littleboy1234f

catholic dominican free palestine joined on 4/30/5

[littleboy1234f]

Archive of the stuff I’ve written for the brookverse

The beginning melody of El Paso City ringed in his ears; and it taught him a valuable lesson.

For the love of god, never put a song you like as your alarm.

His arms stretched as to grab at his phone, checking the date.

It was the date Randall Clark was born.

But Clark had died in 2012.

Rango got up, stretching groggily and going to the bathroom.

He studied himself, his stubble that’d grown in his sleep, his meticulous styled mustache and his short hair which he checked if it were receding.

It was his thirtieth birthday after all.

Thankfully, his hair was still full.

And so then, he hopped in the shower.

PASSAGE TWO.

This is how it feels to be Randal Clark (crossed out, replaced with Rango.)

It is the day of someone who you are no longer mentally.

Someone who died the moment that strange woman tied him to a chair and described the way she murdered Kayla.

Your response was to bash her head in with her own shotgun as the blaze she lit afire warmed your skin and disfigured her.

You are Rango Robbins, a small town sheriff.

Someone with no connection to those people.

You tell people; you were born in Texas, raised there for a few years until you moved to New York.

The cold water splats onto your skin and hair as you think.

You rub shampoo onto your hair.

Kayla.

Her birthday was only a few months ago.

You’d missed her by the days, which went onto weeks, and months.

Something suddenly struck you.

You forgot the color of her eyes.

All that came to mind was the predatory glare of the yellow lenses that signified to one on the other end of it; that death was coming.

Would she continue to fade like this?

Would, as you got older and older forget more and more features? Forget her voice? When you tried to construct her face in those years; your mind would go blank?

Something else came to mind.

When was the last time you donned that armor?

When you unleashed your pain onto those you held responsible?

When you unleashed the pain they’d made feel dozens others back onto them tenfold?

Flashes of a brown-haired man.

Which one?

The one you’d brutalized? Or is it the one you’d shot in the neck atop that hospital?

But after all; what sympathy should be felt for them?

A vestige of your catholic boyhood came up in your sprout of sympathy; and was that the place where you’d gotten your guilt?

What even was Catholic guilt?

You’d read some psycho-babble article on it?

(In bold.)

Regretting doesn’t turn away any of your mistakes.

They will always be there, Clark. You are Randal Clark. You are Rango Robbins. And you are The Survivalist.

You did each and every one of those actions.

They were righteous, though.

You thought of the look in your father’s eye as you announced to him you’d join the military, then of Kayla’s. You were dead set on going to Latveria, Clark.

You were dead set on returning to war when you had everything, Clark. You. Me. Us.

He’d already faced those mistakes before; going to war. Stan. Where was he now? Mourning his second child to die mysteriously (although you were a lot less “mysterious” in terms of death.)

You remembered his words and tried to tone it out.

Maybe you should’ve listened.

Maybe you should’ve ignored those men with a smile, who could sell anything to anyone.

But it was too late already.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in NYC.

Should’ve went to some fancy college there.

Should’ve stayed with your family.

Oh, but nooo.

You wanted independence.

This is what you wanted, Randal.

It’s been 16 years since then.

You can’t change anything.

You are Rango Robbins.

You must stop your reflection on your life and get on with the day.

You’d cleaned yourself almost instinctively.

It was the first Tuesday of April 2016.

(PASSAGE 3.)

Everything happened in a blur.

By the time you could stop and think; you’d put that stupid hat on and cupped your car keys.

You were ready for the day.

Only weeks ago had they signed into that supe act; where all supes, operating wherever would have to be accompanied by a officer of the law.

Brookhaven had none at the moment.

No celestial attacks.

Not even much interesting.

Neighborly disputes.

You were called for nothing.

Your break hit.

2

November 14th, 2013.

My war has ended.

The man responsible behind the organization that resulted in the kidnapping of Kayla are dead. My purpose in this husk of a body is lost. The days of camping out in the wilderness of New York, with nothing but the necessary tools to wage war are over. In a month and 5 days; it will mark the day I was at LaGuardia and realized my wife wasn’t there to greet me; to embrace me. Would she have, though? The last time we spoke I was going off to war. I was arguing over a point that I knew was wrong, but I refused to admit it. I’ve heard that I may “enjoy” war but I’ve come to find something in myself. I don’t enjoy war, not at all. I enjoy the research that goes into it. It gives myself some purpose. I enjoy everything before it, but the recoil still comforts me to some point. To know whatever jackamzz who got themselves into my sight are dead. I clutch my modified 50 Beowulf Automatic rifle as I type this. There’s semblances of snow up here. I like this place, and my thoughts drift, to something in particular— how would Asia be? One of the woman who were trafficked over here, forced to be an experiment as many others.. As I was getting them to an homeless shelter, she explained what she could. She was younger then sixteen— and she said she had been forced into for two or more years. Her English was feasible, and I presumed she was Filipino. I’d heard about old, white pedophiles going there. To prey on the poor, and it made me sick to my stomach. And in remembrance of that, I concluded that it must happen. I thought back, regarding all the recent American interventionism (in the Middle East, when they recently did the unthinkable— attack Israel in the name of justice for the oppressed populations.) And that was relatively decent from them. The attack on Latveria was anything but. Their leader brushed the nation’s ego, so there I went off. I ensured that leader’s death (although it was after I had seventeen fractures in just my right side, god he could hit harder then thought. My armor is usually made to counter whatever that was, spread out the force, ensure that nothing like that could happen. No damage to it, thankfully.

You know, when I first started writing this, I truly believed those four words I typed in.

A new war now, finding my place in the world later. You know, I wonder what to call these.. journal entries. I sometimes think I could be a writer, especially with all of the.. books being put out. Hell, that’d replace the strategic part of war that seems to fuel me in some ways. But maybe in another life. I don’t seem to age, to be frank. I’m 27, and I don’t look like I’ve passed the age that I was when injected. Neither has Richard, and he’s somewhat older than me. He was recruited in 03, fresh out of some college in California. He was 22 then. He’s 30 now, and.. not much different. What even is aging? Boone, him neither. Don’t know when he was injected, but he’s still looking good. I sometimes wonder what my life would’ve been. I had a major in history, minor in religion. I think about my old friend, Theodore. He has a son now too, about twelve. Nico’s his name. He wasn’t aware of him during college, became aware soon after. The mother died in some freak accident and the son was sent off to the state; and they searched for any possible parents.

If you’re wondering how I know about all of this, we spoke before I was shipped off. During that.. continental clusterfuck. I mean, the world’s biggest superpower at the time falling to riots, the military not firing on the rioters? Nevertheless, we’d left years before. Disbanded for reasons beyond us, just not useful anymore.

Everyone except Richard left.

3

This article was written on June 16th, 2012. It’s using declassified information and information from INTERPOL and other journalistic sources.

Written by R.D of the Brookhaven Print.

The Canadian Civil War.

Taking place in 2001-03, this war began based off a few factors.

American interference due to Supernatural entities on the Alaska Borders. The Alaskan Police Department was sent to fight them off. It didn’t go all to well, and they required assistance from the Canadian Military.

Second of all, the unfair treatment that the autochthonous of Canada have been gotten for generations.

A nationalistic militia, made by Native Americans within their reservations; which wished for Canada to be completely indigenous .

It was a reactionist ideology which believed in its ideals as a response to their own oppression. They believed that their ancestors had been at peace with these creatures for centuries. In their belief, they could end this worthless war. They used it as an opening for themselves. Their militia started as a political party which most believed as a contradictory group that had no actual chance of winning any elections, a decolonalist far right party which believed in an ethnostate, and forming “national parks” of sorts, surrendering areas and whatnot to these entities. This all comes from their manifesto, which some rejected but agreed with the overall sentiment. As the Canadian Army focused itself on the hasteful Adlets, the militia was able to use the opening to strike; they’d coordinated this. In dozens of cities, chaos broke out. The chaos was varied, from direct violence to peaceful protesting from other members. Remember, this party WAS varied as mentioned earlier, but nevertheless the orders were all the same.

Kill them all.

Entire cities went under martial law. Others had no law. The militia hadn’t started the conflict— and to many in the world? The stories of those peaceful protests were the only one being printed or broadcasted. This is the main reason for the hesitation of many nations around the world— why joining in was an unthinkable idea.

From February 12th, the day of the rioting to May 16th, the war was mostly a stalemate. The army’d mutinied in some areas and refused to fire on citizens. On others, they followed the orders as if they were Nazi Stormtroopers.

NATO refused to get involved.

The militants struck back in other areas— on June 5th, a massacre occurred with well over 45 noncombants being murdered, their homes ransacked and children massacred without mercy.

Around this time, the Canadian goverment made interment camps to “keep the native population safe”

Within those camps, they faced harsh treatment.

A general— whom the Serbian government claimed was acting on his own initiative had arrived in North-Western Canada as to train the militants. He’d spearheaded some of the most horrible war crimes during the Yugoslav war, and was wanted for them by Interpol since 1999.

This general has not been apprehended yet— and for anyone reading this article?

He is highly dangerous. He’s dispatched multiple supes who’ve attempted to apprehend him. The circumstances of these “dispatchings.” Haven’t been made clear. I wouldn’t suggest any attempt to do so.

The militants have been whipped into shape, and by July they went on a massive offensive. The Canadian forces were overrun, outstrategerized and overconfident. Hubris was their downfall indeed.

Canadian forces out west were completely abandoned. They were ordered to hold the line— meanwhile reinforcements weren’t moving at the slightest. The forces in the east dug into defensive positions and allowed for their folks out west to be overwhelmed and wiped out.

Air reinforcements were sabotaged.

By September 2001, it was expected that the militants would win. Ontario was facing constant raids, and the defense was cracking.

Sabotaging of city infrastructure, alongside mass-fragging of superior officers, defections of forces due to promises of immunity from the militants.

the Commonwealth of Great Britain and Australia lent forces to Canada, but was sure not to get TOO involved. A counteroffensive was formed, pushing the militants back to a booby-trapped Winnipeg, which the Canadian forces faced heavy casualties with little to no return. This was in December of 2001, and it was clear that the war wasn’t something they were prepared for. They played it far, far more cautiously than they did months ago. Attempts at peace-talks ended in bloodshed, and chemical weapons were used to wipe out Canadian regiments as of March, 2002. More atrocities were committed on both sides, and chemical agents similar to that of Agent Orange used in Vietnam were dropped on cities— mainly by the militia.

The Canadian army combated this by moving most populations into the east.

The Stalemate broke, and it seemed as if the militia would win as of September 2002.

Until, the United States, without approval from Congress intervened.

In the undefended west, American Brigades struck. The most notable is one named First Recon, who struck alongside Canadian forces in the east. They proved highly efficient— and ended the war by Christmas on the eastern front. Of course, the war didn’t come without its consequences.

The native population was oppressed tenfold.

The supernaturals who started this war were completely and utterly wiped out.

The effects of this war still ripple through modern Canadian society.

And there are those in which words cannot describe. In only character can.

This article is out of respect for all those who served.

*A flash board of names appear— especially one Kyle Clark.*

four’s in its final stage of being written, alongside plans for a continuation to one.

Two hours later, both four and five are finished

Here’s four.

(clearing his throat.)

Hello. For the sakes of remaining anonymous regardless when this tape is discovered, i will only refer to myself as “The Survivalist.” when needed.

My date of birth was April Fifth, 1986. This tape will be left within an hollowed out tree. The date of filming is March Seventeen, 2013.

Okay, so. For well-needed context, i have been waging a war against the men who abducted murdered my wife.

I have prior military training, special-ops, and I’ve done stuff that won’t be classified in a million years from whenever you’re listening. Once again, for the sake of anonymity; I won’t mention any of it.

I would like to break down the origins in the way i can.

(Another clearing of his throat.)

Around Christmas Week, i arrived at LaGuardia airport. My wife, who I had argued prior to me going on deployment wasn’t there. Wasn’t much of a shocker, to be frank. I called her a few times with zero responses each time. Hoped I could clear up my mistake with her, and after all that I’d done while on deployment; I believed she was right. I spent the Christmas week with my family and friends in New York City, before eventually returning to my current residence in upstate NY, a little town by the name of Brookhaven. My wife wasn’t there, also.

I checked Security cameras, and the last time it was active was in October.

I have a few cameras in the house, one with a clear direct view on the street. The one im referring to right now— within the house hadnt been active for a while besides rats.

I checked the footage on that day, and it seemed as if someone used a wifi-jammer as to take down the connective services that powered the security camera.

Mind you, this was four AM. It was an intentional target, an intentional attack on my home.

When I returned, I noticed dried-up blood, still able to be tested by the time I’d returned. And so i tested it, and the results came from a dead man whose employment was from a real-estate company that started back in 2004. The man had one car to his name; and that car, via comparison of makes (of the car that had pulled up prior to the WiFi-jamming, and the one that I saw speeding away with the aforementioned clear view of the street; it was evident that the car was used for this.) I noted a few things, the car was modified to be military-grade, and on the man’s record it also said he worked for a security company of eerily similar naming concurrently with the real estate company. Explains how he’s able to own the car legally, to an extent.

The license plate remains unchanged. And I know this because— with contacting a man I’ll only refer to as “Red.” whom supplied me with access to traffic-light information, and routing of vehicles and whatnot.

So there my journey started. I intensely watched traffic light footage for a bit, and noticed convoys alongside this vehicles. Via the usage of satellite imagery (provided to me also by Red, god bless him and the rest of his days.) I was able to determine where they stopped, and what was their bases of operation. For the next week, I let the vehicle move smoothly. I noticed that they’d take intervals late at night as to sleep.

And on December 28th, I’d decided to contact an arms dealer who I’d gotten their contact from my father. I proceeded to buy an army’s worth of ammunition, bombs, C4 and whatnot. Alongside the materials necessary to craft something that the public doesn’t know about— Stimpacks. They can heal the wounds that one shouldn’t return from. I’m leaving the materials and thirteen stimpacks alongside this tape, with another bonus surprise that I will mention later on.

And so, i set out to ambush the vehicle.

When they took their late night intervals; I took my father’s jeep, stockpiled with the aforementioned weaponry and ammunition, I moved out.

Utilizing my rifle, I hid in foliage; wearing my camouflagey armor as to hide myself. I took the shot— my automatic hellfire rippling through their bulletproof glass.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bulletproof glass? How’d my rifle penetrate it. And that’s the other surprise I’ve left for you. The blueprints as to make a rifle— majority of them, compatible with 12.7millimeter rounds, and automatically especially. This breaks all laws of physics formally known to you, I’m willing to bet. (Or this is regular practice for the time you’re in, and I’ve just supplied you with toilet paper.)

Anyways.

I moved in, and one man was startled awake— and the only one alive. I dragged him out the car. When he attempted to attack me, I broke his shoulder with a singular knee. I identified him as Toya, a prisoner who’d committed suicide years ago, but was freakishly alive. I worked to capture him myself, for Pete’s sake.

I drove to an abandoned car-park, and hooked his testicles to a car engine.

And then, after a few rounds of that, he was ready to speak.

He was the head of security, offered this job weeks before his alleged suicide. Utilized cloning. Sounded as batshit insane to me, too. He revealed to me the interworkings of his job/- the location of a few bases, and the boss.

They’d established their security force just incase someone like me attempted to do something like this— and in his words, didn’t expect someone of my competency. After hanging out his intestines from his body and radioing in for help, I left that sack of shit there to inform them I was out there to his men.

And it worked.

In the next base I’d attacked, they had terminal . I downloaded the journals from it— and with the gibberish of them mentioning a “Fasser.” and his incompetence (Asked Red about it, he said it was something half a decade or so back. Scientist Guy went tits-up and decided to attack a police station with drones. Got apprehended after he successfully killed all of his experiments; besides one that was relatively normal and escaped before any harm could come to him, out on some island. Died while being driven to station, apparently. Cyanide poisoning, whether self inflicted or not, you can guess.)

