period where comment scores are invisible. This is a common subreddit feature aimed at removing inherent bias and preventing trends of bandwagon/snowball voting, where if a comment gets a few initial downvotes it often continues going negative, or vice versa. There are multiple sides to every story, and there’s always further relevant information that will affect the advice given, meaning there isn’t always a right or wrong answer to questions here. We’d encourage voting based on how much helpful legal information is added, and reserving downvotes for objectively poor or misleading advice rather than advice you disagree with.
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Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

Can no longer attend the festival and looking to sell for $275. I live around the Boston area if anyone’s local, but can also ship!

I came home from a weekend away at the cabin to find the wind took my Traeger out. It’s a bit older so I am debating trying to bang all the dents out, replace a few components or just buy a new one.
Currently I have the Traeger pro 34 in bronze and it smoke pretty well but doesn’t have a very good top end temp. Seems to max out around 325 on a sunny day.
Does anyone have a pellet grill they like and has better temp ranges for when I want a quick high heat sear?

Credit to Blue for the wonderful cover art
Thank you to:
u/SpacePaladin15, for creating the Nature of Predators universe.
u/blankxlate, author of Sweet Vengeance, for proofreading.
EmClear, aspiring author, for proofreading
You, the reader, for your support.
Please consider reading the works of my proofreaders as they’re all authors of excellent stories and be sure to check the links below for more of my work and beautiful art from members of the community.
The following story takes place shortly after the events of Empty Eyes part 2 but, seeing as Trilvri’s story is very episodic in nature, you should be able to largely understand the story without prior context (though I would definitely recommend you give the full story a chance!)
I don’t typically believe in giving content warnings, but I have been advised to give one here. This one is a little fucked up and involves some very bad things being done both by and to minors. Consider yourself warned.
[Empty Eyes] [Nature of Family Master List]
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Empty Eyes: Children of the Grave
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Memory transcription subject: E̶͉̖̺̣͇̽̔̓̃͑̂̍̍͝Ŗ̸͈̙̭̼̝͛̃̍̃̆Ṛ̶͖̙̩͐̆͝Ȍ̷̡̱̞̳̹̩͙̩̼͚͛R̵̝̽̈͑̌̑̐́̊̍͝!
Date [standardised human time]: E̶͉̖̺̣͇̽̔̓̃͑̂̍̍͝Ŗ̸͈̙̭̼̝͛̃̍̃̆Ṛ̶͖̙̩͐̆͝Ȍ̷̡̱̞̳̹̩͙̩̼͚͛R̵̝̽̈͑̌̑̐́̊̍͝!
Transcription data heavily fragmented…Attempting post-mortem reconstruction…
E̶͉̖̺̣͇̽̔̓̃͑̂̍̍͝Ŗ̸͈̙̭̼̝͛̃̍̃̆Ṛ̶͖̙̩͐̆͝Ȍ̷̡̱̞̳̹̩͙̩̼͚͛R̵̝̽̈͑̌̑̐́̊̍͝!
Evidence of neural pathway tampering detected…Suspicion of attempted obstruction of justice…Decoding memory encryption…
Decoding…
Decoding…
Partial reconstruction complete…Full reconstruction ongoing…
Memory transcription subject: Trilvri, VSC Penitent Fleet Cadet (age 8 approx.)
Approximate Date [standardised human time]: 2123
The booted foot connects solidly with my skull once more, eliciting a banal sense of drudgery and tedium as I blink away the dots in my vision to stare into the face of Razvik. He’s a Venlil, like me, white of wool and sour of complexion. He too bears the hallmark scars of his time interred in a predator disease facility: friction burns over the wrists and ankles where shackles rubbed the skin raw, an arc pattern spread across the throat and chest from his shock collar, and lopsided facial features born of a collision with a truncheon where the bones failed to set properly. He probably thinks the slightly slack-jawed appearance makes him look tough. His two henchmen certainly seem to think so standing beside him, too weak and cowardly to make it on their own, choosing instead to trust their fates to Razvik.
It’s a sensible choice… almost. Razvik is big, one of the oldest among our group, and fully endowed by the blessings of puberty. Something most of the rest of us probably won’t live long enough to experience for ourselves. Until the paw when we inevitably meet our fate, digested inside of an Arxur’s stomach or scattered to vapours of dust amid the wreckage of our ships, however, we need to contend with the self proclaimed ‘apex predator’s’ rule. We stand little chance fighting back against a teenager, almost a man in full, and he knows it. What those who follow him seem to forget though, is that Razvik has no loyalty. No empathy to speak of. He’s just as broken as the rest of us, and he’ll turn on those who follow him just as quickly as anyone else. They’re just being saved for last.
“What’s the matter, Dead-Meat?” He sneers at me, baring his teeth in a snarl as he looks down on my form crumpled up into a ball on the floor. “Still not gonna fight back?”
Silent contempt is my armour as I lay on the floor, glaring up into his face with unblinking, unbroken eyes. I survived the facilities. I will survive this. All I have to do is what I’ve always done and I’ll make it through. Endure. Compartmentalise the external and float in a sea of the subconscious mind. Nothing he can do to my body could ever compare to the tortures I’ve borne already. Nerves, long-ago fried beyond all practical use, barely even register pain anymore, simply a dull sense of pressure that lets me know when something is killing me; and I doubt he can do more damage to my brain with just his foot than three cycles of constant electroshock and chemical experimentation already have.
“You know what, Dead-Meat?” Razvik stops to ponder me for a moment, stalking up and down the floor in front of me. “It’s almost not even worth the trouble of brahking with you anymore. You don’t have any kind of reaction no matter what we do. You’re like a vacant brahking doll. Mute more often than not. Useless. I’m half tempted to try shoving my cock up your ass to see if I can get some kind of pleasure out of you that way, but I get the feeling even that wouldn’t get through to you. Besides, it’s no fun if they don’t scream a little when I do it.”
The lackey to his left, a young Venlil boy with brown wool and a face that could almost be considered cute if not for a long scar running through his left eye to his lip, looks aside. An uncomfortable look of shame and humiliation rests upon his face as his tail curls submissively around his leg.
“You know why I keep doing it though?” Razvik asks me. “It’s because of that brahking look in your eyes. The way you look at me like I’m dirt, like you think you’re better than me. I hate it. Well let me tell you something, you’re not better than me. The Commander said it himself, who you were before you got here isn’t worth speh. Your mommy and daddy aren't gonna come in here and save you no matter how much of a big-shot they are, so get used to it.”
Never once have I tried using my Mother or Fathers names to help me. It’s been three cycles since I last saw either of them, since I’d last heard anything about them.
