It was a long, ornately decorated table. Gold and purple tapestries hung magnificently along the walls of the room, giving the room the regal feel that it needed to exude. Each chair was elaborately decorated and matched the rest of the room. In fact, every bit of furniture or decoration in that chamber seemed to blend in with the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

The noisy chatter coming from the room was starting to get to me. I almost always enjoy the sessions that I have at the council of rulers, the operative word being almost. This was one of those exceptional days. The day had started pleasantly enough for me, but the sudden arrival of the Secretarial Minister happily chatting with the Aesthetics Minister about God knows what had soured my mood considerably.

Alicia saw right through my badly disguised frown and settled herself beside me. She put her hand on my arm and smiled that warm, knowing smile of hers. She knew what I was thinking. She was also telling me that I was an idiot.

Years of working with her has led us to be able to communicate without actually saying anything. We knew what the other was thinking, even if the thoughts were intentionally obscured. She was my dearest friend, and closest adviser, but we both knew that we were much too similar to be of much use counseling each other. Sometimes an alternate perspective is needed, and she couldn't provide one, since her perspective was almost always mine. But she knew me, and she could put things into perspective like no one can.

"You know you are wasting your time right?"Her question was cautious, probing.

"Yeah, I do."

Alicia sighed. "You're messed up you know. They are just good friends. They talk a lot to each other. They like each other's company. So what? Why are you so affected just seeing them?"

I stared at her. She stared straight back at me and then looked away, rolling her eyes.

"You don't know," she said. "Bloody brilliant. Of course you don't."

She kept talking. "Let me tell you why. You hate one of them. You like the other. People you like, you want to befriend. And knowing you, you like him enough to want exclusive rights. It doesn't work that way. And you know that. Thats why you're not saying anything about it. You'd be the laughing stock of the council. But its gnawing at you, eating at you everytime you see them share a joke or tell each other about whats bothering them. You want to end it, but you know its impossible. So you sit there, grit your teeth and be miserable."

"I'm not miserable," I retorted. She snorted and shook her head.

She leaned in close to me and said, "Let it go. Its not worth it."

Then she stood up, gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze and left me.

Meep

Eddie Saguero glanced down at the controls that lay beneath his fingers, caressing them lightly. They glowed eerily in the darkness of his cockpit, the symbols of each button clearly visible. Eddie had done this so many times, it had become second nature to him, but this time, there was something different as he prepared to leave the hangar. He couldn't quite place it, but he knew that something wasn't quite right with the mission. Some people called it a warrior's instinct. Others dismissed it as superstition or a bad lunch that was back with a vengeance. It didn't really matter. Eddie wasn't in any position to be picky about the missions he had to run. The Clan raids had already taken a considerable toll on the Inner Sphere war effort. He was a soldier, an instrument of war. He received orders and executed them. It was't his place to ask questions or wonder what the point of all his missions were.

"When you're ready, Eddie,". The voice startled Eddie. He snapped out of his pensive stare at the console and moved to power up his 60 ton harbinger of death. Harbinger of death. At least thats the way he would like to call his mech to distract himself from the fact that the 90 ton machines that he might run into would turn his 'harbinger' to scrap metal quite easily. Still, nothing like a good dose of self delusion to get the spirits up before a mission.

Eddie powered up his mech and listened to the comforting sound of the fans of his fusion reactors starting to spin. His heads up display lit up immediately, and he heard the clinical, yet strangely seductive female voice of his on board computer running him through his system diagnostics.

"Nav Baker Three"

"Ambient tempetature, 24.49 degrees"

"Local time is seven five, three five, seven six, GST"

"All systems nominal"

On that cue, Eddie eased the throttle forward, making the mech take its first few tentative steps away from the support beams that surrounded it as it docked. The mech produced a resounding thump everytime it took a step, its metal legs hitting the concrete floor of the hangar with the same comfortingly familiar sound it always made. Eddie toyed with the torso controls a bit, turning to get a feel of the machine he was piloting. His eyes wandered over to the screen that showed his weapon statuses. They were highlighted in green, each of them showing a full stock of ammunition. He wondered inwardly if he had chosen the right armanent for his mission. He favoured energy weapons over everything else, which explained the extensive heat sinks on his mech. He knew that he would outlast most projectile or rocket oriented builds in a long fight, but wasn't quite sure if he could evade the onslaught long enough to take advantage of his relative independence from ammunition constraints. After all, he didn't have the most well armoured unit in the hangar.

As Eddie stepped out of the hangar, he hammered the throttle forward and made towards his nav point. The fine dust that his mech kicked up only served as a reminder of just how dry and hot this planet was, which in turn brought him back to questioning the wisdom of being dependent on beam weapons. He shrugged to himself. The choices had been made. Any cock-ups would be his to bear.

Passing the first nav point, nothing had yet happened. Not a life form in sight. Another boring patrol.

Then his sensors beeped. A red triangle showed up at the right of his radar. Eddie perked up.

"Control, I'm getting signs of an anamoly in sector seven. I'm moving to check it out," Eddie relayed speaking into the mike.

"Copy that Delta 3. Be careful out there," came the reply.

As he drew closer to the target, Eddie could see a crater smack in the middle of where he was headed for. A small, wispy slither of smoke rose out from the middle of the crater. Dust billowed around the blackened center, obscuring the line of sight through his cockpit. Eddie decided to draw closer, his thumb resting on the trigger of his primary weapons group.

Visibility was almost zero at this point. He turned of the image enhancement system, and everything went black. The contours of the hills before him were represented with coloured lines, as was the object that had made the crater. It was metallic, that much he knew. And very, very hot.

A million possibilities raced through his head. Was it a clan probe? Was it a scout? A single light mech sent to record data and clear the landing for a invading fleet? Blood rushed through his veins as his heart thumped.

Eddie drew closer and the image of the object got sharper. It had jagged edges and a fairly irregular shape. It certainly didn't look industrial, much less space age. He ran a quick scan on it when he got close enough. His computers beeped and whirred as the numbers where crunched.

The green fonts of his heads up display flashed "Object identified".

Below it, the results flashed. Meteorite. It was the most anti-climatic moment in his life. Eddie sighed.

In the monotony of the daily patrols, he sometimes wished that something will happen. But nothing ever did.

Murder

Arthur looked distinctly out of place in the market that he walked in. His dark clothing contrasted sharply with the gay surroundings of a bustling square. It was a wonder that he had not aroused any suspicion just yet, but that was probably because none of the guards expected any trouble. No one ever did in this part of the country. Especially not in the early summer when everyone was in high spirits. The village clowns were out entertaining the children with their decidedly idiotic antics while an elaborate stage showcased the latest work by the maddeningly emo writer, Jasper Erathor. Arthur could feel the jolly energy grate at his conscience like a spiked mace dragged across the back of a condemned criminal. But he had to contain himself. He would get the last laugh yet.

Slowly shuffling himself, he maneuvered so that he had a good view of the crowd. His arm shifted slowly, creeping towards his waist. His mind cleared in anticipation of the rapture that was in store for himself. The rise and fall of his chest steadied, his earlier agitation put behind him.

Then he exploded. In two quick strokes, he had drawn his weapon and sliced open the chest of the nearest person. Before the first scream could be heard, the curved blade had already slashed two more times, each one slicing deliciously into the flesh of the victims. Arthur was ruthless, and he was in his element. The people would pay for what they have done to him. Not even the knights will stand in his way.