They had still-live test subjects. Young girls and boys trafficked in from Asia. Made me sick my stomach. Got them situated in a homeless shelter, hope they’re doing fine now. Then, some asshole came after me in town. I was being overly comfortable, though. Acted as if I wasn’t at war. A mistake I haven’t made since then— and with what happened to me there (I really, really don’t wanna go into it.) Anyways, onto the present day. After the physical damage had healed, I returned back to my war effort with a duffel bag and overtly long hair. (Had to shave my beard cause my mask wouldn’t close and my facial hair would get stuck in it. Hair’s shaved now.)

Here’s what has happened, from the knowledge I have from now, and the way I got is via the terminals they have. They either have a quota to fill out a day to day journal, or they do it out of their own free will.

Ever since my assassination of the head of security, they’ve hired a new one. A man from the nation formerly known as Yugoslavia. War criminal, the worst of the worst things done, read an article about him recently by the Brookhaven print. But he knew how to whip his men into shape. And the same happened to their men— the incompetent shitheads stepping up to becoming. Well, still shitheads, just maybe competent. And so here’s my story.

I’d cataloged a bunch of locations from my old system of watching that one car move. I went to one with a buncha scientists— and they had security. Far more. Remember wht I said about informing them of my existence? Well, that’s on me. But nothing I couldn’t handle, I just thought the data would’ve been wiped out before I came in.

I slit the first guys throat outside— but as soon as that happened? My helmet interfered a signal, one informing them that he was dead and to set the alarms. Thankfully, it was intercepted but it just showed me to be as careful as humanly possible here.

I moved inside, using his card as to enter. And before I describe any of the carnage that occurred within, I’d like to explain their outfits.

Heavy plated armor, a shitload of pouches on that armor, and a 101 Tactical UBAC A-TACS LE camo shirt and tactical pants with the same camo design imprinted. The helmets have a narrow, motorcycle-helmet esque design with tactical lights on the side, And a shotgun that was a pain in the ass that launched taser shells. The Toya man wore a red, hi-visibility jacket, with the agency’s name implanted on its shoulders. (Forgot to mention that was the same with the helmets of the folks, also sporting the name.) The “internal security” ones also wore these. I’ll get to them later.

Anyways, you get the point. Huge tactical suits that are impractical to move— and there’s also a tiny slit in the neck where it shows some skin. That’ll be important later.

I entered via the back, clearing the room. Dark in the corridor I was in. Utilizing my helmet once again, I saw their heat-signatures and their position, at the doors.The thing I was after was a computer they had, large clunky thing. Has the journals and whatnot; layout and location of vital areas, ther research that’s been done there, and the generators in the same room. This is the point where I holstered my rifle and decided to play it smart. I grabbed a small stun knife in one hand, and a silenced M1911.

I set a few C4s upstairs near the structural points to ensure that’d it’d go well, and I moved downstairs.

One bastard was in the data room. Utilizing the thermal viewing, saw he was smoking a cigarette and unfocused, fiddling with his watch or some shit. Takes his dick out and begins pissing right there and right then, in that data room. Disgusting fuck, but gave me an opening.

Shocked him with the knife, and knocked him out. Got the data and what was necessary, so I proceeded to set the charges on the structural parts of the base, intended to blow it to all hell. I took magazines, weapons, and other supplies. Got a set of armor as to reverse-engineer the radio systems. Play it to my advantage.

I left the base and overlooked it; and set the charges. No innocents were hurt, no test subjects were there. Overall, was a good day.

Got the information necessary, however this general was a pain in the ass. Certainly, security would lock themselves the fuck up after this. Good thing I didn’t interact with them on this mission, right? And the suit of armor could help for espionage purposes. Anyways, I checked the terminals. Information regarding the general said he was a doomsday prepper— lived in some bunker, appeared spontaneously, and apparently had the heads of supes in his house. Got himself back on the international kill list back in 02, and maybe I’d be the one to cash that out. But it was never that easy, was it? But I figured something.

I could go to the places where I heard he last appeared. I would have to be cautious though, they’d been “whipped into shape” as I said earlier. One specific one was one of their fortresses. I checked the geographic location, and it was at a lake, in about New Hampshire. I arrived, beginning my reconnaissance. And it was.. an island in the middle of the lake. Fucking bullshit. It was February 26th that day, and the lakes were still frozen over. Seemed nothing short of a gimmick, but one that’d pose a challenge. How would I get past unnoticed? Had to think on it. Couldn’t just shoot my way through. I analyzed the aforementioned radio signals, seeing what I could manipulate it to do.

The receiver on my helmet was far enough, and I could send frequent signals of false alarms. Check what they do when it comes in, do it until whereas they’ll do a half assed job or just ignore it. Good plan, right? I tried to fall asleep, and my body wouldn’t let me do it. So I decided to enact at that moment.

Watched via the systems in my helmet. Far better than some pissant binoculars. Almost immediately, they patrolled the region. Checked out every little spot. Then, as soon as they got back? Did it again. And again. And again. Almost hilarious, watching them scurry like ants and fatigue hit them. Picked up arguing. They’d used thermal imaging and hadn’t found anyone nearby. They were told to continue doing it. They’d been fatigued from the blizzard that hit a few weeks ago. Finally, after an hour or so? The generals gave in. In between false alarms, I moved in through the front entrance. They had guards in the back, the one I kept on alerting. As easy as it could be. I snuck atop the building and linked the power systems to my PDA. I downloaded what was necessary via that, then sent the base into a total blackout, alongside their armors.

Now was time for some fun.

I placed the stock onto my shoulder, th rifle on in my hands and began to wipe out the guards. I made the impression that I was on the level floor, and when one came running out like a fucking headless chicken, trying to see what was happening? There he went.

I turned the light back on, allowing for them to get organized as I entered via the garage.

It felt like I was toying with them.

They moved in military formation and whatnot, and they were well trained for the time that they were being trained. It felt almost surreal— like a video game of sorts, especially with their cold, dark black masks that made them seem less like a person and more like an automaton. I realized midway through, as the recoil went through my shoulder that every person that went down had a life— a family, at least someone who loved and cared about them.

Then I thought about the moral decisions that led them to them being here, and I put the rifle on burst. I then swooped in to the bottom fast as shit, catching folks trying to gather their stuff to escape. Took them out non-lethally, needed at least one for later. I swept up— seeing the men I’d yet to pick out, hiding behind the office. Shock in their eyes arose, I’d suspect. Remember, those helmets. Faded away with the burst. Three for each, but I left one alive.

I then went downstairs, strapping the soldiers onto a table, and tying all of the others onto the beds around them.

I explained I wanted every bit of information about the general.

All of them refused to give anything. So I had to make the example out of one. I pumped the soldier tied down full of what I presumed was adrenaline, and started cutting.

I then grabbed out his wrist as he was still alive, the bone.

And I began to scoop out the man’s brains through his eyes.

Thinking back on this, I became, in my rage, in my anger towards these people— a person who I knew I didn’t want to be. Who I inherently wasn’t. I got what I wanted, but the cost on myself is still heavy to this moment as I say this.

He was situated at a bunker around the Long Trail in Vermont, with an estimated area given to me.

My brother fought against this monster years ago, and I felt it was up to me to finish the legacy he had onset. I still miss you, Kyle. And I feel as if everyday that I’ve failed you with this career path. That’s certainly not what you would’ve ever wanted for me. Or you, Mom. Those footsteps weren’t mine to follow, and only now am I reflecting on that. But the war persists, and it won’t end until that man at the top is dead. But this story still needs to be told, and the past is the past.

I followed that estimated area for days, until I found it. Restless nights in the woods, and with the thermal technology, the tracing that could be done with it.

It was highly secure. Entering would be fundamental suicide. I watched and watched. The minute someone came out? I pounced onto him as he got farther along the trail. Knew nothing, so I used him to get in. As soon as I returned, watching them?

The fuckers lit him up. They knew it was a trap. And they came out for me.

The fatigue from earlier was hitting me. They’d boobytrapped the trail, and I could recognize that. So I stood and fought. I had the perfect area to watch— yet reinforcements moved in. The reinforcements fell into the man’s own trapping, seemingly not being aware of it.

A flamethrower wielding man came at me. Played dead. Continued incinerating me.

Didn’t have my duster on, left it back home.

Stupid fuck still took me in, to confirm the kill.

It was a spartan facility. Every bit cleaned. No trophies, no bostage of arrogance.

The General himself looked somewhat emaciated, nothing of what I’d seen of him. When he attempted to get the helmet off? I slugged him in the face. He was rocked halfway from how unexpected the blow was. I kneed him in his stomach, and there was no staggering there. He punched me, sending me flying.

Fuckin stupid of me. So that’s how this shithead was able to avoid capturing from any of those agencies, regardless of who they sent.

My armor spread the initial damage of the hit, due to its architecture (can that word be used here?)

He moved at lightning fast speeds as to intercept me.

I was made for this. To die for this.

Killing supes such as him. I’d killed supes just like him. He was strong. Too strong. I could see that. Too fast. But he was able to be staggered once.

I tore something from my pouch in the haste; grabbing the flashbang out.

It blinded him and likely disoriented him.

I used my footing to an advantage, punched with my whole body— and a shockwave rippled through my arm and my whole body. Could feel the fracturing in my knuckles as I struck him. Wasn’t even shocked halfway. The frugalness of the facility didn’t help. I grabbed a taser off my hip, plunging it into his neck. Thousands of volts rippled through him. Kept up the pressure, but one lucky swing would’ve been enough to put me down.

It came for me in what was slow motion. That luck wasn’t there for him. I ran to tackle him, getting him off his footing and throwing him down. He punched me directly in the goggle area. Didn’t break, but I knew that damage that was there would cause it to someday.

Today was not that day. He swung again, into my chest plate and I could hear the grunt of over exertion from him. I wrapped myself around him, my legs around his hips, my taser plunged into his neck. He realized my legs were unprotected, and began to move wildly as an attempt to hit them. He failed, so he resorted to hitting me as hard and wildly as he could. He eventually alerted his men— but I’d razed him enough that getting up would be extremely difficult. I moved as to take care of them.

Six heads entered, with weapons.

A riot shotgun on one, a M16, like the one my father wielded in Vietnam on three. Primitive, horrible tech in comparison to what’d been invented recently, made by Colt for more money and less spending on making it. Thing is, one can’t go the cheap way with weapons. With human lives.

On the other two? Heavy weapons, a modified sniper rifle without the scope, to presumably hip fired or whatever and one of those stupid fucking “laser” rifles which’d burn your hand off with the first shot. I picked up the general and posed him up. I threw him at them, the one wielding the laser rifle dived away, the one with the Riot shotgun too. He landed at a wall positioned behind us. I too, moved as fast as possible, taking down the two with the M16.

The one with the rifle got a shot off at my thigh, barely missing my femoral artery. Not even registering this, I booted him in his oblique before elbowing him in the face and wrestling it off of him. I put down the pissant with the laser rifle, and did the rest for everyone else.

I turned around down to the general, who’d gotten up. Behind me and them, remember.

He came charging at me. I shot him once in his right eye— it hit, but didn’t go beyond his tissue. Eyes were sensitive, but the tissue past it completely stopped the bullet from traveling furthermore. I threw the empty rifle at him in a futile moment, and grabbed for the laser rifle.

Should’ve gone in my pouches before going for that hot piece of dogshit. But well.

I charged up a burst and shot it directly at his midsection— he moved out of it, but not fast enough.

Blew off his elbow, but the overheating was unbearable.

Had to do it though, and I hipfired a few shots as to slow him down.

He continued moving, using his stump of an arm.

Fucking cauterization. He wasn’t even bleeding, either. Couldn’t rely on that, and the non-charged up shots were as tiny as a needle’s eye, so that was futile too.

It did do something good though— I charged up a shot as I positioned it upwards when I KNEW he was going to hit me. Scorched his hand when he punched through the barrel entirely and gave him pause. I then scrambled on my feet away, grabbing the riot shotgun.

Boone told me this was my brother’s preferred weapon of choice. For you, Kyle. For you.

I fired a shot, and it seemed as if they had the military grade altering to the bullet, whereas it used kinetic energy wit each pellet.

It knocked him onto his ass, and I fired them into his kneecaps as an attempt to do something. Stay down.. and fucking DIE!

I grabbed something that Richa- I mean, Red made for me, and I threw a satchel charge directly at him and got to running, with the riot shotgun in one hand.

There, that exact moment was when the pain in my thigh registered, as I was sprinting away into a blast-room that closed. I folded onto the ground and exploded the satchel charge. I lied there for a few moments, before eventually getting back up and tying my shemagh around the wound as a tourniquet. I reentered the room, and the spartan environment that was once? Covered in blood, guts and overall uncleanliness. Nothing new, just wish the General could see this.

Blown to shit. Saw his remains just to be absolutely sure, and shot them to mincemeat. No clones for this one. Nothing.

I cleared out my weapons from the lockers, potentially more and just to be absolutely sure? Detonated the base from within. Doomsday bunker with a self destruction failsafe. Who the fuck does that?

That was March 8th when I left.

There’s still more to be killed. Still more to do. War won’t end any time soon, but I’ve since realized that I need to have my own personal rules on this. Won’t stoop down to that level of depravity ever again. Hope these supplies help you, whoever’s listening. Survivalist out.

Five

The Lamb

April 16th 2016.

I stand over the newly dug grave of the brother I never knew I had, Harry.

Harry died in 2009– just as Randal Clark did in 2013.

He went under another identity, Brian Moser.

He worked for Krausher, as far as I knew— the genocidal supe hating maniac.

I liberated those he’d abducted back in 2014, my first year as Rango. I think of Kyle, he’d gone missing a week before my graduation.

Brian broke into my house with full intention of killing me in the memory of the dying Krausher— but I dealt the fatal wound first.

He revealed to me he was his brother.

I attempted to save him, but he just told me it was futile. That he’d die either way.

I held him as he died and cried with him.

I felt his hand loosen.

My brother, Brian or Harry.

He had a son, Harrison who was murdered.

I analyzed the injuries he had, or more so the scars.

A few to the head-/ shotgun blasts.

All over his body.

I saw Stan in him somewhat, and Kyle.

I cleaned him up, and put him in a tuxedo.

I lastly closed his eyes for him.

You can rest now, Harry, Brian, whatever you wanted to be called.

Passage Two.

You drive your police wagon down into your underground bunker, the one you intended to build a life with Kayla at with the body of your brother in the back. You feel the tears starting to come out of your eyes as you think of his life. This was another brother which you’d lost, one you didn’t know you even had until his dying confession.

He smiled at you in his death and comforted you. Told you it was futile, and to just give him peace in his final moments.

You put him in a coffin which you bought for Kayla; but her body was never found. You still haven’t gotten over that loss, and never will. You wipe your eyes as if they’re irritated, rub it. And you allow it to happen, the falling of tears. You think back onto the armored woman— who wore Kayla’s armor. Rage erupted in you through the grief from what she’d done.

But you thought back to the dying smile on your brother’s face, and you couldn’t help but meet it back with your own bittersweet smile with the tears still welling in your eyes.

You had a feeling in your stomach he could see you, from wherever he was. You looked down onto his peaceful face in that tuxedo— the meticulously slicked back hair, the stubble. And you only wished that you could’ve met on better circumstances. You thought of the younger Harry, meeting with Professor Thompson frequently. You’d spoken to him once or twice, done a project with him. You liked him. He was a decent person.

And you saw semblances of that childlike naivety in his face. Who knows why? Maybe believing someone loved him— in reality, when it was a perversive twist on what love could’ve been. For whatever reason, you rested your hand on his forehead and prayed.