“I have no son… Do what you want with him…”
His final words echo in memory, a painful reminder of my failure in his eyes. For a while I had held out hope that they would change their minds, that they would come back for me, save me… In truth, I am as dead to them as they are now to me. The truth doesn’t matter to Razvik though. A sharp kick in the ribs returns my focus to the present moment as he continues to lecture, taking pleasure in extolling his own might and power over those weaker than himself.
“Pay attention when I’m talking, Dead-Meat.” He says. “All that matters in here is survival of the fittest, rule by force, and let me tell you, I’m the apex predator in here. I’m the alpha, the number one. So you’d best shape up and learn that, quick. The next time I tell you something you’d better do it pronto, without any backtalk or predatory looks. Next time you even think of giving me a reason I might just pluck those offensive little eyes of yours right out of your head for good.”
A flick of the tail sends his two goons over to me, kicking and stomping, aiming for vital points and exposed areas of soft flesh. I curl myself into a dense little ball, weathering the storm of blows with stoic indifference as I ward off the worst of the assault with arms and legs. Razvik saunters over to the cafeteria table to retrieve my tray, the inciting incident for this paws events, and upturns it, spilling the contents all over me and onto the floor.
“Make sure to get me something better for the next meal.” He says as he turns to walk away. “I need plenty of calories if I’m gonna keep my strength up.”
The other cadets watch from the sidelines as I pick myself up off the floor and salvage what food I can. It’s undeniable that this display would cost me in the future, a weak link never goes un-exploited, but there’s nothing to be done about it. I don’t have the power to change my fate. All I can do is endure.
A pair of compliance officers enter the mess hall and everyone immediately lines themselves up at attention, not wanting to garner attention or provoke our wardens ire. I don’t even have a chance. Covered in fruit juices and slops of gruel as I am, they take notice of me immediately.
My teeth clamp shut with force and I topple to the ground with searing pain racing up my leg as the first officer to reach me jabs into my thigh with an electrified baton.
“Filthy brahking predator,” he says, pressing his weapon into the small of my back to send out another jolt for added emphasis, “you’re so ungrateful you won’t even eat the food we’ve so generously provided for you. It seems you still need another lesson about penance for your actions.”
“Everyone else, into the showers!” The second officer waves his baton around the room, issuing his command. “Wash away whatever taint you can and get to your bunks for some shut-eye. Next paw won’t be any easier than this one, so get to it!”
He points his baton down at me. “You! I want this floor so clean that a proper sapient could eat off of it! Then get your ass down to the showers! The longer you take the less time you get for rest claw!”
The two officers stand around and watch me as I clean, scrubbing the polished floors until I could see my own reflection staring back at me, a vacuous little black Venlil with angry, blood-orange eyes simmering with distant hatred and rebellious malcontent. Eventually, and after the officers had their own fun, prolonging my punishment whilst chiding and ‘encouraging’ me with the occasional zap to hurry up, I finished.
Making my way down the sterile white hallway of the orbital station I arrive at the showers to find them deserted. No surprise there. Everyone else is presumably already asleep at this point, taking advantage of the rare privilege that is ‘sleep’ to bask in the wonders of nonexistence, of not being here. I hope to join them soon enough.
Cold water runs down my body, washing away the now caked-on bits of foodstuff down the drain, sending shivers down my spine as I shudder from the sudden drop in temperature. Rumour has it that the compliance officers get warm showers. Personally, I’m not sure if I believe it, though it would seem fitting if for no other reason than it would make us all the more miserable for knowing it.
As I make my way through the drying tunnel I can hear something in the distance, a quiet sobbing. I creep around the corner, silent and unseen as I balance on the soft pads of my feet. Looking out I can see Razvin and his two thugs up to their typical behaviour, cornering a small Gojid boy. I recognize him from my first day in the Corps, a quiet and sensitive lad prone to fits of tears and depression. I think his name was… Ganjeem. It’s a wonder how he managed to get into this program at all with how sensitive he is, but then again the Penitents will take just about anyone with a positive diagnosis, even if the particular subset of predator disease doesn’t showcase itself with the more violent tendencies of someone like Razvik
“That’s right, cry you little piece of speh.” Razvik grabs Ganjeem by the jaw, digging blue-stained claws into his face and pressing him up against the wall. “I’m gonna get my enjoyment out of you one way or another…”
I don’t know Ganjeem very well. I can’t even say I’ve ever really had a conversation with him. He’s as much a stranger to me as anyone else on this station, just another face in the crowd. Still, looking at him there in the corner, knowing what’s about to happen… Something stirs in my heart, a feeling I haven’t known in cycles, and it compels me to act.
“Leave him alone.” I state the order clearly, without excessive threats and bluster. I’m making a poor decision, picking a fight I know I can’t win, but I do it anyway. I feel like I don’t really have a choice.
“Oh, look who’s back for more?” Razvik turns to face me, his erect manhood displayed proudly. “Dead-Meat didn’t learn his lesson earlier. I’ll tell you what though,” he licks his misaligned lips in disgusting fashion, “I like this new energy. I might actually be able to have some fun with you this time. It seems I must have struck a nerve. Who is this little brat to you? I’m not stealing your little boy-toy from you, am I?”
“I don’t know him at all.” I answer coldly. “I’ve never even spoken to him before. Now let him go.”
“Huh, is that so?” Razvik seems genuinely surprised, perplexed by the idea that I might try to help someone I don’t know, the concept utterly foreign to him. “Doesn’t matter I suppose.” He flicks his tail with a snap and flexes his claws as he looks me in the eye. “Boys, bring him over here so I can have my fun with him. I got a certain promise from earlier that I need to uphold.”
E̶͉̖̺̣͇̽̔̓̃͑̂̍̍͝Ŗ̸͈̙̭̼̝͛̃̍̃̆Ṛ̶͖̙̩͐̆͝Ȍ̷̡̱̞̳̹̩͙̩̼͚͛R̵̝̽̈͑̌̑̐́̊̍͝!
Memory transcription interrupted…Beginning playback…
Memory transcription subject: Trilvri, Venlil Child (age 5 approx.)
Approximate Date [standardised human time]: 2120
“Mother, please!” I decry, the blazing desert sun overhead, bearing down on me with an intensity almost as merciless as hers. “We’ve been at this all paw! I just don’t get it! I’m exhausted and everything hurts! Please! I just want a break…”
My every limb aches, spasming with an acidic burn of exertion that renders me almost unable to stand or close my paw. Try as I might, I can't stop my paws from shaking. My every breath is laboured, bought at the expense of pain in my ribs and a sour taste in my lungs. A patchwork of swollen bruises are beginning to form under my wool and across my whole body where I’ve been struck. I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this. I don’t know how I’ve even made it this far.
“No breaks!” Mother is strict in her instruction, draconian even, demanding perfection in every measure. “Maybe some people can afford to postpone their training until they’re old enough to officially join the Guild, but not you. Not my Son. We will continue working you through the forms until you can do it flawlessly!”