The crowd understandably stampeded. They bowled each other over and trampled the ones unfortunate enough to slip as they ran. But the roads of the marketplace were narrow, and the exits, narrower still. The square was turning into a cauldron of insanity. Arthur knew that he had to bring some form of order to the chaos that was before him; the irony of the fact that he had started everything eluded him completely.

The methododical murder kept its pace until Arthur's eye caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Sprawled on the ground, and trying desperately to get back up again was a woman in a long skirt and jet black hair. She had a subtle tuft of brown hair at the front of her head, marking her as a sorceress. One gifted in the magics, who use it when necessary, but are completely unaware of their immense power. Arthur had long advocated the purging of these witches, but no one ever seemed to be agreeable to his cause. Even if they did see the threat, they were quick to change their minds the moment they made any attempt to destroy one of the sorceresses. He wasn't surprised.

Arthur paused for a while. He looked her in the eye and saw the terror that he inspired. But he also saw a grim determination to survive and a glazing over the eyes that normally marked a subconcious invocation of elemental magic. Grinning like the like a demon in hell's torture chambers, he flung one of his daggers at the woman. He could vaguely remember the face. He remembered that it had existed in a time when times were not quite as dark as they were for him now. It was in the distant past, a memory so clouded in conflicting emotion that everything seemed warped and unreal.

The dagger sunk itself into her eye, ending the threat that she posed. He felt a strange vindication, like he actually had done some kind of service to humanity. It was a strange sense of misplaced heroism, something that he rather enjoyed. For a while. Before long, his objective of systematic murder overruled everything else and his face went blank again.

And his blade kept singing the song of death.

The Shield.

An old man with wire frame glasses sat at the desk, staring intently at the notes that lay before him. In one hand, he held his pencil which occasionally moved to scribble some little note on the already messy papers. In the other, he had the bottle of cheap alcohol that he always kept in in drawers. The air in the room was dank and moist. The only illumination came from a lamp on the desk he was working on. He seemed absorbed in his work, not noticing the distinct chill that the air had, nor the annoyingly persistent sounds of the dripping faucet in the attached bathroom. This was his world. The very place that gave birth to the scourge that I was here to destroy.

"Working late again, I see," I said.

He didn't reply. He just stared straight at his papers and kept mumbling under his breath. If he had heard me, he didn't show it. I repeated my statement.

"I heard you the first time. I merely assumed that my ignoring of your obvious observation would be ample evidence that I have nothing to say to you, nor am I remotely interested in what you may have to say to me," he replied.

"Charming as always, Arthur. You know, not everyone thinks that your smart mouth is cute. If you kept it clammed up a bit more, I suspect you would not have driven away those women that were insane enough to even give you half a chance."

"I am well aware of my alleged character deficiencies, Cassandra. Unless you are here to proposition me with a night of passion, I suggest you leave me to my work."

I smiled. "I don't think either one of us wants that, Arthur."

"Really? I always imagined you would look rather nice underneath me. Of course, you could go on top if that's what rocks your boat, but my imagination always puts you firmly between me and the poor creaking mattress."

"You know why I'm here, Arthur."

"Of course I do. And you already know what I'm going to say. You know your coming here is pointless, but you just had to go through the motions so you can tell yourself that you did something." He was facing me as he spoke now, his eyes staring straight at me as if he was trying to bore a hole in my skull with his gaze.

"You are going to help me Arthur."

"Am I? A bit presumptuous aren't you? Tell me, Cassandra. Why would I suddenly decide to do something that I have refused to do for the past 40 years? My conviction of the evils that lie outside are still as strong today as they have always been. I have no reason to listen to you."

I bit my lip. He was being a pain in the ass, as I knew he would be.

"And yet you are talking to me, Arthur. My presence here is still worthy of your attention. What do you think that means?" I retorted.

He chuckled. "Mind games! Lovely!"

There was a pause. "You think that I feel guilty about building that shield? You think that I have changed my mind?" He shook his head.

"You weren't even born when I drew up the designs. You have no idea," he continued.

"The necessity of the shield was brought into question even then Arthur. I've read the parliamentary transcripts. There were those that opposed you alarmist reaction to the 'evil' posed by the rest of the world." I wasn't about to let his squirm away.

"Alarmist? My observations were sound and if it weren't for your stupid press and their ridiculous spin, I'd still have a good number of people believing in the greater good of this shield. How do you think the city's prosperity from the past 20 or so years came about? You think we would have grown so well if we weren't so well isolated from the filth that live outside?" He was getting angry now.

"The filth you talk about seem to be doing pretty well themselves. I don't see why they would be holding us back," I said.

Another pause. "Look, Arthur. We are going to break the shield whether you like it or not. I'm just offering you the chance to help us minimize the casualties that will be incurred when we do it. The desire to break out is becoming overwhelming, and someone might just do something stupid. Like lob a nuke at the damn thing. You know what would happen if someone did that don't you? Do you want that kind of blood on your hands?"

I continued. "You built it a long time ago. It has long outlived its usefulness. Its a dangerous relic of an isolationist past. Let it go, Arthur. Help us bring it down."

I moved over to him and straddled his lap. Giving him a crooked smile, I whispered in his ear, "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

I probably left him in a pool of drool and I felt a bit dirty inside for doing what I just did. But it didn't matter. It was all for the greater good.

Blood haze on Centre Court

I stared at the other end of the court, glancing at the icy composure of my opponent. He had good reason to be calm. He was two sets up and on his way to winning the third very comfortably. Shoulders slightly hunched, legs apart, he stood ready to return whatever I could throw at him. It was almost like he was challenging me to give him my best shot. I grasped the ball in my sweaty palm, trying to tame my nerves. I was serving to stay in the game, and I knew that I needed to come up with something special to get past the legend that stood before me.

But I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It never is against him. Three before me had tried and failed spectacularly, every one of them sent home with their tails between their legs. And I wouldn’t even say that I’m particularly good at the game. I was fast becoming one of those Kournikovas. Plenty of potential, but never actually gets there. And it was pissing me off. The thought of what I would read in the tabloids tomorrow made me want to fling my racket at the unsuspecting cameraman that sat at the side of the court. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but he worked in the same newspapers as those nasty writers, and that made them accomplices.

I stared at the sky for a moment, as if hoping for diving intervention. As I leveled my gaze again, I saw it. The one thing that could rile me up like nothing else can. My grip on the ball and racket tightened reflexively, my fingernails digging into my palms. My breathing quickened and my pulse started racing. I didn’t really feel like playing anymore at that point, but I knew that I needed to see the match through. I wanted to throw up on the grass I was standing on. And any moment now, the umpire was going to ask me to get on with the game. Further delay would get me into a lot of trouble.

So I served. But this time, it was different. It was like all the passion and festering frustration that I felt for the figure that now sat in the stands was channeled into the ball. My opponent threw himself across the court, but to no avail. He didn’t have a chance. Ace.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I just played. Shuffling across the baseline to the other side of the court, I tossed the ball. I could feel the ball bounce cleanly off the strings as my overhead swing made contact. Another screamer, but he was much too good to be aced twice in a row. He was at full stretch as he returned the service. Seeing my chance, I moved forward. The ball came back short and I smashed it into the ground, making sure it would second bounce somewhere in the spectator stands.