Prayed for his soul.

You marked the grave only as “My Brother.”

You put it near the entrance of the bunker.

If for any reason, you’d be reminded of him. When you needed him, that smile.

Maybe it’d give you guidance for when it was necessary to enter.

To be able to accept life like that.

You put two souls to rest that day in your eyes.

Kyle and Brian.

PASSAGE 3

I wondered what Kyle would do if he were here at this moment. We spent summers together— but he’d lived in Oregon with mom. I lived in NY with Stan. He joined Boot Camp at Fourteen, and went off to war at seventeen. Never saw him again at Nineteen. I was going to spend the whole summer with him like we did when we were kids. Introduce him to that wonderful lady I’d met. Learn about the man he’d become.

I only wish I was with him for that summer. The advice he could’ve given, the mistakes that I would’ve missed.

But nevertheless.

I also laid something else to rest— that shotgun that I used to take down the general.

We were twins, you know.

And once again, I give that bittersweet smile and walk away.

I came to process his death quickly— but the randomness of Kyle and Kayla, no face at the moment to remember them by. No acceptance in their gaze. I got that with Brian, and I wondered if Kyle would give me that too.

But I’d never heal from Kayla. Not in a thousand lifetimes. She’d stay with me perpetually, and only when I died would she in my eyes.

I enter my truck and return home.

And in those moments, I think of the softest of clothing, the brightness of its wools. It’s tender voice.

Little Lamb, God Bless Thee.

I repeat those words to myself as I think of the peaceful face of my brother’s corpse.

Little Lamb, God Bless Thee.

The End.

SIX

Journaling.

What an interesting concept, right? Especially for one out of their time.

I’m going to write down my life story, vague elements of it. I know the rest of it, and you shouldn’t be reading this if you don’t.

I was born on April 5th, 1986 alongside my younger brother, Randall Clark. He went with my father, Stan. I went with my mother, father. Let me explain about that.

My mother was born a man, but his metagene was discovered when he was injected with a serum. His ability was revealed via this— an ability to genderbend completely. My mother was the first and last person injected with that specific serum back in 1976. I’m going to refer them as just Rick, although his full name is Kendrick.

I was raised in a very.. well, “macho” household. That word’s something that peeves me somewhat. Sounds weird to spell and stuff. But onto the point, i was taught not to cry, to resolve my emotions by lashing out onto the world, onto others. I was prone to doing just that as a younger man. I played American Football, Rick encouraged me to do wrestling, and I did it. I constantly got in fights, into trouble. Never did any of those overtly bad shit that’d you think of. I was a relatively good kid morally, at least i like to think.

I was an oxymoron in a way. Not elaborating on that, but anyways.

It felt as if my life was guaranteed before i was born for me. I would be in the army no matter what. Wanted to follow the path that was laid out for me. I never enjoyed harming others, it just felt like a chore, something you’d have to do unless you wanted it to bite you in the ass later. Rick frequently “disciplined” me physically. By the time i was fourteen, i was already balls deep into a special forces training camp. I was multilingual (fluent in 3, conversational in five and literate in 2.) I learned what one would in school— history, geography, culture, the art of infiltration, human behavior, and the skills I’d learned in the schoolyard, or in the streets of violence spread itself and became me. I was a weapon, as any other. I studied the ongoing conflicts and what to learn from it. I disassociated from that weapon and the person I was around my family. But majority of the time, I was that weapon. And speaking about my family.

A few months a year when i was younger, i stayed with my brother or he stayed with me. He lived in New York, went to Catholic school, and was the epitome of the quote “speak softly, and walk with a big stick.”

I wouldn’t call him a nerd, but I wouldn’t think of him as being anything close to what I was as a boy. We wrestled for fun sometimes, and he’d gotten the better of me. My brother had taken his own life on January 14th, 2013 via suicide using a pistol. Only the spatter was located.

As a younger man, in that camp. I could hear something speaking to me. Someone, telling me that THAT was who I was. War was something to live for. I remember my first kill.

I was doing minor work for the Agency out in Liberia. Of course, I was a teenager then. It was 2000, during the second Liberian Civil War, throughout the beginning of the skirmishes.

It was a battalion trained by Sam Bockarie, known now as “Mosquito”. They’d followed his teaching well, doing some of the worst things known to man. They raped, mutilated, and amputated for the sake of doing it.

The USA wasn’t officially involved by that point, and nothing was sanctioned.

I’d learned the language fluently, and I was 14 at that time. I could only witness from afar, staring down my binoculars as I glared at their actions. And I continued to witness from afar as I snuck into their tents out at night. As I inflicted my hate for them out ont them. I continued to witness the husk of my body do this from afar, something or someone else controlling me.

The squad commandeer, Jesus Doe Gaye, I’d intentionally awoken and tortured. The screams brought me something that was similar to.. actualization, in what my purpose on earth was. I thought of the irony of his name. His name represented that of the kings of kings, the alpha and the omega, the beginning snd the end. And yet he showed none of the virtue that Christ did.

I wonder sometimes if I am worthy of his love. And I think back onto moments like that. I beg and pray for his forgiveness, to heal my soul.

Yet I continue what I saw was my purpose on this earth. The Canadian Civil War, my meeting with Craig— my squad commander. Richard, a kid fresh out of college and recruited to it. I was told a squad would be assembled, and ready for deployment by 2006.

In 2004, I was injected with a syrum as were the others. A stable version of the one given to my father, with far better abilities for oneself.

I was made far stronger, agile, hasteful. And it only affirmed my thought of myself being a weapon, and this being my purpose.

My father still remained young as he were— out adventuring, remaining on the same path. And I trailed behind him.

In 2005, near Christmas time.

I was engaging in letters with my brother, Randal.

He described someone he’d met, a woman.

His professor— but I knew that professor.

He’d created what I was.

We spoke through that medium, and I promised him something that never came to fruition.

I would be there for him in the summer.

Near the end of the year— I was sent out onto something. Couldn’t look at what was in it— if I opened it without permission, It’d explode.

I was never the curious or the disobedient type when it came to something like that. Encouragement to NOT look in it wasn’t needed, but nevertheless. I had to follow a very specific path. No deviation at all, to and back.

I was sent to the coast of California, to give something to a mysterious agent.

He had slicked back hair, a eyepatch, goatee, a long-coat, basic gear underneath it— a holster. He stood at around 5’7-5’9 and was skinny. He was with a 5’10-5’11 darker skinned man— in a shirt (as would usually be under a suit), with holsters that were plainly out. He had a meticulously groomed mustache that connected to a goatee, alongside the hairstyle of “waves”. I later learned of them being both known as **Rawlins and Mr White.**

When following the path back, I was taken. Kidnapped by scientists. They knew exactly where I would be. Plotted, I could tell. The scientists, I could describe physically.

A pale-skinned lanky man, with a man bun and completely clean-shaven.

A large mutated man— green skinned.

I also remember a blond woman from earlier days.

I cannot remember anything— sounds of voices, besides the last day.

Sirens. Chaos. I could hear every slight sound, the changing of breeze. Could feel everything in something I touched. The hands that stitched the shirt I was wearing, their scent. The bun wearing man was kidnapped, and I was the only subject there at the moment.

It basically decided fuck it, and let me go with a backpack— a note, and some of my belongings, such as my PDA. The note explained that they themselves had LOST. Organization was being absorbed by bigger fucks out in the North East. Glad they’re all dead, anyways.

And this is where the story returns to sometime around the present day.

June 16th, 2015 was when I awoke. Everything was so loud. All of my senses were tuned up to the absolute MAX.

I could see from miles away. Hear every little conversation. Smell the snow from days earlier. I was in a cold hospital— but I thought it was them. Hadn’t read the items yet. I jumped out the bed. I subdued the hospital security and ran out.

And that was when everything hit me at once.

The outside world surrounded me in every way possible. My knee on the gravel infront of the fire station. I tasted the copper in the air from god knows how long ago.

I smelt the ozone of the power wires above me.

I was able to see from miles afar.

A woman by the name of Madeline helped me. I recall awaking in a room. My senses were controlled, strangely. I was back onto a normal well.. level, but I found out later that I could control my senses. Put it onto the level I wanted. Don’t know how, it comes to me as does.. moving does. As walking is natural to you, this is natural to me.

I spoke to Madeline about a few things, and that’s when I discovered the suicide of my brother.

I remember her saying something about how if I was alive— he could be too.

I doubt that a lot, but hope is never something bad.

I recall attempting not to cry. The lessons of Rick came back at me with the intensity of a bullet-train.

I shushed her away in a pathetic attempt to keep my ego, and I left ASAP. When I left, I went to the library and learned about the political situation globally. The USA had a major switch in power, so my path for vengeance was nonexistent in my eyes. I intended to leave town as fast as I left the house. I wanted to leave the town quickly and not rely on anyone for that same reason earlier, my ego and the maintaining of masculinity. I had to discover my own path for answers throughout the day, and it was a circular conclusion.

Your path for vengeance is nonexistent. You are a NEW person within this new world.

I was a weapon learning to become a person, you could say. I leaned back onto the system keeping me intact— Madeline.

She explained to me some things going on (Two “souls” named Crowley and Angela, both demons or whatever the fuck. They’d attacked her, and Angela seemed to be little short of a fucking hound, taking him back even after all the shit he did to wrong her. He lost their fucking kids! What kinda father/ ex husband does that? And apparently she intended to remarry him. Madeline intended to talk sense into the jackass, and Angela just smacked her. What the fuck is wrong with her? Madeline got her lic back though. They both tried to jump her, and he broke their ribs. Also, Crowley, this demon king? Is a cuck. His wife got her back blown out by some barbed wire bat wielding dude and is apparently the father of “Crowley’s” children. This’ll have relevance later.) Anyways, Madeline informed me she got this RV. She didn’t know how to drive but got it for basically free.

We rode around town in it. I marveled at the inflation of Burger Mart burgers. I mean, the dollar menu disappeared. Fuck was that?

Nevertheless, we still ate. I opened up to her regarding my folks; and she did the same somewhat. She was in the same predicament with her father (her dad also had a womb??) Anyways, anyways, more recent news. We found out that Crowley died, he was hacked to death by.. Richard, who was now a high-ranking member of the United States Military.

Now, onto the day I wanted to discuss.

I was just driving around, intending to grab something to eat.

I got a call from Madeline, with coordinates.

I drove off to the location haste-fully in my Ford M151 (good for off-roading n reliable.) I came out with my shotgun in hand.

It was Angela. She had her at her mercy, and needed help with the decision.

I argued that— she was a loose end. Even if she didn’t feel like it now, a week, a day, a month later, she’d hold someone responsible and lash out onto someone responsible. She telepathically spoke, saying she didn’t wish to die. She tried to bribe me with well over three quarters of a billion. Tol her I couldn’t be bought, and the only thing I wanted was the guaranteed safety. She pleaded, even telling me the location of that quarter billion, and I considered it for a while, until I came to a conclusion

I grabbed a quarter from my bag. Still could recall the details. 1972. On the tail was inscribed “E Pluribus Unum.” On the head, was “In God We Trust.”

So I trusted in God.

I told her to pick a side, heads or tails. If it landed on that side, she’d live.

She picked Tails.

I flipped it.

I looked down. She pleaded.

I asked if she was really going to beg.

I realized in that moment— there was no moment to disassociate. No moment to watch from afar. I had to do this myself. All by myself.

I loaded the coinshot into the riot shotgun.

I sung a lullaby that Rick would to put me to sleep.

“You are my sunshine. My only sunshine.”

I recall the feeling of my chest rising.

“You make happy.. when skies are grey.”

And I remember my chest deflating, and the shot ringing out.

I looked down, placing my shotgun onto my shoulder.

Her vitals were splattered all over the grass mud and dirt of the area. The beauty of nature was contrasted with the other aspect of nature—, human nature. The violence, the reality of it all. I wondered if this was how my brother looked in those moments after his death.

I buried her with the respect she lacked in life, facing a lake.

She was DEAD. As was my brother. And they would remain so, for the rest of time. And one day, I’d be alongside them.

But today was not that day.

Madeline informed me she was going somewhere. And so would I— to the New York Treasury. I got that 750,000,000 USD, a haircut from a Dominican barber and I began to hire PI’s all over the nation. For one thing— locating of Rawlins and Mr White.

In The Beginning, I only had a description of them. And that went far.

I learned they ran the biggest Meta Gene Activation Androgen trafficking ring, a drug which activates one’s meta gene and may be based off the same thing that my father got. It’s temporary, though. A market needs supply and demand. A one time drug wouldn’t do anything for those selling it. They also trafficked other drugs, such as Heroin, Cocaine, and whatever else comes to mind.

This would be a pain in the ass to get at. But nevertheless, they had world-wide markets. Every continent and nearly every nation you could think of.

Some of my PI’s ended up dead, and a few assassins or hitmen came to visit me.

None of the hitmen returned.

Remember what I learned about cracking the human brain? The body? Maximizing pain?

That came real useful.

I used my senses to determine if they were lying or not. To ensuee they told me nothing but the truth and the whole truth.

And I went off to a flight to Europe with a shitload guns and a vendetta.

I landed at a Finnish airport, linking up with a few contractors I hired. They spread the area, asking for information across Europe.

A woman in Sweden who got most of her shit from him, seller in Turkey, one in Belarus, latveria (or whatever it’s called now), and we learned of it all.

Mr White was in one of those Stan nations. I’d learned Russian during my youthful years, and so I rode through Russia, down into Kazakhstan. It was a beautiful nation, and I wished I was there for different reasons. He hid out in the Charyn Canyon, as a cowardly Machiavellian fucker usually does. He orders horrendous things, yet just sits at his office, having a smoke while others suffer and do his orders by the letter. So it was time to get em. Let me describe myself. I’m a larger man currently, standing at around 6’6, and I’d describe my build closer to a strongman/ a powerlifter rather than anything else. I’m still physically and mentally 19– probably due to the serum. Before the haircut from that great barber, I had longer shaggy hair reaching to my shoulder and a stubble I occasionally shaved. I had shorter hair— kinda slicked back, but the front was kinda curly. A more shaved stubble, but it was still there.

Anyways, I went with a hiking crew into the canyon. It was a beautiful slice of nature that I hadn’t seen in too long. Like I said, wish I was there for a different purposes.

I left a note and strayed from the hiking crew, with a bag, a jacket, a henley, and jeans

The clothes were made with a micro-weaved version of an intensely durable material that was very comfortable.

And I forgot one thing.

My dogtag was around my neck to let them all know who was coming after them and why.

Hiking up the mountain with myself tunnel-visioned completely and utterly on this. I was still that man. I didn’t let that part that spoke to me— the part that did those things take over as I hiked through the canyon meticulously.

And I felt as if it was something that needed to happen. There was no thought of vengeance, of righting the wrongs. Just of doing that chore. To allow God to sort them out. It was Fall, about October. The arrogance made it so there was no security— or possibly that nobody knew of it.

But one did. The contractor they’d gotten to build it was located by the people i’d hired. Spilled it all immediately. There was little to no connection with the outside world from anywhere they didn’t intend. It blended in with the rest of the canyon. It had older tech within it as to make those aware of it think of it as a mid-Soviet abandoned base.

No guards. I marched up to the entrance, and placing on weighed gloves, I came around. I punched through the hull of the disguised entrance, stepping in. An alarm system began, and I threw an electromagnetic pulse to short-circuit it. The lanky man, that I knew only as Mr White was sitting down, enjoying himself a mug of hot chocolate. He beckoned me to sit down, ever eternally calm. To speak with him.

He called me by my name, and explained.

He was working under a branch of the CIA for the job— for something called The Enclave. His heartbeat signaled nothing but the truth and the whole truth.