“But, Mother…” I plead, desperate for release, “It… It hurts…”
“Life is pain, Trilvri,” Mother answers dismissively, “and the sooner you learn that the better. Maybe you don’t appreciate it now, but this, all of this, is for your own good. You have a legacy to live up to and your Father and I will accept nothing less. You have the makings of greatness in you, it’s in your blood, but potential means nothing if you don’t use it. That requires effort. That requires pain. You’ll thank me for this someday. Now, do it again!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I say reluctantly, still eager to please, still desperate to be loved.
Memory transcription restored…Resuming playback…
I catch the first assailant's paw by the wrist mid-swing, turning it over and throwing him over my hip with a savage snap, slamming him down hard onto the slick tile floor. Kneeling down to drop my full body weight on the joints, I compress the shoulder and elbow, breaking it in two more places, before delivering a swift punch to the throat. He barely even has time to scream as his airway starts to swell and his attention becomes singularly fixated on continuing to breathe. He’d live… probably.
It’s a surprise that I still know how to do this. It’s been at least three cycles since I’d first learned the basics and this was the first time I’d ever actually had to put any of it into practice against real opponents. Still, I suppose some things, once learned, are just impossible to forget.
The brown one with the almost-cute face is next. He hesitates for just a moment at the sight of me, completely acclimated to my typical docility and wholly unprepared for such swift and unexpected resistance. That hesitation is what does him in. With my back foot already chambered beneath me in the crouched stance, I spring out with a back kick, pressing my front paws against the floor for balance. The kick takes him in the face, raking claws up his unblemished side in a ragged trio of cuts that tear out an eyeball. That one is certain to leave a scar, but maybe he should thank me? I’m sure that he’ll be receiving less attention from Razvik now that he’s no longer pretty.
He hollers and screams, clutching at his face and screeching as he fumbles around blindly with sightless eyes, falling over himself and crashing to the floor. From down the hall I can hear the other cadets start to rise from their slumber and make their way over to investigate the disturbance. Normal prey would run and hide at such a commotion, but for these predators the scent of blood in the water only seems to draw them nearer. It seems we’ll be putting on a show.
“You bastard!” Razvik rushes me, bearing down on me with his full might as the others begin to arrive.
Crossing my arms in front of me I’m just barely able to take the blow, thrown across the room by the force and colliding with a toilet. The ceramic shatters with a crash as my back makes contact with it, driving the air from my lungs. It takes me only a moment to recover myself, the dull throb of pain all along my spine letting me know that it’s not good, but it seems I’ve managed to avoid outright breaking my back at least. Still, a moment is all it takes for Razvik to catch up with me.
He towers over me, a colossal white pillar of sadistic wrath, and wraps his fingers tightly around my throat. His supple hands squeeze hard, making my neck pop and tingle as he strangles the life out of me.
“Yeah…” He says, enraptured in ecstasy, “This is much better. It turns out you can be a fun little toy afterall. I’m looking forward to all the wonderful experiences we’re going to share. Aren’t you, Dead-Meat?”
My foot flies up between his legs with a savage snap-kick and I can feel his testicles rupture on impact, an orange stain spreading quickly out his crotch. His eyes go wide with shock and his voice pitches upward into a shrill squeak. Now isn’t the time to stop and admire my handiwork though. Seizing on the opportunity I reach behind me and grab the first thing I can find, the heavy back-lid of the toilet. Swinging it around with all my might, I crash it into his left knee, snapping it with a sickening crunch at a ninety degree angle.
Razvik flounders on the floor, reeling from the pain of his crippled limb and his existence as a newly made eunuch. His eyes are the most viscous window of hate imaginable, giving a glimpse into his sickeningly warped, predatory soul. He reaches up a paw to claw at me with a growl, and I swat it back down with a thwack of the lid, snapping three of his fingers back facing the wrong direction in the process.
“I’ll kill you!” He screams at me, barely coherent. “You’ll pay for this! You’ll suffer! You’re Dead-Meat! You hear me! Dead!”
He attempts to reach for me again with his other paw, and again I smack it away with much the same result. A howl of impotent rage and pain reverberates throughout the room. I look around at the assembled faces of my fellow cadets, watching as they wait and evaluate me, seeing what it is I’ll do next. Judging, re-evaluating their own place on the social hierarchy, and trying to figure out if they have what it takes to be on top. All they have to do… is claim that title from me…
The words of my Father come unbidden to my mind.
“Predators are not like you and me, Son. They are savage and uncivilised, devoid of empathy or mercy. The only thing they understand is force, domination, naked violence in its purest sense. When dealing with such monsters you can never show weakness, you can never back down, and you must always present yourself as an unchallengeable, indomitable threat worthy of fear and respect… or else they’ll eat you alive.”
I meet the gaze of the audience, see their questioning faces, and tighten my grip on the lid. I will see their challenge, and I will meet it head on. Simply enduring is no longer enough to survive, not under these conditions. I need to act, to prove myself. I need to become untouchable, unreachable, unconquerable. I need to become someone that none of them will ever dare to cross ever again. I need… to make an example.
“No,” I say to Razvik, my tone as cold and sharp as steel, “you’re Dead-Meat.”
I slam the lid down onto his other knee, shattering it into a million pieces. He screams; obscenities, threats, curses. It doesn’t matter. I know what needs to be done. I straddle his body and work my way up his legs, crushing thigh bones, crushing his pelvis, his spine, and his ribs. Slowly and meticulously I crush every bone in his body, prolonging his suffering and caving in his entire chest cavity. Shards of bone crack and pop through the skin, puncturing organs and spilling blood across the floor, spiralling down through the drain. Razvik is a gibbering mess, his once proud boasts and threats devolved into a series of pleading cries, begging for someone, anyone, to save him. They don’t.
I could end this quickly, a quick blow to the head delivered at just the right angle would put him out of his misery at once. Part of me almost wants to do that. Razvik is a cruel and sadistic man, someone fully deserving of the label ‘predator’, but with every blow of the lid landing upon his body like a hammer strike I can feel a small piece of my own soul breaking away. I want to, but no. This is purposeful. This is a tactical cruelty, not simply cruelty for cruelties sake. Intended and executed to send a message that will be understood and remembered by everyone here for the rest of their short, miserable lives.
Don’t brahk with me. I’m not worth the risk.
Razvik goes silent now, words unable to be drawn from perforated lungs. He quivers and shakes, more an involuntary seizure than anything intentional, his body unable to sustain itself amid the massive and systemic trauma I’ve inflicted on it. With a final crash I slam the lid into the amorphous bag of pulped flesh and splintered bone that is his chest, shattering my improvised weapon on the tile floor beneath.
I rise to my feet, covered in blood that’s not my own and panting from the exertion. I look out, and the faces that meet mine turn away, cowed by the grisly display of dominance. None would be willing to risk an open confrontation with me. Not anymore.