Thirty - love. The crowd was stirring a little. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest. Without realizing it, I was gritting my teeth. I felt like I had a demon in me and I was having some kind of blood haze. A state that can only be corrected with liberal swathes of blood-letting. Whatever I saw just now was still there, unknowingly baiting me to new levels of aggression.

I didn't like what I was becoming, but I didn't really have a choice. Struggling to keep my composure, I sent another stinging serve across, leaving my opponent dumbfounded. I was back in it.

Now all I needed to do was not to kill him literally. And hope the bloodhaze passes before it causes any lasting damage.

Rumblings of doom.

The grassland was a picture of peace, the rolling hills covered by soft tufts of green. A soft wind blew across the plains, scattering the dandelion seeds into a cloud of yellow. Jackson sighed. "The calm before the storm," he thought to himself. The day almost seemed too perfect to spoil, yet he knew it would be.

He shifted about in his suit of armour. The metal plates had served him well over the years, and despite the shining sheen having disappeared to be replaced by dents and scratches, he still wore them with pride. His shield was equally battered, the metal edges notched my the blows of war axes. Jackson took a deep breath and looked around him. His friends and blood brothers stood beside him, all similarly suited and armed, staring at the space ahead of them. No one said anything. There was no need to. They were all waiting.

A distant rumbling signalled the end of the wait. They all knew what the sound meant. The horde was approching. As they drew closer, the sound of the wardrums being beatenbecame clearer, the bloodcurling screams of their green skinned adverseries growing louder.

It wasn't the first time he found himself facing a sight so terrifying. He had fought battles before, and he knew what would entail this one. And while he had always faced such a situation with the grim determination of a patroit defending his home, it was different this time. The sounds of war were no longer a rallying cry for him. They sounded like a death knell. He could tell, just by hearing the sounds before a battle, if it would be won or lost. And he knew it would take a miracle of sorts for him to come out of this one triumphant.

The signs were there. His instincts had spoken.

And still, he refused to listen.

Random fiction.

The shouting from within the chamber was too much to bear for Snayph. He had to walk out; another minute of that rabble about the most inconsequential things would have snapped his nerve and driven him berserk. And that would have been really ugly. Flexing his considerable muscles, he strode towards the window. Unlatching the lock, he pushed it open, admitting the cool evening breeze. He could see most of the city from where he stood; such was the size and height of the building that he worked from. People feared his organization, and for good reason. They were the true Kings of Alanar, not Cedric III. Their military arm dwarfed the Alanarian defenders. They had superior numbers, better weapons, better training, and most importantly, better intelligence. That would be a given, since his organization started out as the espionage division of the government. Normally, spies content themselves with the trade of information. They uncover and sell secrets, make a nice tidy sum and then move on to the next juicy piece of news.

But Jackson Borelaran wasn't a typical spy. He had big ambitions, and the skill to back them up. With careful manipulation and a generous stroke of luck, Jackson turned the organization from a shadow at the mercy of the King to the shadow that had a dagger at the King's throat. But he remained true to the artform that brought him such power, and declined to take the throne for himself. He contented himself to rule from the behind the curtain, interfering only when he felt he needed to. He did however, surround himself with advisors, his shortcomings in administrative matters quite obvious to him. Those very advisors were bickering in his chamber now, not being able to decide if the city needs to do something about the rat infestation.

Snayph was no politician. In fact, he had a distinct distaste for politicians, believing them to be all talk and no action. He was born into a farm household that observed strict discipline and little room for negotiations. His father had taught him to respect authority, and those lessons served him well when he joined that shadow regime's training academy. He graduated a firm teacher favourite, earning praise and prophecies of greatness from those he had worked with. He quickly made it up the ranks till finally, he sat at the council as Jackson's strong arm.

He didn't know why he had been summoned to the council in the first place. He was only ever summoned when his presence was absolutely necessary. Today, they were talking about a rat problem, hardly the kind of situation that Snayph would consider a security crisis. So, in the confusion of all the shouting in the chamber, he slipped out to the relative quiet of the hall outside.

"You think I wouldn't notice you leave the room, Snayph?" The sudden emergence of a voice from behind him startled Snayph. He spun around to see the dimunitive figure of Jackson standing behind him. He was hunched as always, and walked with a funny gait. He had picked up that habit some years ago to lull his enemies into a false sense of security when facing him. The trickery served him well.

The Spiderwick Chronicles - Retold.

Inspired by the Spiderwick Chronicles, this story has been through a number of incarnations. And each time I change it, it sounds less and less like the story that inspired it. Still, it was the Chronicles that kick started it. Many incarnations also means many hours spent. I certainly hope that the quality is proportionate to the effort spent. Enjoy. =)

It was a curiously bound book, wrapped in purple velvet with a gold spine, and gold flowers printed on the cover. It had nothing written on the cover, nothing to indicate what lay within. Around it was a matching ribbon, tied neatly into a bow, keeping the tome from being unintentionally opened. The little boy stared in wonder at the book that lay on the table; he had never seen anything quite as unusual. He was quite apprehensive about the book, the superstitions that seemed to govern the workings of all things strange were clanging the alarm bells in his head. He was drawn by the book, that much was apparent. Its flamboyant colour and intricate mural that decorated the cover appealed to him, for no particular reason he could think of. He was asking himself if he would ever find the courage to pick it up and open it.

It wasn’t exactly the first time he had found himself in such a dilemma. For so much of his life, the boy had let fear of the unknown control his conscience. It was only recently that the natural urge to explore his surroundings, that seemed to be inherent in every other child his age, took a hold of him and started his journey into the uncharted waters that he had once felt content to leave unvisited.

The tug of war still raged in his little head, but this time, as it had been in his recent history, curiosity had an inherent upper hand. The reassuringly cold tone that superstition used to take seemed to have lost their powers of persuasion. Finally, after two hours of deliberation, the boy made up his mind. He crept up carefully and silently towards the book, as if afraid of offending it by making sudden moves. When he stood within an arm’s length of it, he stopped and stared at it. It was even prettier up close than it had been from where he had been sitting. The boy began noticing little details that he never saw before. He decided that the book had to be special.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled at the ribbon. As the knot became undone, he heard a soft sigh, as if the book was talking to him. He stared at it. The book was alive. Or had he imagined the sound? Shrugging away his petty concerns, he slowly lifted the cover.

It was full of writing, complicated cursive written in compressed paragraphs. The boy had enough trouble reading in block letters, so neat lines of flowing writing looked like a messy jumble of random lines to him. He was intelligent enough to pick out certain words, and he began to piece together the story of the book a little at a time. He found the writing to be very melancholic, and most of the time, very evasive. He could never actually be sure about what he was reading, not knowing if his interpretation was accurate. Still, he persisted.

As he flipped the pages, he reached a sudden change of tone in the book. The writing became more pronounced and larger. At the end of the page was a large print warning :

‘Proceed no further. You will bring nothing but harm to yourself. I beg of you, dear reader. Put me down’

The boy froze. The message was clear enough, written in such a way that even one of his limited vocabulary could understand it. He read the message again. And again. And then he flipped the page and kept reading.

Some would call him stupid to defy such a clear warning. Others would applaud his tenacity, but ultimately conclude that he asked for the consequences that he would have to pay for. As he continued scanning, he felt himself lose control of his own conscience. His actions were no longer his own, yet it seemed like he had done everything by himself. He was in a haze, a dreamlike state from which he couldn’t snap out of.