He was a loyal man of the Company. Followed everything by the letter, as I was. He told me he didn’t like violence, and wouldn’t like it to be inflicted against him, and in his words “of someone of my proficiency with it.” He explained that he’d tortured someone before and wasn’t great at it. So that’s why he just told the truth. And it only supplied my belief of the enclave being gone. It was nothing but business in his words. He reached for a gun— and attempted to end his own life. I slammed him down, pinning him squarely and I felt the breakage of his cheekbone with my first and only hit. He only told me he knew where Rawlins was.

A island on the coast of California, which he’d taken from a supe supremacy organization they dismantled. He asked if he was free to go.

I told him. “You stupid fucking caitiff.”

I then proceeded to light him ablaze. His cooperation didn’t mean shit to me.

As of Rawlins? Doubted he knew much, so I simply gave a tip to the goverment.

Rawlins was reported as being shot and killed in the chaos, and I returned to that Alaskan town. I found myself there, and maybe I’d stay myself there. I looked over a hilltop, looking down onto the city and hearing all of the chaos, all of the lives being lived. Smelling them. Feeling the effort in my boots, and tasting it in the air.

And it spoke to me.

You’re home, Kyle. Stay here. I felt into the air with my ungloved hand, and the cold of it was more comforting than any recoil, then any flame. And the voice of the Devil that I suspected was in me was stomped out. I was in control. I was a human.

okay so this is oocly— but I decided to go the smartest route with Kyle. Whereas someone like Randall would’ve directly assaulted that compound and most likely gotten themselves killed, Kyle just simply.. got them. I also planned a confrontation between Rawlins and Kyle, but I felt like it would’ve felt more or less cliche. I also liked staying to the character of Mr White in this scene, and it was heavily reminiscent of the diner scene. Nevertheless, his nature was shown.

Unlike Rawlins, he’s only Machiavellian. He’s not a psychopath nor a sociopath/- he’s just de-attached from the orders he gives. I also felt like now was time to close the book on White, but leave Rawlins ambiguous enough for any future appearances if necessary.

6.5 (written after 10)

After filling out a lot of the first pages, I’ve decided to continue writing. That’s what a journal’s for, right? Here’s what’s happened.

Okay, so. It’s the winter of 2015. Tail end of the year. I’ve finally retuned home. I was thinking about going to the Cibao, taking a vacation to where my family originated from. Maybe that’d be France, cause of one of my ancestors. (Marquis De Moser, a figure during the revolutionary war.)

And if you’re someone reading that’s not me, Cibao means the northern area of the Dominican Republic. Only been there less than a handful of times. Liked the community. So close, yet so far to the place which I am now.

Here’s what I have been doing, though.

First things first, I’m occupying myself with teaching a self-defense class for free. To give to the community. Not one of those karate dojos that make you pay twenty bucks a month just for you to learn how to do something you could’ve learned by reading a 1.99 dollar comic off the rack.

Second things second, I’m funding sports teams in the area. Giving out scholarships to lower-income families, funding the building of a daycare.

I’m driving a modified Rolls Royce. Just to treat myself and have the status, but I still have my ford.

I’ve also learned how to cut hair myself and when I have free-time, I go out and host community events. Free haircuts, for example. Could help someone needing to look presentable for job interviews. On that regard, I’m helping folks write up resumes. I want to do as much as I can for this community; for it saved me, even if it didn’t know it. They just call me “Mister Kyle”; the folks in the community. I made a Randall foundation; didn’t use the last name so it wouldn’t be linked out to me, but I still had to do it for my late brother. I’ve made friends in the community; and for thanksgiving, I gave one of my good friends a franchise in Starbrooks. He was an older gentlemen who’d formerly ran his own shop, but due to the chaos a few years back and the recession then; he’d have to give it up. But Mr Preko has a store up and running again. He’s given me nothing but the upmost thanks; that I’ve helped put his kids through college and that I’m an upstanding young man.

I’ve come to believe it, too.

I went to church this Sunday, the sixth of December.

While hearing the fiery passions of the father. After taking the Eucharist, and then getting onto my knees as to pray; I looked up at the symbol of Christ on the Cross, and my eyes came to tears.

I thought of Mary as she saw her son wither away atop that cross. To us, Christ is the only son of God. The alpha and the omega. But to her? That was her BABY. Her son. I thought of Christ as a baby, being cradled in the arms of a loving mother and a father.

I thought of Christ himself. And God.

How much he loved us to suffer and persevere through that pain.

I felt worthy of his love in that moment. Of his sacrifice. To live with Christ in my heart.

And I thought about all of the hatred and violence in the world.

And I wondered something

If everyone knew how much they were cared for by Christ; by those around them.

They would never raise a finger in hatred or violence. And I thought of how Heaven looked like. And of Hell.

okay, this is my “send off” to Kyle, since it feels kinda evident that these characters are being put aside for the regular cast. it’s intentionally mirroring a throwaway line I did as thompson; regarding how Randal wasn’t a priest or something so he presumed they took the offer. it shows that that’ la a possible path for Kyle, but not too set in stone.

If I am to resume anything for Kyle, it’ll probably be set during/after the current story (but of course, priorly to 2020)

I’m open to doing roleplays with Kyle, the first of the Clark’s to break the cycle and Madeline, the nogitsune mix son of Leon and Mason who together, basically wiped out the Crowley bloodline and made Rayvn their bitch in the most gentle way I can state either of those extremely informal and not-gentle words.

Goodbye, Kyle. I’m proud of you. I wonder how naming him “Ryan” would’ve been, but I’ll save that name for Randall if we ever do another brookverse reboot as to make him truly mine. And Clark’s probably going alongside it; being changed out for somethin like Fitzgerald. I do plan more with Kyle, but I think this is a great ending for him. I decided against him reuniting with Randal, for I feel that last tragedy is perfect. If he is to ever reunite with him, it’s going to be as logically coherent and not just for a cameofest. It’s 2:35 PM for me as I write this, March 29th, 2026.

Goodbye, for the last time. Kyle.

SEVEN

My name is Wyatt “Ace” Cozart Junior.

I was born in 1974. I am a businessman. I have a degree in business. And I’m currently lying on the floor, with a deep incision through my stomach. The light isn’t getting any closer, thanks to the man’s methodicalness, almost.. well, I guess we could call it “muscle memory” with me. He’d done this more than one should. Set the thermos to a negative temperature, as to ensure I wouldn’t bleed out. Set me to the corner, so anyone entering would be surprised by me. Throughout it, I didn’t do these things.

Didn’t argue, would’ve been a waste of breath. Didn’t ask him for his motives. Made it clear enough.

We wronged him. This was his way of asserting vengeance on us all. His un-telling helmet stared down at us. Inscribed things on it— talking about how the sky was falling— the wind was calling. Business, was business.

I’ve already told you who I am, but not WHO I truly am.

I was born at a hospital someplace In Massachusetts. I remember my childhood. My friends.

A woman named Millie and the crimson that rushed down her chest.

And a little girl named Millie.

Brown hair— unlike the sister that came after her. Similar to mine. I could remember the purity in the way I was. And many moments, I wished I could go back to that state. Even now.

Before my mother became a hollow shell of herself.

Maybe that’s what shifted me.

Or maybe it’s when father disciplined me.

Or I was just always a jackass, wanting everything for myself. That’s how we were raised, aye? One with the most toys would win.

Sharing is caring was always bullshit, or I told myself.

Put on the facade of an emotionless, empathetic man.

Maybe that’s why I’d normally fuck someone to sleep. So I wouldn’t have to be alone with my own thoughts, to face myself. My actions. Because they were always mine. No matter what reasons I put behind it.

Put on a facade as I imagined my father around this age. Fucking.. director of the FBI. Forced Truman’s hands into signing his own composed civil rights document that remains the golden standard to this day, and that was back in 47.

Willing to go off to war— but rejected to dye his own physical disability.

Got the DEA instated. Invented half of the modern day institutions. The DEA— his mother was an addict as was mine.

Resentment of his own father ( or lack thereof) lead to him swearing to be the best father ever. To be present in our lives.

Maybe you shouldn’t have, you old shriveled up peace of shit. You deserved that stroke. To not be able to walk. To be as pathetic as you are. Raise a hand again, if you even can.

And you can’t even get your little thing up anymore.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. As a child. I heard, observed things. I was quieter then most my age.

Something about Millie’s mother from my dad. Didn’t know what he meant. Wasn’t old enough to understand.

And sometimes, I’m still there. Even in this moment, playing those games. Running around with Millie. She was my only friend in the desolate world I lived in. No daycare. No younger siblings.

Ten years after my birth, a sister entered into both my lives and Millie’s. Still friends.

I was called special. More intelligent than those around me. Remembered well.

Put into a different school.

Drifted away from Millie.

My little sister was my best friend after that. Wouldn’t let the world harm her. But my father embodied everything I tried to protect her from. Couldn’t fight back.

All I remember of him is the bad. Every single element. But good things come to mind too. No matter what he did, it didn’t matter. That would be my memory of him, forever and ever.

When I was eleven, after my sister’s birth.

That’s when I first saw my mother in that way. Slurred words, almost sickly.

And she never returned to the woman I knew her as. Never reconciled with it.

I knew my father had other children. But I only knew one sister truly. I recall the powerlessness I had. And I swore to myself.

No man would ever make me feel like that without any retaliation.

My father got his. I was seventeen .

I remember the fear in his eyes. Told him to never do that to her again.

What a fucking brother I was.

Should’ve beat that cunt into a pulp a dozen times again.

When I was nineteen, I went off to the UK to a prestigious university for a business degree.

I took care of a kid named Monica. My half sister via my mother. This is why it’s all a facade. Could recall my feelings within myself. How I wanted no harm to come to her. How I wanted to give her the world.

Always wanted to be a dad— maybe be far better than him. It’s a cycle, after all. It’s a fucking cycle. Maybe I’d break it.

Couldn’t get the papers in order. Mom refused to sign shit, whether out of malice or just plain indifference.

Fuck whoever sold that shit to you. You know what? No. You chose. You chose to get into that pit.

That’s why I never used that shit myself. Instead, my own “drug” was my own carnal desires. Never formed any meaningful connections. By th time I was 15, I was sneaking off to NYC to brothels while my baby sister was at a daycare.

I was a jackass. Through and through.

I manipulated that poor fucking scientist after his wife died. Arin, was his name. Made him be the assistant to my baby sister in a moment of grief. Sold him this lie.

But he chose too. Just like my fucking mom. To pick up that flask or whatever it was.

Brian, too. Stupid little shit. Fufilled the promise.

God, look at me. Still putting on that stupid facade. Can’t be honest with myself even in the end. Even when I tear it down, it rebuilds back up in the next thought.

Arin, yeah. Sold him whatever.

Dug up his side before he made a decision. Told him she’d be there.

If he rejected, probably would’ve put a bullet between his brains and used her to warm myself in the winter of 09.

Brian? Let him go, just let one of my business acquaintances know about him.

Krausher was a stupid cunt too. Continued his own cycle. Let his son get disabled by those demon freaks out in California.

Hey, it was all business after all, Ace.

Fulfilled my promises for each and every one of them. Mind-wiping technology WAS used for betterment. Brian forgot about what he wanted to forget. Maybe I could’ve gotten into the pharmacy business with it. Could’ve done something good. But business was business, right?

What did the “Human Scientists” achieve? What did I achieve?

I owned a real-estate business in the 2000s and to this very moment.

Cozart Consoliated. Had a website for it too.

Now, like I said.

Business. Was. Business.

Had someone who flagged when the name was searched and whatnot.

Now, we had some.. negotiation problems with another “businessman.” Mobbed up, apparently.

And here’s what I know from this.

Some college student around the time— in 05, when this was. She decided she wanted to.. howdya call it? Do some investigating for a project. Didn’t know the details. It just got flagged.

She did it all at the school library. Mother wasn’t very present, and this girl’d given up her teen years to raise her sister.

Millie.

And everyday, I still hate myself for this. But business.. is business.

Couldn’t afford the risk. Never actually did the deed before.

Was real easy, though. Instinct of pointing— eye-hand coordination. One I learned playing.

Used it to take a life too.

The cold stings my skin as I reflect.

I deserved this.

My soul leers off the valley that is death. The light that I won’t see. That I won’t be getting. I yearned for it in that reflection of self. And maybe only then, am I stripping myself of the facade.

I did this to myself truly.

I walked the path that fueled my life.

Fucked to sleep. Perversion of something that creates life. Probably have a dozen kids, probably more.

Killing became more numb to me.

I never was. Just rode with the flow.

Continued that facade of being my father. Never allowed me to be my own person.

But I decided it. Nobody forced me to.

And in that moment, I take responsibility.

Light doesn’t come.

I hear a car park.

And by god, I WISH I could just be dead. Wouldn’t have to see the look on her face. Tear twinkles down my face.

Fuck you, Survivalist.

Fuck you.

All my decisions.

Close my eyes for the last time so she wouldn’t have to do it for me. Try to fade away.

don’t think I did my best with this— but for a few hours with no outline? Decent, decent.

EIGHT

PASSAGE 0.5/ INTRODUCTION

In the beginning, it all started from one thing.

Not grabbing Deacon’s utility belt for him, saying some shit about how Marko was closer. And that wasn’t even a year ago.

And now, reflecting on it all how I can, deep into my soul, my brain due to the fact my body is broken.

I laugh, even as my soul is far, far away from my recovering body. Unable to move it. Unable to wake.

For the time being. I feel myself drifting closer and closer. The brain activity that’s required for my brain to function, to refresh. It brings up the images, the vivid memories of this day. Most call this dreaming. And that’s what I was doing when this all started.

Dreaming, of a perfect life. Of an absolutely ideal one.

One that I can admit could never happen.

And I relive a dream within a deep coma.

PASSAGE ONE

You awoke beside Kayla. Silk sheets around the both of you. You inhale her scent— the shampoo she used, the lotion she’d put on the night before.

She was asleep. You watch upon her peaceful face. Eyes closed shut.

You do something she’d always hated— how early you woke up. By the time she’d awaken, you’d already brushed, flossed and showered.

And so you do exactly that.

The bristles prick your teeth, your tongue.

The water-flosser you’d bought a bit ago cause it was on clearance and you’d read about it a bit ago in an article cleaned between the teeth. It cleaned it of all debris that it didn’t clean last night, whatever plaques built up in the night.

The cold ting of the pressurized water alongside the autumn temperature provided a similar sensation. The window was open in your bathroom, supplying outside ventilation and that brisk breeze.

It persisted as you showered, your teeth shivering uncharacteristically.

And that’s when you awoke. In the imagining of droplets on your skin and your short hair.

It was June 16th, 2016. Thursday, one more day till Friday. Two days of freedom, then back to work. But that was far, Clark. You gotta get through the day, right?

Unlike the last few weeks, you awoke uncharacteristically fatigued. You’d still looked as young when you looked at yourself in the mirror. Last time you’d felt like that was a few years back after days of not sleeping.

And one part went by like a blur— the part you’d remembered in the dream.

Unlike then, it wasn’t an autumn sun that was yet to come out that struck you, Rango. It was a rising, summer sun. The season where it made its presence known.

And this was the part you wished could go by.

When you came to, you’d left the shower— done all of the hygienic things necessary, and had your boxers on, reading about the reveals at E3 2016 on your phone.

New Doom coming later this year. And Fallout 4 DLC. You recalled your younger days. You and Teddy, reading up about the reveal of the new Nintendo handheld via the gaming mag he’d gotten. TV you two had didn’t have cable, so that’s how you got your news. You were seventeen thanks to your accolades in school and had two years left to go in the prestigious university of Brookhaven.