“Ganjeem?” I ask, scanning the herd of onlookers for the figure of the scared little Gojid that had started it all, “Are you ok?”
He looks at me, more fear and terror on his face than even Razvik had instilled in him. He runs away the moment my eyes meet his, screaming. I may have saved him, but in his view I had become the thing all good prey fear most, a wild predator. A monster devoid of empathy or mercy. Just another chained beast aboard the Penitent Fleet, just one more weapon in the Commander's arsenal, no different than any other. I had succeeded in my goals, wildly and beyond all expectations. The ceaseless bullying, the endless torment would stop. I am untouchable, and I am completely, utterly, alone…
Memory transcription interrupted…Fragmentation increasing…Related transcription file located…Beginning playback…
Memory transcription subject: Brykin, VSC Penitent Fleet Commander
Date [standardised human time]: August 18th, 2123
“Commander, please,” one of the new administrative overseers sees fit to voice her uneducated and unwanted opinion as I watch the live camera feed, “this has gone too far. One of the children is dead, a second is dying, and the third may never be able to fly again! This is unconscionable! It’s sickening! We need to stop this! We never should have let it get this far! We knew that Cadet Razvik was a particularly unstable individual and that he was terrorising the other penitents, but we still didn’t do anything, and now look at what's happened!”
“Of course he was unstable,” I answer tactfully, “they all are. Don’t allow appearances to deceive you. Every one of these cadets has been selected on the basis of their predatory nature and their potential for killing. None of them should be considered anything even close to an actual child. They are simply predators disguised as such, and it is our responsibility to ensure we make the best use of them that we can.”
“We’re not going to get any use out of them if they all wind up killing each other!” The fledgling overseer refuses to see reason and drop the issue, but then again, I suppose not everyone can be so enlightened as myself.
“They are simply predators being predators.” I answer patiently, hoping to guide and nurture understanding in our new hire. “Culling their own packs of the weak is how they develop and grow. It’s an expected part of the process. Cadet Razvik may have been a promising candidate, but in the end he proved himself to be insufficient. In his death, at least, he serves to strengthen those that remain. In this program there’s never any guarantee that the cadets we’re given will be moulded into good soldiers, but with any luck we may still be able to salvage something useful out of this batch. There’s almost always at least one in the bunch…”
I look back to the screen, watching as Cadet Trilvri exits the room, the rest of his class parting ways to make room for his departure.
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A/N - Hello all! Well that was certainly a rather dark chapter wasn’t it? I do hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into Trilvri’s early days as a cadet in the Penitents and witnessing his very first kill. As a fun fact for you guys, this chapter was partly inspired by Ender Wiggins killing of Stilson in Ender's Game. The song for this chapter is, rather appropriately, Children of the Grave by Black Sabbath and try as Trilvri might to make a better world the Penitents remain Children of the Grave. As a second “Fun Fact” there is actually a second song I was considering for this chapter, First Blood by First Blood, which also seems rather fitting. In the end though I decided Children of the Grave just fit the overall story better.
If you like the story then please remember to upvote, comment, and use the “!Subscribeme” function to be alerted to all new posts. I post as often as I can but real life has a tendency of getting in the way and my job makes it almost impossible to keep to any kind of schedule. Your engagement and support go a long way towards helping to keep me on track and motivated, so thank you very much for reading and I hope you'll stay tuned for next chapter!

M31, in the USA, I have a BSEE and MSEE, mainly in analog and power electronics. The university I went to was abysmal when it came to hardware and IC design - hardly any coursework besides the fundamentals.
Fast forward, I've been working as a poweanalog electronics engineer mainly doing circuit design, bench eval, simulation, test, etc, but nothing close to the rigor of IC design. Been doing board level stuff for about 7ish years now.
How realistic would it be for me to pivot to IC design (PMICs, SMPS ICs for example) without taking a huge dent financially?
From the looks of it, it seems practically impossible unless I study it on my free time but again 7+ years into my career, would I have to restart as an entry level designer?
Thanks 🙏🏽
EDIT: I don't know if it matters but I currently work as a power apps engineer at one of the top semiconductor companies based in MA.

/uw This is a continuation of the first post which I will tag in the comments, once again I apologise in advance for length as well.
Hirk: “I offer you one chance to kill yourself. After that I might just have to do it for you.”
Hirks words are serious and cold, behind every word there is the threat that this is a mercy and it refused, he will do it himself.
Jean: “fine.” Jean incinerates herself, until not even ash remains.
After Jean dies an announcement is made shortly after over the speakers.
"ALL IMMORTALITY SAFEGUARDS HAVE BEEN LIFTED."
Safi: “You'll have to earn that my friend.”
Maximilian slowly walks closer to Hirk. “Make me.”
there's not a hint of regret in his eyes. He wants Hirk to deliver the blow.
Hirk’s arm in a single moment moves and connects to Maximilians stomach, ribs break but not killed only sent into a nearby wall.
“Poor choice.”
Hirk is fuelled by pure rage in his voice. He fully blocks the door.
Maximilian: “Tsk. Didn't think I'd be dueling my best man before the wedding.”
After he says this he spits out some blood, still confident and stubborn in his belief even after taking a hit from the Demi-Giant.
Nhak: “If you can kill me…”
“Then I implore you to do so…”
He spreads his arms and wings acceptingly… as if begging…
“I beg you to make it hurt.”
Hirk attempts to throw a needle of thing rock through Nhaks eye hole in his helmet with a flick of his wrist.
Parts of it break on the edges of his eyehole in his armour as he makes no attempt to stop it overrun by his guilt. There is now a stone needle poking through his helm not fully certain where it hit under that golden helm.
Aoi: “I think you should calm down, boy.” Aoi then proceeds to try to grab Hirk’s arm
Hirk shrugs off the attempt and before any further can be made someone intervenes.
Noticing direct conflict starting to break out, there is barely a blur as Hirk notices Gonkgar in front of him. Even as tall as Hirk is, Gonkgar stares down at him. He tries to grab Hirk by both of his wrists, making sure to not hurt him.
Hirk flicks his hands nudging them away, he is focused on his duty.
Zeroth: :Shutting down all defense systems:
Elize the Siren starts singing her song, making Hirk's mind filled with discord.
Edjar(?): "HIRK! STAND DOWN! THE GODS HAVE SPOKEN. I WAS GRANTED DIVINE RIGHT TO OVERSEE TRIAL AND EXECUTION!"
Rachnia: “I am sorry, Hirk. Spirit whisper.”
She proceeds to shoot out an ethereal purple string enchanted with domination magic as it begins to work its way up his nervous system through his spine to his brain and then soul.
“No-one. and I mean. NOONE. Hurts Max in front of me. Not even you Hirk!”
The lights outside all go dark, and Zeroth switches to Emergency power mode.