As he continued, he felt a sudden stinging in his right arm. His first reaction was to retract his arm, but his body defied him. Another sharp spike of pain seared his arm, and he started screaming. There were no physical marks, just a continuous barrage of unadulterated torture.

`The open page of the book flipped itself, and from its glowing pages, rose a shining meat cleaver. Terror overwhelmed pain, but the boy still could not move voluntarily. The large knife turned around in the air and presented itself hilt first to the boy. He heard a sad whisper in his ear. ‘Cut yourself free, dear child. Remove that part which hurts you so.’

Frightened and confused, the boy sat there doing nothing. He suddenly realized that he had control of his left arm. He flailed about trying to release himself from the bond, but always found himself being drawn back in. The whispering continued, ‘Cut yourself free. Cut yourself…..’

“NO!”, cried the boy. He was still defiant, refusing to give in to the pain. There was something more than just himself in this chain of events, and he was determined to see it through. But the pain intensified, and more voices joined in, telling him to let go. Telling him to do what he needed to do.

He reached for the cleaver, willing himself to get it over with. But each time he drew close, something within himself stayed his hand and kept him from touching the weapon. Then it happened.

A white hot flash of pain burst through his arm, overwhelming his senses, very nearly driving him insane. Reality set in very quickly and in one swift motion, he severed his right arm at the elbow. The pain shifted at the moment of slashing. It was a thoroughly different kind of pain, but equally torturous. The fact that he now had regained control of his own body did little to dampen the burning.

He collapsed into a sobbing heap as to book snapped itself shut. The ribbons that had held it together did themselves back into a pretty knot.

The boy’s stubbornness had cost him. Again. He had left a piece of himself in the book, never to regain it.

Unless, one day, the book sees it fit for him to continue reading.

I haven't written a caustic rant in a while, and even I'm beginning to miss that part of me. With any luck, regular service shall return. =))

For the love of a project.

He walked briskly, wanting to get the matter resolved quickly. His posh leather shoes fell silently on the soft carpet, making his heavy footstep sound a lot lighter than it actually was. The lack of exercise was beginning to show; he wasn't quite the compactly built person he used to be. He passed the abstract sculpture that stood in the middle of the waiting room as he walked. He never liked the sculpture. Too ostentatious and vulgar for his tastes. It actually looked like some ancient phallic symbol, which isn't exactly something you want as the focus of the waiting client's attention. But the boss liked it, so naturally, he kept his opinion to himself.

He turned into the brightly lit meeting room at the end of the hall and found Nathan sitting at the end of the conference table. He was staring at the mess of papers that lay before him, his mind quite obviously wandering. There was a look of defeat on his face, a look that he had carried a few times before. Only this time, it almost looked devoid of hope, as if he had lost one battle too many and he was going to leave everything to rot now. At the sound of the door opening, Nathan snapped out of his dreamlike state and sat up. "Micheal! Finally! A voice of reason!"

"What happened?", asked Micheal.

Nathan picked up a folder and flung it across the table. Micheal stopped it before it could fly off the edge and took a look at the cover. Across it, was emblazoned the insignia of Jetstar Enterprises.

"What about Jetstar Enterprises? I thought this was a work in progress. Under top administration instructions. One of the long term projects that our apparently brilliant CEO seems to think is a worthy investment," said Micheal.

"I looked at the books already. It doesn't look good. Percentage probability of actually hitting the target the the CEO has set is in the single digit zone. And even then thats after heavy investment and a long string of making the right calls. This is bloody insane!"

"Mate. This is investment banking. Its always crazy. I've seen projects with worst odds make it before."

"Yeah, but this is ridiculous. Even the upper management of their company has told me that they welcome the investment, but they can't provide any returns. He actually asked me to take our money elsewhere. They know that they can't deliver."

Micheal frowned. "They actually said that?"

"Yes! And our CEO's response was 'have faith, son'. God dammit, sometimes I feel like wringing his idealistic neck. This company is a no-go. Every manual on investment banking will tell us to stay away. I got consults from a few third party bankers. All of them gave negative appraisals. One actually pointed out that even if the company does post a genuine profit return, which it won't, the alliance is not likely to work. Two separate philosophies. I just don't know why our CEO loves this little project so much."

"There are some things you just cannot explain, Nathan. Just accept that."

"Don't you go pseudo-philosophical on me now! You know very well what this is costing the company. At first, I played along. It looked like a fantastic deal actually. I had a few doubts, but when I started to get to know the company, things started to look up. I was actually cautiously optimistic. Then I went to one of their meetings and they dropped this huge tangle of problems in front of me. And every subsequent meeting, the web gets more complicated. And here is the kicker! I can't untangle it. I'm not allowed to. Apparently, its all very complex and it will be a complete bother trying to explain the whole thing to me. We have to seriously cut back our involvement with this company. It could spell the end of our organization."

"Nathan, listen to me. You just came out of graduate school, and you have this very preformed idea on how the system works. I'm not saying its wrong. I'm saying that sometimes, things just don't work out the way you want them to. But we are a company with principles and values, and we will stick by them. Whatever the cost. If leadership wants to love its little project, then let them do it. There is more to life than making money. How you make it and who you make it with is important too."

"You're kidding right? Money is money! Its the same wherever it comes from. And besides, we can never provide them what they want. We don't have the ability. I've seen their journal online, and I know that we don't have the kind of understanding that their past backer used to have. Its heart-breaking, but so searingly true, that I can't ignore it. We can't compete. Time to cut our losses and move on."

"Dude. You have no idea what you are talking about. Maybe you will in the future. But let me give you a word of advice. Stop fighting it. I've given in to it, and everytime you storm into the CEO's room and you try to prove a point, he is just going to brush you off as the noob who doesn't get it. In a way, your apparent discontentment could be setting off alarms in Jetstar Enterprises. They are not going to storm off and refuse to cooperate because of you, but they are probably going to resist the ultimate aim of the company a lot more. We already have a whole bunch of things working against us. Don't make it any worse."

There was a tone of finality to the speech. Satisfied at making his point, Micheal turned and walked away.

/curl up and cry

/wake up to reality

/wallow in own insignificance

/scream

/emo

/repeat cycle

Harry Potter

I : Welcome to another edition of Smalltalk, the show that hits all the small issues and hits them hard. We are joined today by a very special guest from the wizarding world, Mr. Rofelius Udder. With him, we will hopefully explore some of the more shocking things that seemed to be overlooked by the Ministry of Magic during their war with the one that may not be named. We will also take a look at wizarding language, and try to get some insight into spell wording. Mr. Rofelius, welcome to the show.

R : Thank you.

I : Let us first look at the war with Vol-

R : Argh!

I : Sorry. I thought the taboo would have been lifted a year after his death. Very well then, lets just call him V shall we?

R : V is fine. Thank you.

I : Right then. The war with V. What was your role in the war?

R : I was an Auror. It was a terrible job at that time. So many of my colleagues died.

I : Yes, yes. I suspect the Aurors are like muggle policemen then. In charge of law enforcement and the like. You are accustomed to muggle life, are you not, Mr. Rofelius? You know what policemen are?

R : Yes. I lived a muggle life before Hogwarts, much like Harry Potter. Yes, Aurors are very much like policemen. Under the jurisdiction of the Ministry.

I : I see. And what of the army? Or do the Aurors double up as that too? Because thats the impression that I got. They seemed to be doing work that is normally the domain of the army.