You remember considering sending an application to that one college in Beacon Hills, and it being accepted. Was a hard decision, but you ultimately chose state-side.

You come back to, put your phone down and to charge, before focusing entirely on gettting dressed.

You placed on your police uniform hastefully, its brown jeans— the black belt tightening around your waist, the blue undershirt and the brown, expensive jacket atop it.

You groomed your stache and put on the hat, before fixing yourself a cup of *CAWFEE* on the stovetop.

You heard the fizzling of the moca pot and got out a cup.

It said “Best Dad Ever.”

It was a gag you and Kayla had about that little dog you two owned. A older, shelter dog who died in 2011, in April. Four days after your birthday. More memories flashed after that.

The skin of a man’s testicles being hooked up to a car-engine, someone’s brain’s being carved out with their own bone.

The explosion of a room with a satchel bomb.

Your machete’s noises as they made its way through one’s stomach.

A shot to the neck.

You got back to as the hot smoke from the moca pot hit your face, and you grabbed a towel to pour it in.

No milk or anything, just the cawfee.

You filled your water bottle and popped in some chewing gum for the purpose of the minty taste it’d give to your water.

You grabbed the keys to your jeep, before remembering that it was down in that field across town, where your brother was.

You grabbed the key to your police wagon, and your house keys.

You’d rented out your old college apartment; the one you and Theo were in. Wasn’t supplied by the school, he just rented it too at the time.

It was right across the street of your current job. By then, it was 6:40.!You’d entered work, albeit early. Marko and Daniel were speaking about something with Baker Mark’s daughter, Deacon wasn’t there and there wasn’t much to be had. You’d just put paperwork in its correct folders from the last few weeks, and time flashed by.

It was nine. Captain Peterson was already in, and so was Deacon.

Peterson said someone gotta do something at the moment, about a “dispatching with the freaks.” Daniel volunteered Marko, but Deacon protested an my name was mentioned.

“Rango. He didn’t fetch Deacon’s utility belt that time ago. Why doesn’t he do this now? I mean, if he’d done that then, then id be goin out. Am I right or am I right?” Deacon’d always said that bullshit. Kinda miss it now.

“Rango, come over here. You’re about to make Brookhaven PD history.”

“Huh?”

He explained. A police officer had to be dispatched out alongside some supernaturals to take care of a.. in his words, a mutated gorilla vampire with magnesium skin. He said the rest of the information would be in my wagon’s MDT.

I nodded and grabbed the key from my pocket.

The people that had to go with me were three people.

First, a pyromaniac named.. Niko. I heard of him from talks with Theodore. His son. Had to treat him with the upmost care. He wouldn’t know me— but I knew him. And that was all the importance there was. Magnesium was flammable, if I recalled. Powers would do great on it, too.

Blade, a vampire hunter donning a trench coat. Explainable why he was here— it being a gorilla vampire, or whatever the fuck that ridiculous shit was.

Last one was a woman named Avirel. Some scientist, geneticist; whatever. Was on it to analyze its dead body/alive body. We were told that we should only kill it when necessary.

Man who got us all on this was named Luis, the dispatcher for it all.Skinny, Venezuelan guy. Goatee. When I went to pick them all up, I towered over him.

Reckoned he was like 5’6.

And there was the death of Rango Robbins, even if I didn’t know it. As my foot rested on the pedal.

(For a moment, I genuinely considered ending it at that. It’s quite cinematic, to be frank.)

Passage 3.

I thought of all that was happening in the moments. All so ridiculous. A mutated gorilla vampire? Really.

Thought of the stakes, and all. How many innocent people could die due to this. And plus, I’ve seen much more crazier shit than a mutated gorilla vampire.

I got to the coordinates hastefully. In the middle of a road in the outskirts of town. Nobody around, the person who called; a farm hand a bit while away.

Apparently, this thing broke out of a zoo in Albany via some environmentalist teleporter died in teleporting it. They were in a mental facility up until a mystery outage in Alaska, where they teleported all over the nation and revealed themselves here. Apparently they don’t like being grabbed and mayhaps tear your head off.

I observed it, clearly enraged.

I grabbed my M1911, holding it with one hand as I drove with the left. Wasn’t planning on using it then, but good to have it out.

I began to plan somthing out.

“Alright, Nico. You can fly, yes? Go on down there and give him a scare. Fly around him. Allow an opening to blade as it attempts to go towards you. Blade, try to take it down non-lethally. If necessary— get it down. Avirel, stay in here. That’s imperative.”

They all nodded.

Avirel muttered something in the back.

I asked her to repeat it, and she just said it was nothing and a half-assed sorry.

I looked in the rear-view window at her. She was holding a PDA, not a phone. And hiding herself in the corner of the back. Niko was aside her back there, listening attentively. Good kid, I could tell. He was quiet, but ingesting everything I said clearly. His silence showed nothing short of the level of intelligence you knew you needed in someone in something as important as this.

Blade, I could tell was used to this. Their silence spoke volumes, and they ran rings around Avirel, the scientist and her nervous behavior that felt suspicious.

Let it go, though. Just hoped she’d listen.

Niko got out the car and flew above the gorilla, having himself on fire and making himself a clear attraction.

Worked as I thought, till Blade came out.

It rushed at Blade as soon as it saw him. He attempted to use his blade, but the magnesium skin it had stopped it.

It then began rushing at the car. Avirel got out first. I yelled for a moment and backed out my taser.

Magnesium, huh?

Conductive and flammable.

I had my hand-held taser from my time as the survivalist.

When Niko noticed me rushing at it, he came into the trajectory of my way.

Fuck. Little lamb, huh? Innocence of a kid.

I tackled him out of the way, as softly as you can tackle someone out of the way of a 700 pounds gorilla.

Told him to keep his distance, and to try and provide a distraction again. He’d recognized that I’d just saved his life, and after a few breathy thanks, he got to it.

Blade rushed at it again as Niko did his rounds.

Never lead a squad— nor was I a NCO.

But felt like I could at this point. I plunged it into the back of thr gorilla’s neck, only initially doing 100 volts.

Conductive nature of its skin— it rolled through. And enraged it.

At that moment, it grabbed the kid.

Fuck. Couldn’t let anything happen. Put up the volts to 400. Didn’t go down, so I had to take out one of its eyes so it coul at least focus on me.

It tried to bite me. Vampire, remember?

Avirel just lurked from the sides, as if she was Spike Lee.

I wrapped my arms around its neck. Put up the taser’s pressure. Could tell as it began to die via its pulse. It still had the kid in his hand.

Was worth it. Had to protect this kid with my whole being.

Got off of it as it fell. Would’ve crushed me.

I shook Blade’s hand, and he offered to go out for drinks that night.

Accepted it. Felt rude not to, and I didn’t have much actual friends in Brookhaven. (I pushed everyone away, don’t feel too bad for me.)

I dropped them all off at assorted spots around the town.

Word’d already spread around in the station when I returned. My bodycam footage, how I took on a gorilla for some supe kid.

Took my honors, before going on break at 1.

All of that happened at 9 AM.

Went off to congratulate myself. Drinks with Blade was at 9 PM, so I went to get some donuts in the meanwhile.

I was parked along the graveyard, looking at Kayla at a distance. And myself, I was buried alongside her. At least the slab said so.

I decided to do something, get some flowers.

Did exactly that, and as I was driving along? I saw Avirel and Niko on the ledge above the hospital— entering to the second floor, with Avirel hiding a needle in her hand.

Instead of returning to the grave; I began to rush, my car exceeding all possible traffic laws. No witnesses, no lights. Didn’t matter.

I drove to my underground bunker, looked at the grave of my brother and nodded. To ensure he has a life. The one neither of you could get. To ensure that fuck, Avirel couldn’t get away with any of it.

I suited up nearly immediately and took the blood-stained machete that I took Ace out with.

Back in my survivalist armor, and I felt only an extreme amount of protectiveness. Not revenge, but to preserve the white, soft coat on a lamb. To ensure they stay innocent.

I took off in my Ford M151, similar to the one that my father once drove in Vietnam.

To ensure I couldn’t be tracked. I had parked the wagon near the road— a bit away, but being thorough is a pain in the ass.

I drove to the hospital, and with the upmost urgency i had earlier— I climbed up the hospital to get to the closed down second floor. Kicked through the wooden boards.

There, I saw Niko tied up onto a table.

The abandoned floor had been repurposed into a lab.

There were two exits that weren’t really exits— th one behind me, and the one to the northeast of Avirel. Fight wasn’t an option here— sh recognized the glint of my helmet. I walked slowly, holding the bloodstained machete in hand. She recognized it.

Whatever words she wanted to say weee caught up in her throat, and she ran to the north-east exit.

I cornered her.

Niko couldn’t hear nor see, so I preformed an attack Boone taught me.

I punctured her trachea, severed her jugular and carotid. Pulled this off by striking her lateral root to her median nerve. Couldn’t make a sound. I held her by her shoulder against the wall, and the terror in her eyes were evident.

My first strike besides that was a surgical strike to her left rib. I then slit her intestines horizontally, opening them. I then began to cut them off slowly. She couldn’t scream, but wanted to. I propped her against the wall and took off that PDA, before returning.

When I was grabbing what I wanted to grab— I saw the terror in Nico’s eyes, but when he saw the blood splattered over me, and recognized it wasn’t mine, but the woman who’d intended to cut him up and inject him with something— something entered his eyes.

I cut off the straps holding him with the same machete. Symboled for him to run. Go to the police.

Then, I grabbed the syringe she’d intended to stick in Niko and rejuvenated her.

Began to gut her. Split her wrist open. And I wrote a message.

“SURVIVALIST.”

I wrote it in BLOOD.

Not a literal message, but they’d know.

The Human Scientists.

And I would be back.

I scoured through her PDA, and it gave plenty useful. Downloaded it all within the same hour.

The Survivalist was back, and so was my war as long as they lived.

I shared that drink with Blade, and got him onto my cause.

Someone from my past led the Human Scientists. And I learned via that PDA she’d be on a castle.

Godspeed, **Myro.** Godspeed.

done in 3 hours w/ a outline

NINE

Passage 1.

Günter Von Cozart.

Related to Fredrick the Great only by law, Gunter fought the Seven Years War, before going off to the Colonies to train and galvanize their forces. He was a very efficient leader during his time; saving over ten thousand men from the British, successfully defending a town near Canada against what’s over twenty thousand British on an attempted new front in the war, and conquering Maine.

He stayed in the United States after his wife came overseas , and his family remained until this day.

I am not related to this man via blood.

Instead, during that time period?

I was related to a Frenchman who called himself Marquis De Moser who had his ass saved by Gunter, and an indigenous man who lived on the island of Hispaniola who has no information regarding him anywhere. A few generations later; the maternal side of my family were in Latveria, fighting my for a resistance against the Nazis.

Now, a few generations back again.

My paternal side, having moved from the Dominican Republic in the 1860s due to the Spanish invasion. He fought for the Union;

For American citizenship for his entire family, and to the right of self determination for millions. From scholarly writings he’s made to document himself; i think of him as a well educated man who I would’ve delighted from having a conversation with.

He studied in Europe, was a poly linguist who was fluent in four languages at the minimum, and literate in more.

Yet, he was willing to go off to war because he believed in the cause he fought for. He believed it was important.

And, my grandfather paternally fought in the greatest war in contemporary history as did my maternal grandfather and grandmother; out of necessity. World War Two. My Grandfather fought in Africa the British, shredded German forces on Normandy; and after reaching Berlin, joined the island hopping campaign.

He passed away from medical complications related to a gas used during the Korean War over forty years later, when i was seven.

I remember him as an intelligent man. He explained to me fables of old, and asked me what I gathered from them. He explained to me poetry from more modern times and did the same. He viewed Education as being more important than anything else. To think for oneself, and to reflect onto history and gather a path for yourself.

I’m sorry. I tell them all this. My brother, my father, and my ancestors. For keeping the Clarks at war.

This time, I’m stepping onto the same continent that my grandfathers did for their war.

I didn’t finish on my maternal grandfather, but he was the main resistance fighter, per se the figurehead for Latveria. In conversation, mentioned in the same context as Tito. When the Soviet’s steamrolled through, they recognized that this man UNITED them for an identical cause. And that did not align with Stalin’s causes.

He was exiled; but not in the way you think he was.

Instead of killing him, or exiling him in the historical context, they refused to make a martyr of him.

They stripped him of all legacy. Of it all. Left him penniless.

And yet, Kendrick still went off to fight a war that benefited nobody, besides those at the top. So did I.

With the intentional sabotage of gear sent as to cut corners and to get more of a profit.

To gather drugs and to sell them.

The locals are harmed.

The American people, overseas and in the nation are harmed via proxy.

And not to mention those fighting on both sides; the people it awoke within them.

The people who never returned home, either physically or mentally.

For some domino effect that never went true, and left the nations of Southeast Asia as a hollow version of themselves to this day.

And the cycle repeats.

The Clarks go off to war. For varying reasons.

And in the next few days, I will be arriving at the selected battlefield, which is Haugesund, Norway. I’m staying at a hotel around the area, in Rogaland.

PASSAGE 2.

I continue to scribble down onto this notepad at a corner in the bar. And I decide to give an explanation. To myself at least.

This war is based around protection of the innocent, not the base instinct of vengeance and a cold furious rage that led me on the one back in 2013.

I started this for Niko. I started many other wars in 2014 for those children. I killed Krausher FOR the innocent people he’d kidnapped just off their identity.

Been doing it since my initial war ended.

Isn’t vigilantism, either. Tried to get the law involved as much.

Travelled down to New York to speak to the DA. He was a dark-skinned man, with a goatee, with braids assorted in a ponytail for professionalism. Name was Thomas Leeks

I remained under an identity Richard gave me.

Doctor

Francis Fury, an Irish doctor whos family moved to the US when he was younger. Didn’t apply any facade nor accent.

Just gave him my ID then gave him a copy of what was in the PDA.

Said he’d look into it . I know, in English that means “I’m going to wipe my dick with these files. Go fuck yourself and never return.”

The tender comes by.

Familiar guy, we’d spoken about my struggles to quit alcoholism a few months back.

Told him frankly that I’d fallen off the wagon.

His eyes widened, and he asked when.

Told him it happened earlier yesterday.

He said that my me and my pal weren’t drinking alcohol yesterday, so he pressed for more.

I told him I wasn’t speaking about alcohol, and after a wide, deer-in-headlights esque look at me, he said “Really?” And just walked away.

Back to what I was writing.

I’m not going to stoop to levels of depravity as once had. I’m going to stay methodical. I’m not going to let my rage overtake me, nor a cloud of fury. My war is built on the protection of the innocent, and truly decimating the human scientists so nobody has to experience what I did. I want to make the world better for good people. I want to fight the good fight.

And I know how to do that.

Me and Blade have decided to divide and conquer, well; divide as in split up. I’m going to Europe, as I mentioned earlier.

Blade’s going to do what I did; raid bases, get information. Gave him the run down on everything from my own experience.

As of me, let me explain.

From Avirel’s PDA, she had linked up (Not in the way you’re thinking. This is American English. When we say “linked up”, we mean connected with/ teamed up with someone, not engaged in coitus you british bastard. Just kidding. I love you. This is OOC) with a European ring that’d established itself years ago, according to them and their paperwork. They had a monopoly on.. chemicals and materials needed for cloning.

Meeting happens tomorrow. Flight is in five hours, but I can’t sleep and the bar isn’t closing. Got everything packed, and the airport is close enough. So the Clarks go to war..

PASSAGE 3.

You sit on that airplane, out looking the window. You’re in first class. Francis Fury is going off to Europe, with his connections allowing for him (or you), to bring all the items you desire.

You admire the view you have, looking out the window.

Haven’t had a vacation since those years back; and it was just as much of a vacation as it was a change of scenery as it is now.