Hirk is glowing with the erratic wild rays of fire, emitting a partially dim light from under his skin.
Hirk resists the attempt of domination against his mind, but his mental fortitude built of hatred and fire is being chipped away by it.
“Stand back. Or else.”
Gonkgar is pushed away for the moment, at first only attempting to stop Hirk. But now sees another opportunity
"Okay. Me see how it go."
Gonkgar pulls a fist back and punches immediately, a shockwave of air from the sheer speed of his punch. He aims for Hirk's chest.
The punch connects, there is a loud sound of bones cracking and skin being heavily bruised and bloodied. But he still stands in the doorframe refusing to move, his body will break before he does.
A fourth voice joins the amalgation that is Ejdar right now, high and commanding, but compassionate.
"My Executioner will end you if you lay another hand on anyone here. You will be put RIGHT BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!"
Safi: “That will not be necessary.”
Ejder looks over at Safi. His darkened eye turns to the same silvery gold as the other. He gives Safi a respectful nod. There's a good chance that Ejder himself is not fully in control.
Lady Fortuna: “By Fate's weave... Your continued charge... Ends.”
Kyoko appears from behind Hirk after hearing the commotion
“What's going on here?”
Nhak with a gigantic needle sticking through his ghostly helm Immediately tackles Kyoko to the ground and out if the way of any fighting… shielding the two of them with his spectral wings…
Eliza siren's song is that of pain and suffering, one that was often heard at sea to crash ships. Despite the noises of fire dancing inside Hirk’s mind the song still acts as a wind disrupting the fire even if it is not fully quelled
the soulfire burns bright, Ali’s scars are almost at full brightness already. “You do not, get to touch him again.”
She punches Hirk straight in the chest at full force.
Hirk feels the second blow to his chest, there is not a noise of cracking this time as it can be assumed there was nothing left to crack as his skin goes loose from the muscles being pulverised by both attacks he’s took head on. Having to rely on his arms holding him upright by grasping at the doorframe to not fall limp. There is no response still.
Max: “Hirk. Do not. Try to hit me again.” He takes a swig from a regenerative brew.
Safi: “You asked him to do it”
Max: “Eh, expected better from my best man than to actually go through with this foolish move.”
Hirk finally after catching his thoughts which he lost from the beating he took by only two punches and Rachnia’s attempt to dominate his mind finally replied to Edjar(?), speaking less from the air in him and more the crackling of the fire inside.
“Where I came from? My home is gone. The very realm burned to ash. There is nothing left. I have nowhere to go back to.”
It is clear Hirk is not himself or he is now his true self which he hide under a scarf, sweater and broken promises. He makes one mutter afterwords with his breath this time rather than his fire to Aoi.
“Go. I do not wish to kill you, you were not involved.*
Aoi: “You really fucking think... I'm going to let you kill Max?”
Sarah: “Yeah, how about fucking no.”
Rachnia: “Over my cold, dead, body.”
there is a eattling of a snakes tail grows louder, an ever growing sense of foreboding.
"HIRK" Jean's voice booms loudly throughout the entire area. "IF YOU THINK THAT ANYONE SHOULD DIE HERE, COME AT ME! I DESERVE IT MORE THAN ANYONE IN FUCKING EXISTENCE!"
She is holding both Tartarus's and 0's cores in her hands
Hirk does not respond. But there is a hint of hesitation in his eyes.
Jean: "I TORTURED THAT BASTARD FOR 10 QUADRILLION YEARS. I'D SAY THAT MAKES ME THE WORST ONE HERE!"
A flaming knife gets thrown at Jean by Hirk, he aims directly for the heart hoping to make it quick as a mercy.
Ari: “Stop this needless fighting, this isn't going solve anything”
Ari attempts to block the knife with vines but the few that reach it in time are cut through and scared by charred marks
Jean takes the knife square in her chest. Without the immortality safeguards in place, her shards fall helplessly to the ground
Steam appears from Hirk’s eyes, he does not stop his savage duty despite clear grief at his own actions.
Gonkgar: "Only thing that matter is no one else hurt."
Gonkgar clenches both of his fists. He goes to grab Hirk's arms, and there's a glint that sparks in his eyes.
A glint that emerges and starts to travel down his body. Different from his Ultra Instinct... Stranger, perhaps. Nhak recognizes it as a modicum of a power Gonkgar once held. The juggernaut power, gifted by the God-Slaver, that made it impossible to stop Gonkgar's advance.
At that, he attempts to start pushing Hirk out of the doorway.
Ari begins to cause vines to grow around everyone except Gonkgar.
Cerne pointers her blade straight at Hirk, her daggers fly above her head.
“Not, a, step, closer, to, Max.”
Ejdar(?) shouts over to Ari after feeling their legs become tangled in them.
"Ari, Don't. You know what happened last time you restrained Ejder with those vines."
" Mo chionta. Mo chreach. Bròn."
Hirk suddenly bursts into flames, the metals surrounding him behind to melt even slightly. His skin is flaking off in embers. The vines at his feet and others nearby him burn.
Hirk has made a deal, his blood boils. His body nothing more than kindling, no pain, no feelings of his own. Even death has lost its meaning other than knowing it will be soon.
Gonkgar shattered Hirk’s bones, joints and muscles with his might. But yet Hirk stood with only one arm giving in as he still refuses to move. Inside he glows a blinding green as his body could never keep up with it without outside intervention from his ‘soul’
With Hirk now throughly on fire approaching temperatures fire should not be allowed to reach. Most without decent fire resistant would be getting hurt inside the room and around him.
Fire erupting from Hirk douses over Gonkgar's body, singing at his immensely durable skin. Even so, his burned palms grip with unbreakable might. He watches Jean fall, and Max.
"No..."
Glorg phases out of his back, looking at Gonkgar with wide eyes before pulling at his shoulders. A memory flashes behind Gonkgar's eyes. The powerlessness as his friend was killed long ago. The reason he trained in the first place... Was it vengeance? Or was it to protect those he loved? Even when he gained the power to fight gods, he could not protect his friends.
The glint of Juggernaut enshrouds his body, but something is off... His body is no longer resisting the flames. He is engulfed with heat, skin melting away. He doesn't let go of Hirk, trying to pull him back... Protect anyone. Protect *anyone...*
A symbol manifests on Gonkgar's forehead. He screams and lets go of Hirk. Gonkgar falls to his knees, burning... This level of attack should not have been enough to phase him so... And yet the fires enshrouding him grow stronger on their own, not by Hirk's command.
Edjar(?): "If that man thinks what they were doing was torture, he knows nothing. And I watched his punishment."
Upon those words being said a chain of fire appears behind and wraps around Ejdar’s neck. It does not do anything other than burn them a bit.
Ari realises what Hirk is doing and runs off with the shards and cores
:ARI. PLEASE PUT US BACK DOWN.:
“Can you stop this fighting?”