R : I suppose they do in that sense.

I : And if there is international conflict? A war between countries. Do the Aurors then pick up their wands and do battle just like any regular army?

Pause.

R : I suppose. I never really thought about it to be honest. I don't really think that the wizarding world gets into international conflicts.

I : Frown. The wizarding tournament points otherwise actually. Wizards seem very comfortable resolving their conflicts in spectacular shows of destruction. But I don't think this is getting anywhere. Next question. How is the Ministry's relationship with the Americans?

R : The Americans?

I : Yes. The people who look remarkably like us, except they insist on being as different as possible. Live across the ocean on a big piece of land, eating hamburgers and getting too fat to walk.

R : Ah. Yes. Them. They are our friends of course. Just like in the muggle world.

I : Really? And it never occurred to the Ministry to ask for help from the Americans or your neighbouring French when you had the most dangerous terrorist in the history of magic running riot in Britain?

R : I am not at liberty to answer that question.

I : I didn't think so. I suppose only Minister Rowling will be able to answer that. I just find it intriguing that in a world that seems so connected by magic, all the countries seem content leaving Britain to collapse to its knees, knowing full well that V is bent on global domination. I would have thought it was in their self interests to see V beaten.

Silence.

I : I see. No matter. I just have one last matter. It concerns the language of magic. Do other cultures have their own magic words?

R : I should think so.

I : But pronunciation is an important aspect of the spell is it not? So translating the spell into say.... Chinese would have it lose its effect then?

R : Squint. I suppose.....

I : Then all magic must come from England, America or Australia then. Pretty much every spell seems to be rooted in the English language. Expellimarius, Stupefy, Confundo, Crucio. All seem to have English root words don't they?

R : I'm not a history scholar. I wouldn't know.

I : In that case, non-English speaking wizarding communities have my sympathies. Why they wouldn't just learn English and make their lives easier is beyond me. Anyway, thats all we have time for today. Thank you Rofelius for your time today, although I must say, you weren't very much help at all. I'll try to get a more informed person on the show the next time.

Till then, goodbye.

Waking up

It was a brightly lit room, with florescent lights lining the sides of all the metallic walls. In the middle of the circular chamber was a high chair surrounded by flashing control buttons. The place had a very sterile feel, and endless sea of aluminum punctuated with an occasional flashing red button.

One of the many doors let out a quiet hiss as it opened, and in strode a tall, chisel jawed man. He had a purposeful demeanour about him, eyes sharp in a no-nonsense way. His strides were quick and long, but as the approached the centre of the room, he started slowing down. He stared at the creature occupying the high seat and sighed.

"Every bloody morning, he takes the seat first. Stupid dick," he muttered under his breath.

On the receiving end of the scathing attack was a fat boy with a rat's nest for a head of hair. He wore a black T-shirt with the words 'I am emo' and had a perpetually glazed look in his eye as if he was high on blow. His chubby fingers danced absently over the controls, occasionally poking one of them. No one really knew if his actions were of his own volition or just another random response. If he heard the comment, he didn't show any response.

The doors opened again, and in strode a rather small fellow. He wore a brightly coloured tie-dye shirt and tattered jeans, and walked as if someone had taken to his testicles with a cricket bat. When he saw the fat kid in the seat, he sighed and turned to leave.

But before he could step out, the tall man spoke.

"Annoying bugger isn't he. Ever since he moved in, he's been hogging the controls at the start of the day. Hell, I can't even remember the day I started at the helm."

Facing the tall man, the flamboyant dude snorted. "You don't say."

"Oh, I guess its worse for you Impulse. Your size does make it a little hard for you to jostle your way in. But you have to say don't you, that ever since this kid came about we've been a lot worse off. I dare say that I'd win the approval of everyone should it go to vote, me against him."

"I'm sure you would, Confidence, but you know very well it would change nothing. He will still be there every morning, leaving whenever he feels like it."

"Can't he see that no one likes him? And that he is doing us all a lot of harm."

"Actually, I wouldn't say that everyone has a problem with him. Have you seen how Logic and him get along? Everytime Logic walks in and sees him, he thinks that there is a problem. You know, sullen looking Goth kid who looks like he could use a week in rehab? The problem starts when Logic starts spouting solutions. Those two cannot work together. Remember last week? I got dragged into that as well, and it turned out to be a bit of a mess. Especially when Anger stepped in."

"Yea. I remember that. You know, Anger is very useful sometimes, but I really hate it when he turns on us. He seems to have a bit of a tiff with you doesn't he Impulse?"

"Don't remind me. I still get aches in the places that he broke my bones the last time. But even he is no match for that kid. No one knows how he does it, but when you can turn the whole room black and start shooting lightning bolts out of nowhere, people stop messing with you."

"Yea, but it doesn't stop Anger trying though. Always leaves the room in a bloody mess after they fight."

There was a moment of silence at that point, both the men staring at the child in the chair.

Confidence tried what he tried every morning. "Excuse me, would you mind moving aside and letting someone else pilot for a moment?"he asked.

His reply was a dry crackling in the air as sparks started bursting around the kid.

"Okay. Okay. Just asking. I'll leave you alone." The two of them turned to leave the room.

As the walked down the corridor, they met Wit. "Hey guys! Same story again this morning?"

Confidence answered. "Yes, same thing again. No one seems to be able to dislodge Loneliness at the start of the day."

Lets fighting love - Part 2

Micheal found himself in a very familiar alley, walking home following the path less taken. He actually found himself wondering why he was taking this route at all, considering that was his emo path. He never took that route unless he felt like cutting off the rest of the world.

He shrugged and kept walking. Then he saw something that left him reeling for a while. There was a couple walking in the very same alley. He couldn't help but feel a sense of deja vu. Holding his breath and closing his eyes, he strained hard to hear for the rapid pitter patter that would confirm his fears. It didn't take long. The near silent footsteps were even coming from the exact same direction.

Micheal opened his eyes and looked at the couple. It wasn't the same two people. Odd. If this really was a recurring nightmare, he would have thought that the participating characters would have been the same. Different couple, but still instantly recognizable people to Micheal. Before the realization of the implications could hit him, the ninja had burst into view.

The attack was exactly the same, a sharp blow straight to the head of the unsuspecting boy. The girl spun around and screamed, and Micheal found himself responding. Just like before.

But this time, he knew better than to use the shoulder barge. He still gave his most bloodcurling scream to get the ninja's attention, but led with his fists this time. Apparently, he wasn't the only one with memories of a parallel scenario, because the ninja had turned around to face him and taken off his mask, a big grin on his face. The girl no longer in immediate danger, Micheal slowed down to a walk. The ninja had something to say to him, and he wanted to know what it was.

"Hey there, twin," started to ninja.

Micheal stole a glance at the girl. She was frozen with fear, mouth agape and eyes staring into nothingness. He wished she would at least look for a way out of this, but he remembered the throwing stars. No, running away would be a bad idea.

The doppelganger saw his eyes travel, and added, "Lovely isn't she? Almost makes killing her hard. But after what she has done, its never a problem."

"What did she do? I have never had thoughts of murdering her before. What are you doing here?"

"Well, you were taking too long. So I decided to move things along. This avenger gets bored easily."

"She doesn't deserve to die."

"Yes she does. As do you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You are going to try and save her. And you will fail again, just like before. And for being such an idiot, you will deserve to die."

"This is ridiculous."