Still gotta fight the good fight, no matter where you are.

This.. kingpin of illegal chemicals, or whatever’s provided this. You know where and when they’re going to be there. You have on a long-sleeved striped polo, jeans and combat boots for that just in case. A watch lies on your wrist; the one Boone gifted everyone. You wonder where he is now. Probably raising his son out there. You’d calculated; his son should be about 16 now, born in 2000.

Richard’s a colonel now, due to his exquisite handling of nearly every situation, every scandal that’s came his way. You wouldn’t be surprised if he threw his cowboy hat into politics from the long talks you had with him. He’s basically the modern day Ulysses S Grant. He would be the first truly American president after all. He grew up in a reservation camp in Arizona, and graduated in political science.

Ayesha’s dead. You remembered when Kayla told you the news, and it didn’t surprise you. That’s how her story was destined to end.

And Kayla’s story should’ve never ended there. You should be in that plot of land (which you’ve used as a bunker to wage war since her death; and now return to.) raising a family. She’d gotten off of birth control and you remembered the month before you’d started arguing.

Life was good.

Too good.

And the flight attendant diligently gives you your cheez-its alongside a cup of coffee.

Sipping it as you look out; you’d remembered something.

Ears didn’t pop.

It’d been well over 10 years SINCE you’d been injected, so this was usual.

But it was nice. To have that pain in your ass disappear thanks to a magic injection a few years back.

Even with the dosage of caffeine and produced cheese, you slip asleep on your way to Norway.

PASSAGE 4

I awake, take my suitcase and quickly make it to the hotel.

High-end. From some of the money back in 2013; they had a shitload of safes in their bases. Always took all I could get. Weapons would go in the bunker, money into the same place. Saved it for a rainy day; and it’s hailing like a motherfucker right now.

I decided I’ve slept enough on the plane, and I get a rental car. My breakfast consists of a pack of Beef Jerky and a Yoo-Hoo as I drive, all taken from a market. Follow the directions on my old Survivalist PDA, some PDA that was a “Special edition Daredevil”, red with the double d’s on it for promotion of that Ben-Affleck flick which honestly wasn’t all too bad. Painted it yellow when I was in college; so it looked like his classic costume. Has all the data I need. Global geographic map, with updating routes, records of everything necessary, and lastly.

Pictures of Kayla, the most valuable thing on it. Look at them for motivation. To ensure nobody has to suffer what I did. And the cold, hard fury I promised wouldn’t take over remains as an energy vessel in the back of my heart, coming in only when my body views necessary; like my Adrenaline reserves. I parked outside of the closed lighthouse which lights were still on, even at 7 AM. I broke in. Shut the cameras off via my PDA’s other capabilities (thanks, Richard. Would’ve thought you went to school for engineering, computer science, anything besides poli-sci with that brain of yours.)

I go up with a sniper rifle.

Glint would be obscured by the light from the lighthouse, so it’s the perfect spot.

One issue.

I’m not very good with a sniper rifle. Only half decent, and at these ranges; it turns into being worst then a mule handling one. The 12.7mm Survivalist rifle was always my speciality, it being modified in every little aspect for me.

I look onto the scene. A very large, green-skinned man speaking to Myro. And a man in.. Is that a Beret? Who the fuck is..

That’s a clone. They’ve cloned Boone. Has to be. No other way. No other fucking way.

and that’s when my body determines it’s necessary.

POW!POW! POW!

I begin to fire out of pure rage. One knicks the green man’s cheek, one is only protected thanks to Boone tackling em. And I know it’s Boone in that moment.

I hoped the blood of the covenant was thicker than the wads of cash in that moment. He rushed to prepare his rifle to fire-back, and I jumped down the staircase, catching myself only with the sniper and pulling myself up.

Damn.

Had to return ASAP.

Got onto a flight back in the next two hours.

And I drifted asleep immediately, to distract oneself from the revelation. Thinking was for home. Strategizing was with those around you, your current brother in arms. You stare down at your watch with an inkling of sadness; one that you knew would roll up into a flood eventually.

TEN

Just as The Alamo. Surrounded by more than they can handle. But instead of being with comrades, they’re on their lonesome. It won’t be thirteen days. It’s a matter of hours, if not minutes.

In a bunker within the base, that’s shut closed. They enter in smaller waves, but they have the numbers to keep this going. They’ll kill the man inside via tiring him out. The bunker is underground. Immune to all elements on the opposing sides hands besides flesh and blood. Besides entering directly with your firearms and facing on the sole man. The ordeal at hand prior to the man’s entrance was a deal. Between the Human Scientists and a corporation that majorly funded the government a few years back; since the time of my grandfather serving. They made worse plastic weapons than the M16. Main leader in the laser weapons industry that I knew did nothing but get more men killed than the enemy could ever do in their most erotic of dreams. What they’d been doing since Korea with those aforementioned plastic weapons. When the US government restructured, monopoly busting began. The Defense Industry became useless with them deciding to use their own massive surplus of arms, and focusing on the betterment of the people rather than the destruction of others.

I watch from a football (🏈) field away, hidden by the foliage and the rising sun. The man inside the bunker is Blade, my brother in arms. Odds are bad. And mentioning that former corporation; now trafficking MGAA in the absence that’s been left in the last year for good. Trying to put that shit back in the market makes you deserve this, and dealing with the scum that are the human scientists make the cold, white fury within me dump its reserves more methodically. They’re on a rooftop, all hurdled up around the bunker entrance. Blade has forced it closed. Gets no signal at the moment. It’ll only be a few minutes till they get it back open. I grabbed a napalm grenade. Knew what it does. MGAA isn’t very flammable, so it’ll be temporary. Laser tech may keep it burning. Fucking hate that shit. It’s a delight to watch it burn in a few seconds. I analyze the men. Zarabi, the head of the organization/ corporation. Dude dealing with him is semi-important to be regelated this job. Honestly, still surprised how punctual they are after me and Blade have interrupted nearly everything they’ve done in the last few days.

It goes ablaze in a large blue flame. Fuck. They’ve probably cut it with Fentanyl or some kind of shit of the kind. Some of that shit that was running rampant back in the 2000s; that kinda cigarette that allowed one to harness the smoke, probably that. I watch as Zarabi burns ablaze, in panic. I just watched, no intent to put anyone out of their misery. I saw one of them burning, in that stupid fucking armor back in 2013. They went to open the bunker even ablaze. Trying to do their job even to the death. I used that slit in the neck to blow off their throat and put them down. Marty Robbin’s Ballad Of The Alamo plays in my ears as I look down at it ablaze. The intense chaos going on down there. Wondered if this was how the final stand went there. I take my mask off to watch it with my own, unprotected eyes. To witness the beauty of.. the end. The end of the corporation who’d ruined hundreds of upon thousands of lives throughout the years. The fire burns away the sins. It reminds me of that woman wearing Kayla’s armor, she. I bashed her head in with the butt of the shotgun as we were both ablaze. No scars remain on my skin from it due to my own healing. I recall using the weakness that was intentionally placed in it for the soldiers wielding it, incase an armor was compromised. For this exact scenario, someone wearing one of our armors against us. Placing on the helmet, I already know what’s next.

I rush across the foliage, down towards the rooftop. The flames dissipates as I climb up the side, opening the bunker, yelling that it was me. Blade thanks me as I help him out of it, and the arm-hug we give shows only to our camaraderie. I haven’t told him the details of why I’m doing this. He’s owed that, and I’ll tell him eventually.

PASSAGE TWO

Returning to my base as I clean my firearms, with Blade having returned home. He’s getting a well deserved break. And I wish I weren’t at the moment. It makes my mind wander onto what I’ve been attempting to avoid all this time. The subject of Boone. What am I to do about him, the man who taught me how to fire a gun, how to fight war? How to think in it? If he’s even aware of me being on the opposite end. I think up scenarios of me gaining him as a inside agent or whatever. I meet up with him at a bar on false pretenses. He’ll ask why I’m not dead. Would I be able to do the impossible, of convincing my brother in arms to do this? I can’t kill him, for the sake of his son. For the sake of us. Don’t think he’d kill me either.

Passage Three

Cut the shit, Randal. You’re being more naive than I thought. You know Boone, and above all else; he follows orders. He’s licensed himself out as a mercenary. For whatever reason or motivation there is, he’ll kill you. He probably has the capability to do so.

A report comes in from your scanner; large explosion nearby in the deep, deep outskirts. Someone going down to NYC or north to Albany reported it. On a desolate road. Heard from miles away due to how loud it is. You got yourself dressed in the disguise of your identity, William Taggart; a detective in a federal investigative branch.

Arriving at the scene, you told the bystander’s it’s been handled. To go on their way or risk being arrested. They do so. And you investigate the scene.

It’s been exploded from within. Location was a human scientists facility as a bunker. You get into the cameras; or what remained.

The scene pieces itself together. They arrived in a hurry. Boone and Myro. Someone’s after them. The person who is.. is a superhero. Flashy, vibrant colors. I look down at his body, and it pieces together.

Thomas Leeks, the district attorney was under a secret identity as a superhero. You recall back on your cynicism. You were dismissing him as being another one of those nothing burger men with false promises. Yet, he died for this. You look at the footage. He’d been shot down by Boone. Cut down. Yet, broke his knee. He was very strong and durable,intelligent and highly tactical. I read up about him in that moment. A hero. Dying for a cause. After Thomas broke Boone’s knee, he died before the bombs went off. I could tell that by his body. Eyes already closed, accepting death in both sadness and acceptance.

I looked aside to the remaining bits of the armor, coat and the skeleton, continuing to watch the footage on my daredevil PDA.

Myro left him in there and self destructed the base out of some false fear of thinking Leeks was still alive. He yelled the name of his wife and son, unable to accept it and maybe asking them for forgiveness as it exploded. He ran at the door, attempting to break it open as he was vaporized.

I think back onto the cynicism. A fucking hero, and I dismissed his words as him “wiping his dick” with the files I gave him. I grabbed the fabric and the remaining bits of armor, taking it with me. Couldn’t involve anyone who wasn’t already involved. He was an unacceptable tragedy. Knew it was his choice to get involved, especially when he broke the law via not following the supe shit, having to be patrolled with a cop. But he went off to do what was right. To fight the Good Fight. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but knew it WAS in a way at the same time. Never again. Never again.

CONCLUSION.

I return to my base with the pieces, grabbing a small razor blade I’d used to shave to engrave a name into the barrel; the part i’d hold each time. Where my fingerprints would always feel. I engraved it DEEPLY.

T.L.

Thomas Leeks.

I wanted some form of vengeance for both of them. To strike back. And I began to read the files about.. a “assistant to Myro.” Named Arin.

[littleboy1234f]

I step out of the train onto Roscoe’s station , and it stinks of death and destruction.

I’d been undercover for the last few months for the DEA. It was quiet. When I was suddenly told to break cover ASAP for some sorts emergency, I knew it was deeply serious.

My beretta stirred nervously in my coat as I walked through the locker room, and saw two goons with a dead body.

I took out my beretta before they were aware of my presence, and clearing the slide made them aware.

I took first pressure on the trigger, though. Diving like some sorta Hong Kong movie star, I took them both out.

Searching through the cabinets, I found some painkillers and extra ammo. I took one of the dead men’s berettas.

I moved out wearily and saw two goons come out.

I thought, wouldn’t they have heard the shots? I hid behind the cover for a moment, and they began small talk.

Diving once again, I took one out— but the goon opposite of himthe desert eagle ble a hole through my shoulder. In quick succession, he went out.

I took some painkillers and all was fine momentarily. I had the desert eagle in hand and moved up the stairs.

Blowing the head off a goomba who banged insistently on a locked gate, screaming something which I didn’t care to hear. Continuing to move through Roscoe’s station, down another set of stairs— I turned a corner, shot down two men, but got my head blown off by the one with the shotgun.

I looked at the pause scene for a moment before sighing. How arrogant of me to play on Hard Boiled, the hardest difficulty when I hadn’t played this game in years.

I was on me and Theodore’s steam account. We made it when the platform first released.

Reminiscing onto my childhood, I never had a computer that was very competent at running games. I had a N64, then later a PlayStation one. I played Mario 64, Doom 64, Final Doom, Dark Forces, Shadows of the Empire, Resident Evil, Crash Bandicoot, and Mario Kart. I’d first gotten a PC (or, well, shared one with Theodore) when I dormed with him in college. We opened up a steam account, and although he did have a PS2 and a GameCube, xbox and whatnot; he did prefer PC and believed it would make consoles obsolete. You first played Half Life, Max Payne, Dark Forces 2, Jedi Outcast, Jedi Academy, Portal, Quake 3, Doom 3, and dozens of other games. His grandpa was this really rich guy, who you hadn’t met.

You scroll through the gamelist on the computer. For Pete’s sake, he’d gotten a shitload of games since.

Crysis was there. He still used the steam account after all these years, and the library showed to it. Hundreds, if not thousands of games lied in there. And you didn’t doubt he had all of them downloaded, at that.

You bought a decent, pre-built PC a little bit ago. Intent on doing work at it for the PD, you were ultimately spending the night doing this.

Marko recently did a game tournament at work. Quake. You’d fragged your way to the top there, and theories ran rampant on that end of what you did before.

Your resume was pretty set and clear from what you asked richard.

While I was on a military base for a operation- wait, let me clarify when I was really doing in the military.

Us four (originally meant to be five) were intended on stopping Supe terrorism, threats to democracy and other world leaders, fascist/nazi groups etc.

I’ve been to dozens of nations on behalf of my job. I once saved the pope. We’ve assisted the National Guard, Marines, SAS, and dozens of more governmental entities. We were let go by our goverment, when it was ultimately decided in late 2007 that we didn’t have much of a purpose anymore.

We then had people that proved that wrong in every way.

If we weren’t disbanded, we would’ve stopped Krausher long before he became a threat. Doakes’s people formed in our absence, i’d think (I might be flattering myself though.)

Latveria’s what happens when all that shit goes unchecked.

Hey, the world’s doing decent without us now. Just took 7 years of clusterfucks.

I’ve heard people use the term “post-racial society” recently, and honestly? It could work somehow. In 2012, Green Party nominee Howard Braithwaite won on a partial landslide. The removal of the Electoral College system has made the people more confident in voting in parties besides the main two. Al Gore’s victory back in 2000 showed promise for these views/alignments, so it wasn’t that big of a shock. I voted for him too, hell. Read his polices on the economy, social issues, etc

He legalized gay marriage a few years back. I’m a Catholic myself, and I don’t have any issue with that.

Maybe we are in a post racial society. Braithwaite’s the first black president, too.

Thinking on a post racial society, maybe we’re in a post racial society; and maybe, the next generation of adults’ll have a tragic mis-step, where the possibility of another Braithwaite becoming impossible. We’ll have racism, homophobia become almost accepted behavior; slurs, things people wouldn’t have said in a thousand years today, they say on a whim.

My shades glimmer with light and I open them just to look out into the window.

Good Morning, America.

Good morning.

Well, I gotta go to sleep anyways.

Passage Two

My name’s Wendell Betruger.

I joined the National Guard back in 2002 so I could kill me a shitload of those fucking redskins and maybe get me a Supe.

In the following years, i defended off a couple of riots and whatnot.

I remember one time when this spic, Toya had a nationwide manhunt on him, and we had to put a city on him.

This fucking cunt came in my way with an attitude. I tore that little cybernetic tail she had up her ass and kicked the fuck out of this pasty guy with these robes and tattoos on his head Dirtied that shit up. Cut off a lock of his hair, too.

Around that time, i remember when i had the pleasure of meeting Ayesha.

She was known for being somewhat of a pathetic cunt. Little feeble goodie-two shoes, up until she returned from whatever the fuck.