:NO. THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN STOP THIS IS HIRK HIMSELF.:
Ari: “I'm afraid I'll just have to take you to a safe place than”
she is trying to navigate to the core room
:ARI. WAIT.:
“What is it?”
:IT IS POINTLESS. JEAN SMASHED THE CONSOLE WHEN SHE PULLED ME OUT. SOMETHING WAS CONTROLLING HER.:
“I can try to repair it.”
:BEFORE YOU DO, WE NEED TO HELP JEAN. SHE REMOVED ME FOR A GOOD REASON, WHILE SHE WAS STILL IN HER RIGHT MIND.:
“we can restore here with things that match her attributes right.”
:JEAN WON'T BE OK UNTIL HIRK HAS CALMED DOWN. SHE WAS BEING OVERWHELMED BY EVERYONE'S EMOTIONS, AND HIRK'S WERE CAUSING HER TO GO INSANE:
“so if i take her far from Hirk I could be able to restore her.”
:THAT WON'T WORK. SHE'S FORMED A SEMI-PERMANENT CONNECTION TO HIM, AND HIS EMOTIONS ARE FORCING IT ACTIVE:
Ari sets the cores and the shards down before returning
The Biomancer… Having assured Kyoko’s safety… Rises from the ground… turning once-more to meet Hirk…
Nhak: “Hirk.”
His voice is not a thundering yell… but a straight… genuine statement
“If killing is going to bring you peace…”
“Then Kill me.”
”Do it.”
“I will not resist… I will not stop you…”
“I will die… and come back again…”
“Over”
“And over.”
“And over again…”
“I will let you kill me in this room.”
“I will let you kill me outside…”
“I will let you do it over and over and over again for 759,673 thousand years, 3 months, 23 hours, 13 minutes and 3 seconds…”
“If that’s what’s going to deliver you peace…”
“I know my penance…”
“But I beg of you to spare the others…”
“They do not deserve an eternity like me…”
Hirk: “H-HOW MANY KILLS.”
Hirks voice is hard to make out as it’s spoken through the fire itself and its crackling. This time it sounds pained.
Nhak: “Me… none… the things I did to that woman are far worse than death… I will not hide that fact…”
“You… as many times as it takes to watch me die to satisfy your rage…”
“I have as long as time itself…”
“H-HOW MANY KILLS.”
Hirks voice is hard to make out as it’s overshadowed by the sound of fire.
Nhak: “Me… none… the things I did to that woman are far worse than death… I will not hide that fact…”
“You… as many times as it takes to watch me die to satisfy your rage…”
“I have as long as time itself…”
Max: “I am sorry. friend. But I am not fighting this battle. Not with you. You wanted me to kill myself? THEN HAVE IT YOUR WAY.” You see him take a swig of a potion.... his muscles bulge, his eyes grow bloodshot, his veins turn purple.... Lost Hope's Tonic.
He charges right at Hirk, Grabbing onto his shoulders. He stares him straight in the eyes. The panic, the torment, all of it doesn't matter. You do not see a glimmer of regret.
more beast than man, he has less than a minute alive. "Do you think, I have any intention to change things? to say I was wrong? No. I've done this for hundreds of years, and will do so for hundreds of years.”
“To protect those who cannot protect themselves. To shield those who were exploited. You must set an example. YOU MUST SHOW HOW THOSE WHO TERRORIZE THE WEAK ARE TREATED IN KIND.”
Now. You got what you wanted. Are, you, happy? His heart stops as he says his last words.
Hirk does not get a moment to respond until Max dies in front of him, he grits his teeth as more steam comes from his eyes but he does cool down as he shakes a bit.
Nhak runs over to Max
“Max… Max please…”
“Not like me… not like me…”
“Max…”
He holds the body tight
“June 20th…”
“You promised Max…”
“You promised her…”
“You promised us all…”
“And we were going to be there…”
“And you had the most wonderful ring for her…”
some tears runs down Hirk’s cheek before turning into steam.
Hirk: “Please. Just die, I don’t.*
Hirk can hardly even get his words out, hyperventilating on every word. There is less hatred in his voice as it is not filled with sorrow.
Nhak sits back against the wall… sheltering Max’s corpse from the flames… trying in vein to stop the heat as his hair and clothes begin to steam
A small, inconspicuous rift opens near Max's body, attempting to hide behind Nhak. Talios peeks his head out.
"Nhak. I will keep his body safe until revival. You can come with if you'd like, although don't stop touching me... Even though you're a ghost, the sure-hit effect may damage you still."
Sarah walks up to Nhak. “Don't... worry too much. I'll take you to see him... soon.”
Nhak lets go of the Corpse… letting Sarah and Talios handle it as they would…
Max’s body simply puffs into ash, with a small golden glimmer remaining, until it puffs away in a golden mist.
Talios: "Oh. Well then."
Sarah: “Don't forget... Zeroth isn't all that we have... Not since the gamble in the hells.”
Talios's head pops back into the rift, and it would close.
Nhak: “Promise he won’t be like me… you have to promise… you have to promise… you have to…”
He chokes on his words
Sarah: “He won't be. I promise you.”
Nhak tilts his head towards the heavens…
“Max… Max I promise… I’m going to protect her while you’re gone…”
“No harm is going to come to her…”
“And I’m going to make sure she’s ok…”
“I’m not going to let the universe take her away from you…”
“As mine was taken from me…”
“And you are going to get married…”
“And you are going to have that honeymoon…”
“She’s safe…”
“She’s safe…”
“Don’t be afraid…”
“I promise…”
Hirk’s other arm falls, his body looks to go mostly numb on hearing ‘Promise.’
Meanwhile Safi is way too calm given the current situation. They lean back in a chair. You don't know where it came from
Eliza’s song increases in volume, it places a heavier tax on everyone in the room. Hirk only gets angrier as intended.
She shifts her song, now that of sorrow, and death. A song used for executions... and for memorial.
Somehow, Kyoko is immune to the effects of the siren's song.
Ejder tilts his head, as if listening to something. A look crosses his face. He suddenly disappears.
Rachnia is still trying to make her way into Hirk's mind, getting closer, as he loses sanity. The further they delve the more Images of hatred and pain slash them like daggers as they attempt to go further.
She just sits through the pain of Hirk's counterattacks, she bores further through his defenses. She's getting oh so close to accessing his mind.
Memories of Hirk’s home and every little joy he had there acts to disorientate Rachnia. He has had someone in his mind before from some of the memories looking tampered with.
Aoi: “Everyone... get, the, fuck, out.”
Safi: “I don't intend to leave, and I don't think the rest of you can.”
Ari makes it back to where everyone is and uses vines to reach up behind Hirk
“Hirk you got to calm down, you're hurting all your friends. Look around you, Is this what you want.”
despite all the fire and overheating she attempts to put her hand on Hirk's shoulder, bracing for the pain
The fire burns Ari, but it cools down slightly to the touch. He is hesitating.