"I'm sure it is. And now I'm bored. Chop Chop!"

Weapon drawn, the ninja shuffled his way towards Micheal. The katana became a blur as the ninja started showing off. But as he drew closer, he started slowing down. In fact, he slowed down so much that Michael could very easily dodge the slash. And just as easily, he dodged the second one, and soon after, a third.

Micheal was puzzled. And from the look on the ninja's face. so was he.

"What the..."

Impressed with himself, Micheal decided to press the advantage. His punch caught the ninja by surprise, and left him with a bloody nose. Getting very annoyed, the ninja renewed his attacks, the flurry of swordplay doubled in ferocity.

But Micheal emerged unharmed. Screaming in frustration, the ninja reached down and grabbed his throwing stars. Micheal thought that they were meant for him, so he waited for them. But the ninja turned around and threw the blades at the paralyzed girl. Her fate had seemed to be sealed at that point, her eye right in the middle of the weapon's trajectory. Micheal was running forward, instinctively trying to save her. And he found himself running faster than the weapons were flying. He suddenly felt like Max Payne and Neo combined.

He plucked the flying stars out of the air and flung them back at the ninja. There was no escape for him, the sharp blades slicing into his kneecaps. Half screaming and half cursing, the ninja collapsed.

"This is impossible."

Smiling, Micheal replied. "I know. Tell me about it. This is great."

"But how?" the ninja asked, still confused.

"You no longer fight for what is right. She doesn't deserve to die, and you know it. When you stopped being an agent of justice, and became a pouty, self serving murderer, you stopped being able to beat me."

"Where did you get all that shit from? The compendium of paladin asswipe ideals?"

"It doesn't matter," Micheal replied. Half a second later, the ninja lay in a pool of his own blood, the shurikens on his knees now lodged in his windpipe.

Retreat? - Part 2

Time seemed to stand still as Captain Garret watched Costello limp away from the camp. His gun was still aimed at the deserter, his finger ready to pull the trigger at any time. But he couldn't. Costello's words rang in his ears, the truth behind them freezing him on the spot. Indecision racked him as the silhouette of Costello grew smaller and smaller. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Finally, he dragged his arm upwards and emptied his entire magazine onto the air, screaming in frustration.

He kept pulling the trigger, even after he ran out of bullets. The firing mechanism clicked uselessly against the empty chamber, but he kept pulling, and he kept screaming. He screamed until his lungs gave out and collapsed into a wheezing pile on the ground. The sergeant who initially shot Costello in the leg came running to his aid, but the Captain brushed off the helpful hand. He was kneeling on the ground, coughing and sputtering.

The sergeant kept a respectful distance form the Captain, but hung around out of concern. It wasn't long before Garret recovered and slumped into a sitting position. Murray started to say something but Garret raised his hand and shook his index finger. I know what you are going to say. I don't need to hear it.

Captain Garret just sat there, staring at the ground, trying to get his thoughts back in order. In fact, he was so engrossed with his contemplations that he never noticed that Murray wasn't standing close to him anymore. Nor did he notice the bright lights that were dancing around him. Nor the screaming that was coming from the camp. Wait. Screaming?

Garret looked up and saw Murray suspended in midair, a huge thorn being pressed into his skull. The fact that he was already dead didn't make any of it more comforting to watch. His mouth was gaping, as if screaming. Blood streamed out of his ears.

All around the camp, his other men were suffering different, but ultimately gruesome fates. Garret could see MacKenzie being mauled by what looked like a phantom image of a wolf. The shimmering beast would have looked magnificent if it wasn't for the mask of blood that it now wore. It wasn't eating. It was destroying its victim in a show of mindless violence, claws and teeth tearing mercilessly into flesh.

Another ghostly figure flew about rapidly, fusing itself with his soldiers and causing them to explode into a shower of blood. It was incredibly efficient, sending bits of muscle and bone flying in every direction seconds after it merged with its victim. And shortly after that, it would float again, looking for someone else to murder.

Garret couldn't believe it. He was a practical man, and seeing such supernatural forces at work left him reeling. As he watched the bloodshed, he searched for an explanation. There was no way that it was the Germans. If they really did have control over such potent power the war would have been over long ago. All he could think of at that point was sorcery. Some pagan, druidic force seemed to be at work here, seeing how all the agents of death seemed to have taken shapes derived from nature.

It was then that it hit him. The phrase 'we were never meant to take that hill' took on a whole new meaning now. Somewhere, scrawled across the pages of things that are meant to be, it must be written that the hill cannot be taken by them. The hill didn't want to be taken, and it was fighting back. As potent as the howitzers were, there was no way the German army could match such power. The hill had spoken, and he had to go. Leave or die a horrible death, the message was clear. For a moment, he thought of reasoning with the hill, finding some way to win its allegiance. But he soon realized that the Germans had known the hill for much longer than he did. There was no question about who the hill would side in a conflict.

He sighed, resigned to defeat. His harbinger of death had arrived, and strangely enough, it was an angel. It had black feathers, black hair, and it wore black robes. But its skin was pale as the moon. It landed two feet away from Garret, sword raised. He looked up, and could have sworn he saw a tear forming in the angel's eye. But he would never get a second look.

There is nothing quite as decisive as an angel bent on destruction.

Retreat?

Captain Garret didn't like what he saw, and he like what he smelled even less. His outpost, or what was left of it lay in ruins, the smell of charred flesh still strong in the air. The German attack that they had anticipated all this while finally came, and although they managed to beat the krauts back, it came with a price. Half his company lay dead, their corpses scattered across the battlefield. There were shouts for the medic all over the place as the wounded sought help. Garret shook his head.

He had direct orders from headquarters to take Thurigen Hill with whatever means necessary. As he pored over the maps during the mission planning, he couldn't help but to notice that the orders made no sense at all. The hill was tactically useless to them. They couldn't use it as a staging point because it was too far away from the other German outposts. It held no resources, nothing salvageable, and was very heavily guarded. Plus, the enemy was on high ground, armed with 2 howitzers. By themselves, the artillery would be scary enough. Put them on a hill, and they became the army equivalent of Psycho. Guaranteed to make you shit your pants. It was a fool's errand.

But orders were orders. He had a responsibility to carry them out. He had heard rumours that the hill was particularly significant to General Lee, something about loving the hills more than anything in the world. It sounded like bullshit to Garret. He knew General Lee personally, and found him to be a perfectly reasonable man. It didn't make any sense that he would order such a mission out of a whim. There had to be something to that hill.

The krauts defending the hill probably loved the hill just as much judging from the resistance they put up. They were fighting tooth and nail, when an infantry ran out of bullets, he had seen one of them charge down the battlefield, bayonet leading the way. It all seemed very strange to him.

As time progressed and the siege dragged on, it became increasingly apparent that the hill would not be taken. Not without a significantly larger force, at least. And the army had made it quite clear that no reinforcements could be spared. Morale in his company was at an all time low. He had seen happier soldiers in a fox hole in the middle of no man's land.

Suddenly, a single shot rang out. As Garret ran towards the sound, he began to hear shouting. He got closer, and saw one of his staff sergeants shouting at one of his unit's soldiers. He had his rifle raised, ready to shoot at any moment, and it was aimed at one of his own men. The soldier was rolling on the ground, screaming in pain as he clutched his bleeding leg. "Murray! What the hell do you think you are doing?" Garret was shouting at his sergeant as he approached, hoping to avert a crisis.