Now? The bitch was awesome. She began to torture folks for no reason whatsoever. It was frankly interesting to see, and i remember this despicable little cunt who she captured. The bitch was going around bringing cupcakes or whatever to military bases.

You know what Ayesha did? She cut the bitches eyelashes off. Fucking hilarious. Fingertips too. Yanked a teeth or two.

A year later, i was placed on transport for another supe. Speedster by the name of Taizen. This little dipshit was so annoying. He always did this stupid grin and shit. Thought he was the hottest shit around. He kept on running his mouth.

I blew his head off with my pistol midway through the knife. Got no consequences for it at all. Fucker was dead and i claimed whatever shit to the brass and pretended as if it scarred me.

My cunt of a wife and the little shit that certainly didn’t come outta my balls kept on complaining that i was being too distant. She tried to divorce me, so I gave the whore a good smack. Told her to stay with me or I’d gut the little shit infronta her.

This badass motherfucker i knew, my captain during the Canadian Civil War was planning on making his own group. Krausher was the shit, although i knew him as Kleis. He only got the name Krausher thanks to some hit piece from this dipshit reporter who I personally took care of. Name stuck, though. And I’d agree and say that it’s one hell of a nickname.

He had this little creep for a son though. When the bastard was like 13-14, back in 2006?

He went into Demon town central or whatever and tried to kill them all.

He got his ass best. Scars all over his face. Bastard looked as ugly as a wrinkled ballsack. Wears a gas mask to cover it up, thankfully for everyone who encountered the little shit.

And fuck yeah we put the terror into them supes. We kidnapped and wiped them off the face of the earth. Those cunts were always a threat through and through.

I remember a year or two back, reading about this one speedster bitch named Aurora. In a heartbeat I would’ve killed that cunt. It’s a real shame I didn’t get to.

I’m Krausher’s miracle maker now. I take out whatever pissant he wants me to.

Thing was, a year back in 2013– I was put onto the biggest son of a bitch ever. This stupid little cowardly pissant. He called himself The Survivalist.

I was doing a favor for Krausher for a friend of his. He’d gotten a tracker named Harry from these little pricks.

I never even saw him. Never even got him. Krausher told me that everyone in the organization was dead anyways. Favor wouldn’t mean shit, and it meant he could also move into the New York state area.

When i told my wife, she told me she was sick about being on the run. I killed her and that devilspawn and packed my bags.

We began to set up bases throughout. Places where these dudes formerly had bases. I hiked up over a base onto a forest and sat onto a tree trunk when i hear rattling of sorts and it falls onto itself.

Been hollowed out or something. I’m not that damn heavy, right?

I come to discover a tape, a few stimpacks and instructions to modify a basic rifle.

This.. This is the Survivalist. I listen through it fully.

Wife. Stereotypical fucking backstory. Be a man and get over it, dickface.

Cunt probably put a bullet through his brain with all the whining he was doing after this.

If he didn’t, I’ll be sure to kill the fucker with this tape in mind.

I place what i can and keep this all to myself.

Later that day, i go on my computer and search up shit about “Kyle Canadian War”

A neat article shows up. My name on it too, alongside his. There’s dozens of Kyle’s there, but they do it in order of who they served with.

I try Red.

Ronald.

Nothing lines up, so i try Boone.

Ta-da.

Kyle Clark.

This is his brother.

Randall Clark, the whiny shithead killed himself for all the goverment knows. Got an obituary page for him.

I listen through and through. Days in end.

I study his voice. I study his face.

Yeah, he woulda done that.

This whiny stupid sentimental fuck leaves me the pieces to do it all, engineering the rifle. His rifle.

Randall Clark once wore the same uniform i did. Randall Clark and i are the same.

He felt stuck in his marriage as I did.

He loved war. He was just too sentimental.

I engineer the rifle as I listen to his voice. I read out his handwriting.

I look out into the rising sun and I think.

If only you were here to see this, Clark.

If only you were here to die by my hand.

@probablyapplejack

[littleboy1234f]

@probablyapplejack

The fire hit my skin resoundingly. The blood that poured out of myself, and the rage that burned alongside it was cauterized; or so they hoped. With the burns effecting me and the sadistic man’s laughter, i write something into my skin; carving it deeper then any blade ever could. I screamed as loud as my throat would allow.

KAYLA.

She found me. She.. found me. She found me. She found me. She left. She left. I remained.

The other one did things to me. Things that I didn’t like.

This man tortured me. Tortured me for his own pleasure.

Dad. Father. Stan.

Help.

Father. God.

Help.

My brain was broken.

It came to a conclusion.

I charged at the man and began to bite out his throat.

I’d never liked violence. Swore myself to pacifism years before i heard the news of my daughter. That was when Kayla had taken herself off of birth control.

The man grabbed out his pistol and shot a hole through my head. The ringing of his revolver was the last thing I remembered as I continued to bite out his throat. The last thing I would ever remember in this.. brain. This form that I held within. Maybe i would persist. Maybe the sirens that i heard right before the shot rang out would show something.

PASSAGE 2

My name is Deacon. I grew up in Albany, and my father was a firefighter. He’s suffering in the hospital from lung cancer that may be related to the cheap material they had on the job. I work for the Hudson valley police force; but I don’t live in Albany anymore.

I’m somewhere near Brookhaven when I see a giant bonfire and a man screaming like hell; and another laughing.

I turn on my sirens and begin speeding towards the man to get to the hilltop.

I ran as fast as my heavy-set frame could allow, but as I did; I heard the unmistakable shot of a revolver. Old high school track days that I’d long been out of shape from induced through me, and I ran to the burning man.

He had a chunk of his head blown through by the man stopping 32 caliber, and I felt an unlikely surge of adrenaline sear through me to save this man. I was never the hero cop. Infact, a handful of times; I’d forgotten my utility belt someplace.

I moved with uncharacteristic masterfulness. I’d never experienced an out of body experience before this, but I just saw myself saving that man’s life.

I didn’t drive to the Brookhaven hospital, but as fast I could to Hudson Valley.

John Doe began to heal uncharacteristically fast; and I’d hooked shit up to his muscles so he didn’t suffer from atrophy when he awoke. Within a month; he was in a delirious state frequently that signifies he could awake any day.

Yet, three months later; and nothing.

I visited JD everyday, as I called him. I saved this man’s life; but knew nothing about him. His fingertips were chopped off before anything; his teeth were knocked off, but somehow regenerated. But there would be no dental records of who he was, or what to expect.

What if he was a supe? What if he was being lynched by one of them supe haters, like Krausher or whatever he calls himself?

I’d saved a full blown superhero or whatever. Yet I only looked down on the scarred man and I prayed.

God.

Father.

Save this man. Please. If there’s any prayer you’ll answer.

Eventually, he got back out of that delirious stage and into a full on coma again. He didn’t have any brain nor dream activity. I stayed by his side for months, and those months turned into a year; and in September , he got back into a delirious state. I remember once, at his bedside; I played some Louis Armstrong, some old school jazz that my dad listened to.

He spoke.

“Music.”

“Uh.. yeah. You like it?”

“Kanye.”

He didn’t speak for the week after that; and it was still simple stuff like that

For that entire week though, I played every single Kanye song. It was 2014, and that Yeezus just released last year. It wasn’t my tempo, but for the injured man; sure.

I spoke to the injured man daily. About all of my problems, about my shitty life.

I mean, I used to be a track athlete. I got all of the girls and stuff.. well, not all. Not really any. I liked men too, but none of them wanted me. Nobody cares about the track team at my school. I wasn’t tall enough to play basketball. I was 34 and a virgin, sure.

I wasn’t even particularly good at my work, which is why I wasn’t very missed.

I peaked in highschool, and even then wasn’t a peak

I have a receding hairline.

A patchy neck beard full of acne.

My dad passed earlier the year, so I attended to the man all year, everyday.

Man, he was big. I fed him food to keep him so— but not too much that he’d end up like a slob like me.

I poured everything out to him.

I got robbed a few weeks ago, too.

They didn’t even take anything.

They broke in and didn’t take anything because I had nothing that was worth taking.

I was so pathetic. So lonesome that I could cry; and frequently did. Eating a bullet would just be a burden on the emergency workers, and i doubt I’d be buried out of plain apathy, because nobody cared about me.

I brought my Nintendo 3DS to show him and got laughed at by a nurse.

His delirious phase slipped more and more, and he would be up relatively soon.

I also realized that he likely was not a superhero and it was just a big coincidence.

I remember once, at my office when I had the barrel of a gun pressed to the roof of my mouth, my coworker came and asked my by god what I was doing, and to do it at home so he wouldn’t have t k clean it. He once tapped my hand and made a fist. I brushed his teeth, flossed, everything regularly. His fingerprints grew back too— but they showed nothing or nobody.

He once said my name. That made my week. He could hear and understand me. I had a semblance of a friend.

PASSAGE 3

I awoke and I saw the reflections of light around me. I grasped for someone who was no longer there. My breath was minty. A man spoke to me for months. Deacon.

I said his name, and he rushed to my side.

I asked for water. I didn’t make the proper sound. My muscles didn’t feel as I heard they were. Something was linked up to it. Thanks to him.

I only knew there was a figure lingering over me thanks to the lack of light where he was; the shadow he made. I fell back asleep.

This happened often. I didn’t remember any of the times; but I slowly recovered.

I spoke fuller sentences. I relearned how to chew. I think I I remembers my first full sentence when asking him to change the channel that was on the TV. I wanted to speak to Deacon about his problems, to encourage him and to get him out of the misanthropic state he was in. I wanted to be his friend.

He spoke about how lonesome he was; and he one time played this Marty Robbins song that I could recall about a 5’3 Texan man and his own loneliness. A Johnny Cash song with a similar theme regarding loneliness also; and some Kanye sprinkled in.

I had a name written on my forearm. I think it was Kyle, from the way it healed.

Was I Kyle? He called me “JD”, standing for John Doe. I remember when I could speak longer sentences. When I was able to stay up for an astounding hour and hold a conversation with him. I didn’t forget that conversation. I swore to be his friend, and thanked him tremendously for saving my life.

The first time I saw my deeply burned face (or remembered seeing it), I embraced it.

I remember being in a wheelchair.

Going to physical therapy with Deaconbby my side.

He brought me out to the hilltop to show me the decomposed body of the man who’d shot me, and i mustered all of my strenght to stomp his face in

The first time I walked was then. It was October 12th, and after the stomp I kept on walking. And walking, downhill. I began to run downhill. I didn’t stumble or stagger.

Deacon told me something about how his maternal grandmother was a “Haitian voodoo practioner” and could speak to the dead.

I told him I didn’t believe in any of that, and he said he didn’t either; and that he was agonistic, but thought there had to be some logic in it cause demons existed and whatnot.

I told him he had a point; and maybe we’d see her for the hell if it.

She told me my name was Bob, and that I was the reincarnation of a ancient spirit.

We laughed our asses off.

Well, after that; I’d moved into his place.

It was a pleasant apartment, inherited from his dad.

We moved northwards to Albany, to that apartment.

I did some further therapy, and this supe therapist of sorts, a psychic was able to induce older memories; but not all.

I was in the military.

I was named Randall.

I had a wife named Kayla.

I was tortured.

Me and Deacon worked out frequently, and I taught him a few tricks. I had all of the muscle-memory for shooting.

Deacon was a fucking crackpot though. He hit every shot within our first training session; and apparently, he’d never been in combat.

We went out hunting in Albany, and he saved my life from a grizzly that I managed to beat to death.

It was November when this happened. A full month and I was able to move like regular. I had a good friend of mine, too.

He let me cut his hair. I knew how to from some class I had when I was thirteen.

And I thought; how come k remember that, but not my wife?

The name Kyle was likely Kayla though

How come I remembered that but not my father?

I lined him up, shaved his beard into a well-groomed goatee.

For that month in November that we went to the gym— he came out being able to bench more than me.

He told me about how he once thought I was a superhero and we laughed.

I went to that therapist frequently. He couldn’t get anymore, but he was able to assure me of who I was and that I was on the right path.

I suggested we go to New York City during the November period, around the 23rd.

We stayed there up until December 12th, where I saw a familiar row of homes.

I heard people talking.

I heard them laughing.

I saw myself.

A twin brother.

My father.

I had a mother; her name was.. Kendra.

I couldn’t handle any of it.

I got memories of the torture.

How i’d remembered the exact layout.

Kayla leaving me there.

My hand gripped so tightly around the pair of keys in my hand; my hand bled.

Someone needed to pay.

The people who tortured me would die.

Myro.

Myro.

Myro.

Myro.

Myro.

Myro.

That was her name. The person who did things that I ain’t like.

I would kill her the first thing in the morning.

But I knew one person who I had to tell.

PASSAGE 4

Randall came to me with a revelation; regarding how he knew and remembered some more things. I told him that if he was going to do this, he’d have to kill me for me to stay back. That nothing would stop me from being by his side

He accepted that I would be by his side; and said that I deserved to be so as much as anything or anyone else.

(SWITCH TO RANDAL POV BUT STILL PASSAGE 4)

We did research up until Christmas where we learned.

Myro was dead.

Kayla was dead.

My daughter was with her maternal grandmother.

I didn’t want to fuck up her life. I would. I knew I would. An amnesiac from a father who knew nothing about her wouldn’t do much good. Deacon was my best friend, and he stayed by my shoulder at every turn. We learned about three.

Lapis, Ace and Wyatt.

Wyatt had been cloned by a man named Arin; and was the result of my genetic experimentation.

Was gonna kill something or someone with my DNA.

I learned all of this via the squeaky fuck, Arin.

I sawed off his legs. He stood by as I was tortured. Now he wouldn’t stand ever again.

Wyatt’s soul was within the clone; and it apparently was spliced with other supe DNA, so he’d be one hell of a fucking fight when I got there.

It took Arin losing a hand and me threatening to go down to Antarctica to kill his own wife.

I lost my world. Why should he still have his?

Apparently Arin himself was frequently cheating on his wife.

I lost my wife. His wife entrusted him so much that she was willing to go onto a research trip for years for the sake of the world.

I castrated him upon learning that.

He treated his wife like trash. He was a shadow of a man, begging for death.

I would never give him that release.

(SWITCH TO DEACOK PERSPECTIVE)

You are Deacon Freeman.

You watch your brother basically— your best friend, the only reason you live become a vehicle to his anger and hatred; yet you understand it entirely. His entire life was ruined.

Where the fuck would I get off in telling him how to grieve? How to go to war, when he’s been practicing it for far longer than you. He understood it fundamentally. You remember hearing that a man with nothing to lose was the most dangerous thing ever; but thought of that as only in the world of myth and theatre. Yet, it stood so clearly infront of you.

He lost his entire world; but he was able to rebuild it and yours, yet the past lingered above his head so often.

You trained out in the woods, and prepared for anything.

For you would go to war with him, for him.

I’d always heard that bullshit in movies about how revenge was futile. But even if it were futile here; I wasn’t going to let the only reason I was still breathing go off alone. I wasn’t going to be a coward again.

I wasn’t so darn lonesome anymore either.

Maybe I’d go down valiantly, too. Like butch and Sundance; without any hesitation.

Arin quickly spit out where Ace would likely be, and Randall was on a mission. So was I, then.

When you first saw him outside of the base; you watched, obscured by the snow. Your large jacket allowed for no cold air to affect you. Randall began to move down, shutting off the power before entering.

When he first used his big, manstopping rifle onto someone; and you saw the effects through the scoped rifle, you vomited. You’d never seen Arin. You’d never seen blood or violence in such a matter. You vomitted jn teh snow and not onto yourself

If you had to desensitize yourself to this.. could you?

You were agnostic, yet you prayed to the god you learned about in the Baptist church you grew up in.