Hirk pays no attention almost as if he cannot feel it. His skin is gone on that part, only charring is left.
she still ands still keeping her hand on Hirk's shoulder
Hirk still does not notice.
you can see Nagisa’s tail slip under Hirk, pushing Ari backwards. "don't, he can't feel it..."
Eliza’s song of sorrows starts to reach it's climax. Sadness hangs in the room like a thick mist, her eyes are filled with tears.
Hirk shows some wincing sorrow in his eyes now.
Rachnia: seems to finally be out of the confusion, she's been set back a few steps, but continues.
All they see is fire. There is nothing else but yet it’s still his memory’s. Only burning
Rachnia powers through, incredibly angry.
She continues to bore further, trying to simply get a hold over Hirk's physical state instead of mental. “I just need him... calm...”
She tries to burrow beyond the memories. “Oh dear.... Hirk... I need to calm you down before things go wrong...” She makes one final push for the finish.
You see the tournament, His death at Paleo and his humiliation to Inferno. There is visible cracks around this memory. As you get closer you hear a voice. *”Stad”** you feel a desire to obey. It is not Hirk saying it.*
Rachnia: "Not until I get to the bottom... Not after this." she pushes right through.
A kind, compassionate, but stern voice speaks into Hirk's mind.
Ejdar(?): "Don't you think you've caused enough pain? Stop this madness, and show the rebirth that fire can create."
"The weeds have been burned. There is now room for the flowers to bloom. You can rest."
Aoi begins channeling the power of the Oni's Setting Sun to increase her own strength. “HIRK, COME TO YOUR SENSES, YOU KNUCKLEBRAINS.”
Another voice speaks to Hirk
:HIRK. JEAN HAD TO PULL US OUT OF OUR CONSOLES BECAUSE YOUR EMOTIONS WERE CAUSING HER TO FALL INTO MADNESS HERSELF, TO PREVENT THIS WORLD FROM KILLING IT'S INHABITANTS. PLEASE, COME TO YOUR SENSES:
Eliza sings final verse, A verse about the death of a lover, a death of a friend, the death of your entire world. In one vicious and hateful display of mockery to Hirk.
Hirks eardrums are completely burned away. But still his heart even as it is kindling right now, still feels pain.
A singular blade of fire comes at Rachnia, it’s different to Hirk’s chains, even more volatile and no refinement. It is the source, it is fire in its perfected state.
she sidesteps, both mentally and physically. "not this time. Not again. I'd make him sad again." She tries to grab into the very source.
There is only a singular stone in the centre. Burning hot and bright.
She winds her purple silk around it, before finally casting "Spirit Whisper"
Nhak Just sits there… motionless… arms as if he still had the body of his friend…still gazing at the heavens…
“I Promise… I promise…”
“I promise…”
“You two are going to get that happy ending…”
“I won’t let the world take from you what it took from me…”
“I promise you won’t end up like me…”
“Broken and violent and unstable…”
“I promise…”
“That the two of you will get the future I never had…”
“I cannot let anything like me ever happen again…”
“I can’t…”
“I’m sorry…”
He devolves once more into sobbing
The sheer unrelenting heat from interacting to the stone enough to begin melting the skin off of Rachnia, but the string does not burn fully.
"SPIRIT WHISPER. STAND DOWN, HIRK. KNEEL."
(https://youtu.be/6bg3YSxcRLo?si=pJYflBnJbJDQku_e)
Glorg looks at Gonkgar as he is burning on his knees. The Stand, acting on its own, starts trying to pat him down. It does nothing to dissuade the flames. It's almost as if Gonkgar is exuding his own flames now, with no amount of resistance to it as opposed to normally. These flames, however, do not spread as Hirk's would. They serve only to harm Gonkgar.
Glorg grabs Gonkgar by a shoulder and tries to lift his chin. The Stand, despite being unable to talk, looks petrified with worry. Gonkgar looks back up at him with a broken expression, and then looks beyond to the mayhem. There is a symbol on Gonkgar's forehead reminiscent of the one he obtained from the God-Slaver. Burning tears run down his face, eyes closed as he gives a sad smile to his long-dead friend Glorg.
"Me get it now..."
Glorg looks at him with astonishment, questioningly.
"It not matter what Gonkgar do... They always going to die."
Even as people make headway with Hirk's psyche, Gonkgar's has seen too many friends die on his watch for him to handle anymore.
"Gonkgar sorry, Glorg... Me give up."
Glorg screams as the fires intensify to a blinding white light around Gonkgar. Gonkgar doesn't know it, but his power has always been about belief. He was unstoppable because he believed himself unstoppable. He was strong because he believed he could become strong. His Stand ensured him of that. Now, as he believed himself worthy of death, or rather, as he *desired it, his Stand's power subconsciously turned on him...*
And Gonkgar disintegrated away to ash. Glorg, staring down, disappears with a steady waver.
There is an impossible thunder of the clap of wings…
Nhaks arm is around the string in an instant… feuled by the death of gonkgar… his form is a brilliant deep blue… where he treads there is ice…
The Sting smokes and steams…
Nhak’s ghost winces…
But the temperature is reduced… just barely enough to prevent any permanent damage…
“I’m… sorry…”
“Hirk…”
“But I can’t let you hurt her…”
”I promised him…”
Rachnia: “You... Need to realise what you are doing... Hirk... Just like you tried to punish the torturers... You became one yourself.”
“Do you see, just how slippery this slope is.”
”DO YOU UNDERSTAND, JUST HOW MUCH DAMAGE YOU'RE DOING.”
Hirk either upon seeing Gonkgar die. The one true innocent person here or Rachnias magic he falls to his knees. The fires dissipate as Hirk turns cold enough for frost to start forming on him. His head facing behind him, eyes pointed at Gonkgar the only one who he truly didn’t want to die.
The voice speaks in Hirk's head again. "Hirk, you are burning more than the weeds. You're destabilizing the forest."
“I do not need your agreement, Hirk. I do not need your.... pleasantries. I need you to realise what you are causing... You could have caused the collapse of the birch world.”
”THE END OF COUNTLESS CIVILISATIONS. THE DEATH OF EVERYONE YOU CARE ABOUT. THE DEMISE OF INSURMOUNTABLE EFFORT. YOU ALMOST DOOMED EVERYTHING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Hirk pays no full attention to anyone. Either because he cannot hear, feel or truly do anything in his charred state. He only looks at his scarf, it is charred and much of it is ash now. Only barely wearable. His promise.
For the first time since hirk met Rachnia, there's no kindness towards him in her eyes. There's spite, despair, and anger.
”DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOUR LITTLE TRIP OF JUSTICE NEARLY COST EVERYONE?! YOU SPEAK DOWN TO US, BUT ALL YOU ARE, IS A FILTHY HYPOCRITE.”