"Costello here was about to desert, sir. So I shot him. Got him in the leg"

By now, Garret had positioned himself between the two men. He turned to the writhing man on the ground. "Is that true, soldier?"

Costello turned away, and curled himself up even tighter. The pain in his leg had apparently gotten a lot worse after hearing the question. Garret walked up to the soldier. "Is that true?" he shouted.

The captain reached the man, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. Garret kicked the man in the face, and asked again, his voice getting increasingly louder. He ground his boot into the man's head. "You stupid mother fucker."

Garret pulled his revolver out of the hostler and aimed it at Costello's head. He was about to pull the trigger when Costello turned and raised himself into a kneeling position. He grabbed the gun barrel firmly and placed it between his temples. "Go ahead. Shoot me. I'm dead anyway, whether I run or not. Just fucking end all this."

Garret paused, taken aback by the sudden boldness of his subordinate. Costello looked him in the eye and asked, "What? Suddenly you got no stones to shoot me?"

There was a long pause. Garret stood there, his gun still pointed at Costello's head. "I mean, what the fuck do you expect us to do, huh? Charge up the hill again tomorrow morning? They got five pill boxes up there. Five fucking pillboxes with machine guns in there. Its a god damned suicide mission. This hill cannot be taken, and you can tell General Lee to go fuck himself."

Garret replied, "You will not speak about your superiors in such a manner, soldier."

"You know what captain? I don't give a fuck anymore. This mission is stupid. I mean, sure the place is really pretty and all, but is it really worth fighting for? Our outpost just got shelled, and we lost half the company. Half the motherfucking company. I'm not sure how much more of this shit we can take, man."

"Hey, who the hell are you to question the General's orders huh? Who do you think you are?"

The reply was sharp. "I'm the guy who's putting his ass on the line, thats who. If the General loves this fucking place so much, he can take my gun and charge the hill himself. But I sure as hell ain't gonna do it for him. You know this, Cap. For the army, this place is useless. The General is just fucking with us. I'm leaving."

Costello got up and turned around. Garret just stood there and let him leave, torn between his duty to capture the beautiful hill and common sense to cut his losses and run.

Sahara

The scorching heat plays nasty tricks on you. And the longer you remain exposed, the nastier the tricks become. Hallucinations and fantasies of things that are not really there take hold of you, and at that point, it becomes a battle to retain your sanity. Its a test of will - can he keep trudging along on the shifting dunes with no sense of direction? Or will he collapse into a sobbing heap and let the wiggly waves of heat sap the last vestiges of life from him?

He is a fighter. Or at least he thinks he is. Sometimes he doubts himself, but he'd like to think that if the occasion called for it, he would pull through. It was just a question of putting him in a challenging enough situation to call upon the will that will theoretically sustain him. And that situation was now. Alone with not a friendly soul in sight, surrounded by shifting dunes and the occasional prickly cacti. He wasn't giving up just yet.

He had just reached the top of a dune when he heard a distant sound. There was a cloud of dust being raised in the horizon. He brightened up a little. Salvation!

Moving as quickly as he could, he headed towards the direction of the cloud. He lost sight of it as he tumbled down the dune, but the persistent creaking got louder and louder, telling him that he was indeed drawing closer. Soon it was within shouting distance, and he started screaming at the object. It came a little bit closer, and he could make out the shape. A horse-pulled caravan came to view, and he moved to intercept.

Strangely enough, there wasn't a driver in sight. It was a phantom horse caravan, just like the carts in Sherlock Holmes and the Red Death. His gut instinct told him to be wary, but the thirst was overwhelming. He had to try.

When it was close enough, he threw himself at the caravan, almost missing it. Somehow, his outstretched fingers managed to grab hold of the steps leading into the inside, and he clung on for dear life. His flesh grating against the unyielding desert sands burned like sulfur on an open wound, but he kept his vice-like grip. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't going to let fate have the last laugh.

The door to the caravan opened. He looked upwards and saw the silhouette of a woman dressed in a long dress. She was tall, and looked stunningly beautiful. Even while fighting to block out the pain, he wondered if she looked beautiful because he hadn't seen a woman in a very long time, or if she was genuinely attractive.

He reached out, his eyes pleading. He pursed his parched lips, mouthing a silent "Save me." because his voice had been long lost to the desert. She looked down on him with her soft eyes. He tried again. "Please let me in." She was indecisive, not really knowing what to do. Looking back into the caravan, she talked to someone on the inside. Then she turned back to him and looked at him again, a pained expression of sorrow in her face. She bent down close to him, and said in a quavering voice "I'm sorry, but I can't".

She closed the door behind her as she went back inside.

The triangle

The only illumination in that room came form the fireplace, the tiny flame dancing about to the tune of the firewood fuel. The chambers were finely furnished, as one would expect from a space occupied by a princess. She sat on her velvet chair, leafing through the book that sat on her lap.

A sudden creak of a window opening startled her. She looked up, and saw a black silhouette slide in through the opening, then turn around to close the window. His movements were precise and self assured, but his eyes betrayed his predicament. He was racked by nervousness, constantly calming himself, and checking that he doesn't mess up.

She rose from her chair and broke into a half run in his direction. He took his own steps toward her, arms open in anticipation. He could see her face more clearly now, the strain in her eyes becoming evident as he drew closer. It was then that he started feeling guilty all over again, having put her through such a trial. His constant reminders to himself that what he did was necessary didn't seem to matter anymore.

They hugged, as they always have before this. He didn't dare go any further with her, not wanting to risk pushing her away completely by giving in to instinct. She looked up at him as she broke the embrace. "I got your letter. Its all very confusing for me to say the least."

He nodded in comprehension. "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that, not on the very eve of your examinations."

She kept silent. "I just can't help but to feel that fate is working against us. If only we could have met earlier."

He knew that was coming. "You know I don't believe in fate. All that matters is what you want," he replied.

"But I made him a promise. I can't back down after I have given him my word now can I?"

"I don't understand what the two of you had, or what you agreed upon. And I'm not sure I want to. But I know that we sometimes have to make difficult decisions. All is fair in love and war, remember? I don't think that you breaking that promise makes you evil or morally corrupt in any way. These things happen all the time. I know its selfish of me to do this, but I hope you understand. I have to do this."

He continued "Its all very sudden, and I know you need time. But whatever you choose to do, I will respect the decision. As long as you would have me as a friend, I shall be one. All I ask is to be given a chance."

Having said that, he turned around and left, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Lets fighting love.

Michael walked slowly, enjoying the balmy air in his face. He was in a world of his own, his place of refuge for the past few months. The familiar pop-rock tunes that played from his i-pod made his separation from the rest of the world even more complete. It was just him, the road, and his thoughts.

He decided to take his usual path home, past the shophouses and into the alley. It was the shortest way back home, and easily the most secluded. “Wanting to be alone isn’t such a bad thing,” he told himself.

Nodding his head slightly to the tune of the electric guitar, he turned into the dark path, hands in his pockets as he walked. He noticed a couple walking in the same alley, and wondered for a while. The backlane isn’t the most romantic of places and fairly dangerous at night. A bit unusual for them to be walking there. He then noticed that the silhouette of the girl was strangely familiar. Squinting hard, he started to make out the features of the girl.