Hirk can only mouth 1 thing not even being able to speak it as he coughs up ash. He pulls his scarf close to him
’I am Sorry.’
Rachnia disconnects from Hirk entirely.
“I'm going to check on Max... on the Ironsides. Nhak, you're joining me. He needs someone he can TRUST right now.”
Sarah follows behind Rachnia, carring Eliza in her hands.
There is a crunch of metal as he tears the thorn violently from his head
“Yes Ma’m.”
He Instantly follows suit
Ari returns to the shards.
she applies a broken piece of one of her inventions to the shards trying to bring one of them back
:Entity Ari, you should be able to place me back now. I can restart the systems.:
she applies a broken piece of one of her inventions to the shards trying to bring one of them back
The green, translucent branches reach out toward the shards, and toward Hirk.
A loud voice heard from the Ironsides
<>Well fucking goddamnit that hurt...<>
Rachnia: “that... is what I meant with checking up on him.”
<>I'm alright, I think... I'm coming down.<>
A droppod falls from the Ironsides.
Maximilian: “Fucking... ouch... I need to stop using those....”
Rachnia hugs him, then hits him, then hugs him again.
Max: “Deserved…”
He looks like he's been through hell and back, literally.
Nhak waits patiently for his turn… a comically large chunk of his face completely missing as a part of Hirk’s thorn
Max: “I.... hope I didn't spook you too much... Nhak.”
The towering form of the Biomancer looms over the man… wings outstretched…
The backhand is swift and fluid… not near enough to do any serious damage… but enough to definitely sting…
”That…”
“Was for scaring me as bad as you did…”
“The things I might have done…”
“The terrible decisions I might have made…”
He sighs…
Then… just as quickly… as he had slapped him…
Max found himself wrapped in a supreme hug…
Feathers and everything…
“And that… That’s for coming back…”
“You big… lucky… Idiot…”
Max: “Ouch, but again... deserved. I'm glad to be back.”
Safi: “Looks like Hirk finally calmed down.”
Safi walks up to him and places a hand on his body
“This is not your time to die my friend.”
Hirk soul refuse. Even in death it’s instinctually resists any godly influence, as if it was too used to resisting it to save itself. He also refuses to be revived himself.
Four Drakenwardens approach the door, and stop seeing Hirk's body. "What happened down here? Ejder sent nothing but a message telling us how to get here."
No response
The four Drakenwardens stand outside the doorway. "Sir Maximillian, is this Hirk?" The one who spoke points to the charred body.
Max looks to Rachnia, who has a pure look of spite on her face at the mention of Hirk. He's confused.
He looks to the wardens. “I.... sure hope not.”
Safi: “it is.”
Max goes in to check for a pulse.
he see’s the scarf being clutched by Hirk. Or what is left of it. But upon inspection veins themselves appear gone gone, burnt away and melted by his own blood.
Zeroth: :Revival safeguards were shut down during the outburst: :Entity Hirk Lifesigns have Ceased:
The 'Wardens reach down and attempt to use healing magic to restore Hirk's body so that it does not look so gruesome.
Some skin reappears but it is mostly unsuccessful, there is little bits left of skin to even heal.
Max: “...... You fucking idiot... You just had to go on a powertrip... Now, of all times... How am I going to return you from this......”
One of the 'Wardens stands. "Does anyone know what happened to Ejder?"
Safi: “He left.”
Max: “How in the everliving hells....”
shock seems to surge through him before anything else.
The Drakenwardens glance at each other. They seem to have a silent conversation, then shake their heads. "We will be outside the chamber if anyone needs wounds treated."
Max: “Where's Jean...”
Nhak: “Max… Act now… ask questions later… I didn’t know Hirk very well… you did… we need his soul back… if there was anything… anything you might say to him which you’d like to tell him before he goes… this may be your last chance to turn things around…”
“But you need to be at his side… now…”
Max is quiet. he genuinely doesn't know what to say to Hirk.
Rachnia: “He's... not good with this stuff...”
Max…
Nhak is glowing gold now…
“Second chances are a dreadfully rare thing…”
“If you do not speak now… you may never get to see him again…”
“But is has to be you… or her…”
“Nobody else could ever claim to be as close to him as the two of you…”
Sarah: “Fellas, uh... anyone gonna check on the caveman? I will do so if no one else does.”
Gonkgar's god-rock and a pair of intricate gauntlets (which he never seems to wear) are lying in his ashes, unharmed.
Olive: “Max can you bring Reedus back up I need to let off some steam”
Nhak: “Olive… Can you just read the room please.”
”Not NOW.” You hear a hint of Fortuna's voice in there, he does not even wish to hear that name right now. The root of this problem.
Nhak: “Shank me or something I don’t care… but let everyone be…”
Olive: “I need to unwind, and I don't want to hurt anyone I care about”
Max: “Then go to the ironsides and hit some of the damn dolls in the training grounds.”
Nhak: “Well… stab me then… It doesn’t hurt… you could never actually hirt me…”
He spreads his arms out to her…
“But get on with it, get productive, or get out of our way… “
“We are in a time where what we do now… in this room… will decide the course of history…”
A lone girl stands in front of the charred remains. Gray ashes do not rain relentlessly down from the sky and pale mist does not devour the horizon. Yet she weeps.
*She falls to her knees as her hands move ravenously toward what once was her friend. They encounter no resistance, the raging inferno of his soul is but a placid pond now. Panic hinders her movement as she shakes in terror. Then she grasps something. It is a minuscule spark, but it's still burning.
Searing pain engulfs her, but she is not shaking anymore. Her hands slowly retract. Her fists are clenched around the spark. She can feel its physical manifestation now: it's a small molten pebble. Her body screams, urging to let go, and yet she brings it closer to her chest. Agony soars with her every movement but she does not stop. As her tears begin to fade into white mist, panic flares again in her heart. Her time is running out.
With one last movement, fueled by desperation, Livia's hands reach her heart. A ravenous void welcomes Hirk's soul, howling hungrily, surrounded by a vile and grotesque amalgamation of countless souls. It tries to reject Hirk's molten essence. It struggles and shrieks, but in the end the chorus of screams hushes. Only silence remains, as the lone girl fades once again, devoured by pale mist. She is no longer weeping. A tiny molten pebble stands defiant where her soul once stood, keeping the hungering void at bay. As her consciousness wanes, a faint smile appears on her lips. Nothing will ever deprive her of Hirk's warmth.*
/uw this has unironically taken days to do since I’ve been busy and it’s annoying to format. I want to thank all involved and to personally ask that I never have to do this again (joking if it’s Hirk’s thing again I will do it.)
I hope all who read this do enjoy it. I get to enjoy finally being free of this joy to take part in, hell to format
Edit: Formatting