It was her. Just the sight of her opened the floodgates and released a torrent of emotion. Admiration, revulsion, hatred, affection, sadness, jealousy inundated him at once. She was already with someone new. How was that possible? His logical faculties were trying very hard to remind him that he lived in a free country, and she could go out with anyone that she bloody well pleases, but he wasn’t listening. He was being irrationally possessive and was quite unapologetic about it. They were walking with their backs facing him, so they didn’t see him. He was about to turn around and take another route when he saw a movement in the shadows. He froze.

Suddenly, a lithe figure in a ninja suit scampered out and headed straight for the couple. Before he could shout a warning, the ninja was already upon them, blade drawn and ready to strike. The hilt of the sword connected sharply with the boy’s head, knocking him out. He fell heavily onto the ground, collapsing into a heap of motionless muscle mass. She screamed and started backing away, but the ninja was far too fast. Sticking his leg out, he tripped her as she started breaking into a run.

She turned around and lay on her back, hands propping her upper body up. It was at that point that Michael got over the shock of the attack and responded. Giving the most blood-curling war cry he could manage, he charged the suited ninja down. Something told him that was a bad idea, but he didn’t really care at that point. He had to save her.

Mildly surprised, the ninja turned to face him. Michael kept running, his shoulder lowered in anticipation of the eventual impact. His attack never connected. Deftly sidestepping the attack, the ninja raised his palm and smacked Michael across the forehead. His momentum working against him, Michael flipped backwards, landing on his back with a sickening crunch.

The ninja raised his fist and was about to knock Michael out when he froze. The clenched fist slowly opened and the tense battle posture he was keeping relaxed considerably. “What the fuck?” the ninja asked.

Something had confused the ninja, and Michael had no idea what it was. The self-assured confidence that the ninja had before this was all but gone, the slump in his shoulder making that fact quite evident. The ninja took a step back and took his mask off. Illumination was scarce in the alley, but Michael could make out the face of his adversary.

The ninja looked just like him. Their faces were completely identical, and Michael had no twins. Even their voices were the same. In the face of such a revelation, “what the fuck” suddenly seemed like a complete understatement. The two of them stared at one another, trying to make some sense out of the situation. Silence.

The scraping of gravel against shoes snapped the two of them out of their trance. She was on her feet again, stumbling ahead in an effort to leave the madness behind. If she was hoping that the confusion would allow her to escape, she had been quite mistaken. Drawing a throwing star from the hidden fold of his sleeves, he threw the weapon at his fleeing target. The projectile spun viciously in the air and sunk its teeth into her calves. Screaming in pain, she collapsed to the ground.

“Will you stop hurting her?” Michael screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The ninja turned to face him. “You are me and I am you. If that were true, you know as well as I do that she deserves much worse than what she is getting right now,” the ninja replied.

“What? You are going to torture and kill her? Is that it? You think that will solve anything at all?”

“Well, yes actually. Judging from the frequency of the screw ups, I’d say that I am going to save a lot of people a lot of trouble in the future if I kill her.”

“Right. The vigilante guardian of morality. Who the hell told you that you had the authority to be the one meting out punishment?”

“A simple principle of consistency. An act of malice, be it intentional or not is punished by law. The careless driver never intended to run his victim over, but he is still charged with manslaughter. Emotional abuse is punished, even when the victim is unwittingly abused. But it never applies for the crimes that she has committed. People like her get away scot free all the time. If ignorance was a valid excuse, then I might have reconsidered, but in this case it certainly isn’t. She knows, but because she doesn’t want to deal with it, she pretends like nothing ever happened. That cannot be ignored or forgiven. Its selfish to the core, and for some reason, no one ever sees this act of evil for what it is. ”

Michael had heard all of this before. It had played over and over again in his head and he didn’t want to think about it anymore. It always gave him a headache. He buried his face into his hands.

“Now if you will excuse me, I have some unfinished business to attend to,” said the ninja.

“I won’t let you do it.”

“You can try to stop me, but I assure you, it wouldn’t really change anything.”

Screaming like a maniac, Michael flung himself at the ninja. This time, the ninja wasn’t in the mood for games. He was resigned to the fact that collateral damage was inevitable. Sighing a long sigh, he raised his weapon and slashed. The sword bit into Michael, shearing muscle and bone alike. The blow was struck to kill, and it achieved its purpose. The two halves on Michael’s body slumped into a bloody pool of severed organs.

“I never knew that I was that stupid,” the ninja said to himself.

Turning to face the girl, he started walking. She had curled herself into a ball, whimpering and sobbing. The ninja shook his head.

“You probably think you don’t deserve this, but you do. It has to be done. You are too dangerous to set loose upon civilized society, or any society for that matter.”

She buried her face into her knees, wailing for mercy. She never saw the katana as it came screaming down onto her.

Stubborn.

The monotonous bleeping of medical equipment was the only thing that broke the silence in the room. He lay in his bed, feeling somewhat agitated. He was still in confinement and he didn’t know why. The doctors had very specific orders. Don’t get out of bed.

It all didn’t make any sense to him. He felt fine. There really wasn’t any reason not to move about, and he was bored. A person can only sleep and watch TV for so long. And the longer he spent in bed, the more he thought about the circumstances that brought him to where he was.

Most people didn’t believe it when they were told about what had happened. He was always so careful, and he took so few risks. When he finally did venture out of his little sphere of protection, he paid the price he always feared that he would have to pay.

He half expected himself to regret the decision and cocoon himself again. If you spend your whole life being cautious and the very thing that instinct tells you not to do bites you in the head, then you do have a right to become cynical and unforgiving.

Surprisingly, he didn’t. He didn’t feel sorry, and actually believed himself when he said that the entire ordeal was worth it. But whatever positive thoughts he could glean didn’t make him any less annoyed at being stuck in bed. He checked himself over again. He had done that about a million times already, and he could never see the wound that the doctors said would burst open if he got out of bed. As much as he had faith in modern medicine, he was starting to think that the doctor didn’t really know what he was doing. He had read his fair share of literature on human anatomy, and the doctor’s orders didn’t make any sense to him.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He pulled off the sheets that covered him and shuffled to the edge of the bed. It was at that point that he heard the doctor’s deep voice in his head. It was clinical and emotionless as always. “I’ve told you more than once. You are not ready. I spent a lot of time patching you up. I’d hate to go back to square one again.”

“I can’t stay any longer, doc. I’m healed already. I’ll be fine.”

He could almost hear the doctor roll his eyes. “Everybody is a doctor nowadays. To do this is a risk, and to warn you is my job. I have already done that. I wish you good luck.” The voice faded away.

He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Nothing happened. So far so good. Sliding across the bed sheet, he moved ever so slowly towards the floor. His toes touched the floor. Still nothing happened.

Gaining confidence, he applied his weight onto his foot, fully expecting his legs to be able to support his weight. They did, but he certainly didn’t count on his closed wound across the stomach splitting open.

The pain was back. If he wasn’t already gutted, the pain would have gutted him. He couldn’t quite think of an analogy that would accurately describe the white hot burning on his abdomen. Slowly, he curled himself up into a ball, screaming an agony as the severed muscles contracted. He wanted to die at that point.

Just as he was about to pass out, the door slid open and the doctor entered with the rest of his medical team. The doctor looked at him for two seconds, shook his head and sighed his disapproving sigh. “Bloody idiot. I told him. No one ever listens.”

At the doctor’s signal, the medical team hoisted him back onto the bed and started working on fix him.