When you had to inflict that terror onto someone else who was going to kill Randall— you did so, justifying it in the vain of Machiavellian ideology. The ends (Randall, your brother) still being alive justified the means. (The violence you’d committed.)

It was a facade as all the same.

Randall did what he did off of Ace and left without saying a word for the entire day.

Passage 5

I bought a rifle off of an arms dealer (who had some dude with a man bun with her who was clearly waiting to crack. I got my shit and got the fuck away.)

I modified the rifle to the caliber meticulously. I’d dug something up around this time a while ago. My armor was there, alongside these instructions and some stimpacks. That was on my turn to pacifism, but I didn’t know that Randall Clark. For I was The Damned, and that as what I was to be known as. I remembered its location on one of me and Deacon’s training sessions. We’d gone on dozens in the past few weeks. It was sprouted from the similar environment, as was the incident in New York.

I got him an actual sniper rifle. He’s strong enough to handle the kick.

By the time I’d gotten to Ace’s lab, it was late in the night. He was dug out a couple of yards away, and had the scope on me.

I didn’t wear a helmet or a mask. My deeply scarred and burnt face spoke for itself.

I placed in a Walkman into my ears. Could’ve gotten a modern phone, but Deacon had some from his father with some Louis Armstrong tapes to play.

Who was I to reject?

I turned off the power using my PDA, and blew the brains out of a guard.

They’d all be alerted, but nothing they could do.

Through a window, Deacon got one that might’ve gotten me if he weren’t there

Good shot.

J storm downstairs, and shot the M1911 out of the cunts hands.

I told him how j was going to kill him slow and painfully.

He laughed and recognized who I was.

He told me the minute his dad found out— he would gut my daughter alive and kill everything and everyone I loved. He kept on.. going. And going on. How his father would kick the shit out of my “ugly ass burnt face.”

How he would personally fuck me a thousand times when i got to hell alongside him.

I had to silence him. It was necessary.. had to.

On the ride back, I said no words until I went to sleep.

Immediately, I would go after Wyatt. I wouldn’t give him a second to learn about his son’s death. To learn of the Damned.

Arin spit it out immediately.

A island in the Michigan Lake, guarded with the upmost security is the most likely location.

I told him if he wasn’t there; then I’d kill Rose infront of him.

His story quickly changed to him being at a facility in New Hampshire.

I told him that even if i didn’t return from it, then my friend would certainly kill Rose more violently then I could ever think up.

The thing was, I’d positioned Deacon to be the most terrifying, paralyzing motherfucker to exist.

He told me he should be, and that he doubted he’d be wrong.

The place was a fortress of sorts; barbed wire, lasers, everything.

A guard wearing Kayla’s armor sat outside.

I shot out her legs and got in ASAP via her keycard.

Cameras were on me. Every single eye was. Would probably die if he had any other traps.

That’s fine. Would just have to kick the shit out of them in hell.

But there was nothing awaiting me besides himself.

He stood from the hall across me, and the next couple of moments lasted for millennia.

We stared at each other, and at blurring; I realized that this was not good. This was not good at all.

He rushed at me and broke my rifle in half, before pinching me and sending me flying onto the ground.

He spoke

“Question. Why even try? Even if you wipe us all out. Even if you stomp every single replica; one will slip through. We are a business. We share the same principals as many others. There is only one of you, whatever the fuck you are. We are an unbeatable force. There are thousands of me.”

“You fail to see how it could go the opposite way. Reckon there’s only one of me out there? only one person willing to stand up? only one person willing to fight dirty? Or maybe there’s a fella that’s gonna do it the right and legal way. Maybe you’ll be buried under your debts.”

“Maybe. That’s what you keep on saving. But I’m certain that there’ll be another Wyatt. Another one again. And you’ll die here, that’s what I’m cert-“

“And maybe you’ll gargle my ballsack.”

I swept him off his feet, placing him in a headlock.

He broke his elbow into my plate of armor. He hit like a sledgehammer, one at a breaking point.

His bone and tendons came out. Fucker hadn’t fought since 1950s, or whatever. He had some picture in his mind how this would go by. I continued the chokehold, but he slammed me back and rolled, putting his full weight onto me. Don’t let go. He manages to get me off, but I rolled away and grabbed a flashbang off my pouch.

With that see inhuman speed, he grabs my hand and breaks it entirely.

Don’t give a fuck.

Pain reminds me I’m alive. No adrenaline rushing through me, even. Just unfiltered hatred. I pinned hi squarely to the wall with a hand that struggled to form its fist, and kneed his testicles. I slammed him down. Sloppy. Slow. I stomped his ballsack again and again, before he tried to hook his hand around my ankle and take that out too.

I broke his elbow via a firm stomp; the metal tipped boots designed specially for injuring supes.

I began to drag him outside; but he pulls a reversal.

“You’re going to achieve nothing. The corporations run loops around the regular man. They control every element of your life; and as long as you have your bread and circus, they’ll be docile. We can give you soldier boys the cheapest weapons so we can make an extra dollar. Make a thousand children get cancer just to not spend an extra penny. And there will be no consequence. We could make the working man our slaves and they already are. They’re going to stay where they are. Forever. The people will stay divided by their notions of race, religion, ethnicity. And they will never unite because they’re too busy calling their neighbor a unruly slur to realize who their true overlords are. Maybe some of them will realize; but they’ll just put the blame on the Jews like a little fucking child. And for those who don’t, they’ll be called a communist. It’s a long dormant ideology that has no relevance and works only to scare the common man. And it works very well. The corporations collaborate with other foreign corporations; in nations that have no rights. We team up with police death squads to put down any attempt of unionization. We are the most powerful. You cannot beat us at all.”

“You’re too busy jerking off to your own voice to realize that you’re already fucking dead.”

“What?”

The EMP grenade fries his nervous system completely. I prop him up to the wall for the 50 BMG to blow out his skull and it does so like clockwork as Deacon does so.

I rewrite my mistake earlier and collect all data, placing it onto a thumb drive carrying gigabytes of the data.

TO BE CONTINUED

[littleboy1234f]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 100 likes!

[littleboy1234f]

It's my 1 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[littleboy1234f]

PILOT

WORKING TITLE: Haven.

This is a pilot episode for a show named Haven. I’m writing this down as a proof of concept for an eventual/future adaption.

The episode starts out from the very bottom of a two-story house, going through it slowly. There is a date in the corner— October 21st, 2012 via a newspaper from th Brookhaven Post, describing recent military operations in a occupied Abrsvaria, a military dictatorship lead by a superhuman being; with Ryan Fitzgerald leading a assassination on their leader and singlehandedly assassinating him. The leader is stated as being heavily powerful— able to be hit with missles and survive. It is stated Ryan took him on in hand to hand combat, and it mentions his father also being a famous veteran; Stan Fitzgerald. He’s stated as having a dead brother named Kyle Fitzgerald, and a photo being assigned to him in the corner. He has light brown hair and an identifier that will speak for itself— a mole on his philtrum. This is the renamed Randall Clark; as to take away from his licensed origins. The photo is dated 2008, and in the subsections; there’s pieces describing the state of the US currently, with the supernatural ban, the restructing of goverment, and a discussion of The midnight illumination glares in through the houses windows. There, we see photos.

A brown-haired man (16-17) with another man, black curly haired, around his same age— although taller. There is a clear resemblance between the two.

A wedding photo— that same brown-haired man alongside a woman.

A photo of these people.

Three men, a singular woman; all addoned in armor.

One man has longer, black hair. He is tan-skinned with a dotted goatee that barely scrapes past the guidelines. He’s squatted down, but his frame is clearly massive.

The man besides him is in the center. He has a glare of command that bursts out through his aviator glasses— even if you cannot see his eyes, it’s still there. He has short blond hair, and he’s following Protocol to the letter in his grooming standard. A stubble that was clearly recently shaved, with a red beret sat atop his short blond hair— his posture is straight and he’s clearly in charge of the people there.

The man besides him, has short, brown hair— a dotted stubble, and clearly is the man from the previous two images (identifiable by a mole around his philtrum, that the black-haired man from the first photo had also.)

Lastly, that same woman from earlier is to the right to this photo, and the final one. There’s a ensigina on the photo, and it’s dated 2008. There’s a sense in finality in all of their gazes— this chapter of their life is over.

The camera begins to pan through a kitchen, a living room, then goes up stairs. Multiple rooms— guest and otherwise. There, we see the same woman from earlier, sleeping in a too large bed for only herself.

There is a panning shot outside now. There’s a van, and the security camera that we see the van through shuts down, with a final jittering image; through intentional sabotage. Then, we see the inside of the van. There’s five people in there. There is speaking clearly, but we cannot hear it. Then, with trained expertise; they rush out the van with rifles and other things in hand.

Opening the door via a lock pick and as to not make any sounds, they begin to clear the rooms systematically— but someone shatters a photo.

That photo is the wedding image from earlier, and the nose is loud enough— but we keep on following over the shoulder of the peopl raiding the home. They have tasers, a tranquilizer rifle, and other things; symboling to the observant that they’re not intending to kill, but capture. The people systemically clear the downstairs part, before as one moves upstairs?

Their face is viciously mangled by the shell of a shotgun.

The helmet that hides their face does nothing to hide the viscera and gore due to it cracking. The person falls flat on the staircase, as an obstacle for any future attackers.

But there’s one thing highlighted subtly— there’s only FOUR people in the home. The person from earlier— the freakishly tall women who’s rank is signified by her red vest is sneaking up through the rooftop and into a window. Back to the “siege” going on, someone shoots a tazer into her arm, and as it’s clearly stated that over 400 cops are coursing through her (via the UI of the taser, being set to it’s own max), she tears it out effortlessly and kills the one with the taser.

In the meanwhile, she’s tackled by the third one— meanwhile, one with a tranquilizer is looking up, and staying by at his cover. It’s shown like this.

In the background, is the scene of her being tacked-/ two dead bodies, and the staircase. In the forefront, is the man behind cover on the left side, split by a wall and being covered by it.

After the tackle, the woman snaps the tackler’s neck and moves back to her guard. The red-vested woman notices the woman’s armor hung in the room— and nods at it. Now, the tranquilizer fires a tranquilizer into her neck— and it does nothing but falter her slightly as now, he’s injured. His knee is shot out, and the woman has intentions to get information out of him. She spins aside, and smashes the shotgun into the red-vested woman’s stomach. The woman, although far more efficient and by protocol, is clearly far shorter than the red-vested woman. The vested woman grabs onto her with all of her effort even as she stumbles. I’m just going to call her Kayla instead of referring them as “woman” and the opponent as red vested woman cause it’s tiring.

Kayla rams her to the wall, kicking her leg out as they wrestle for the shotgun. The opponent is able to take the shotgun, but as she aims it at Kayla— the cylinder is out. Kayla kicks it from her hand, and noticeably, her movements are more tired due to the previous tranquilizer. She goes into tackle her and pins Kayla down, but Kayla’s able to get her helmet off and rams her knee into her face— breaking her nose. The woman before her is a dark-skinned woman with a military haircut— many scars and an aged face. The woman wrestled with Kayla, but Kayla at every turn and every grapple was abl to out-technique her, but the tranquilizer was setting in. When kayla faltered for a second, the woman tore out something from her pouch and dumped it into Kayla’s neck. She collapsed flat out, and th woman has a large exhale. She gets up, and in the first dialogue, she orders the man to get up and clean this shit up. Then, states that the armor is hers.

A title-card finally comes up. This is in the first 10-15 minutes.

This is all that I’m doing for tonight.

[littleboy1234f]

PART TWO CAUSE I DOMEBOW BIT THE TEXT BLOCK

DONT READ BEFORE PART 1 SCOUNDREL

It’s 1996, and I think I’m selling Fazbears. It has done no good in the world at this point in my eyes. Henry’s daughter is dead. William ruined his own life in its entirety. And even when my son was hurt; I still persisted, with that same naivety I had in Nam, thinking my missions to take out “rogue US assets” were just that; taking out traitors.
I remember Markus Williamson, a rogue us asset I took out myself. From what I was told by my commanders, he’d gone rogue with dozens of US secrets and was planning to go to Ho Chi Minh City within the same day. Having my Platoon fire off a distraction attack to one of the North Vietnamese’s supply lines as I took care of Markus myself; I gave him a dignified death that I felt he didn’t deserve. I didn’t riddle him with bullets from afar, I simply blew out the back of his brain (which, typing out now makes me realize how it’s so sick how that’s considered “dignified.”), but for the shit that would happen in Nam, it truly was. 
Learning now from a few declassified files, Williamson just found out they were selling heroin with this war and wished to expose it to journalists. The NVA had guaranteed his safety, and I don’t blame him. This war did no good for anyone, and only worked to sacrifice the next generation of people to the cannon-fodder for the sadistic and in the name of profit. As a businessman, I’d sworn to not do any of that. I always placed importance in the comfort of the worker over profits. I made my own designs as to alleviate the stresses. I was consistent in the world I’d built and my perceived moralities. 
My wife died in childbirth to my son, Jeremy. And I swore to make this world safe for him. To deconstruct every brick in society for Jeremy. Just for his own comfort. I loved him deeper than anything, and always will. His near-critical injury has raised a near impossible recovery, off of entities that I do not know myself. He can talk, walk, and think in a same way he did before. I hate myself deeply for employing him, for getting docile. I will return to William, and spin the cylinder of a revolver. May the best man remain alive after our game of roulette. This note is to inform anyone of my fate if I never return.

when writing this, I considered on leaving the ending ambiguous for one reason.
Who knows how many bullets that cylinder contains? Maybe it contains no bullets at all, and that game of roulette is just to provide closure to oneself of this cycle of violence he’s gone through in his life. Maybe it contains 6, as to guarantee the end of the one who goes first.
Or maybe it contains five; where there’s a slimmer of a chance where Stan will come out alive, but just the very slimmer.
I also leave the “him” in that part (“I deeply hate myself for employing him) ambiguous. Is it his son? Is it William? Who knows.

[littleboy1234f]

read it all

Stan Fitzgerald is a co-owner at Fazbear Entertainment, working mainly alongside Henry Emily and Fitzgerald a friendship with William Afton, although feeling off of about him.

Stan stands tall, sporting a short, darker hair alongside a stubble. Stan had fought in Vietnam at 22. Prior to that, Fitzgerald learned Jit Jitsu. Fitzgerald is Dominican-American, born in America but genetically Dominican. Stan had a son named Jeremy Fitzgerald with a unnamed woman; him caring deeply for his son.

At a unknown time in the seventies/eighties, he met Henry and hit it off with the man, becoming good friends with him.

He reached out to William Afton for a collaboration with Henry’s “Chica Pizza World” and Fredbears.

Before this time, Stan sketched both Mr Hippo and Foxy, the concepts meant to appease children and adults.

What was Stan’s involvement in the company?

Stan wasn’t just a designer; he was a man who focused on the business aspect of the company, keeping it running. In a world full of dead spirits alive within animatronics; who’s there to file the taxes? Get shipping orders for the ingredients? Hire people? Get these businesses into franchises? He’s there. He is the largest cog within the company.

Stan was the one who came forward to Henry regarding the murders in 1985; but the evidence was merely circumstantial, but in his eyes? It was enough. His son, Jeremy escaped the massacre with a stroke of luck. William had never actually seen Jeremy; merely murdered a boy with the same name.

Both Henry and Stan ousted William out of the company and came to the police, but within months? William was out, and was seemingly working on something.

After William was ousted out, they decided to make it into a franchise. Both Stan and Henry took off their hands on approach and allowed managers to hire people, give shifts, do what Stan was doing essentially. This led to a mistake; William came to a resturant, the manager hired him without hesitation due to the fact he was using a fake name and..? He struck again. William fled under the Geist of a project he was working on, once again? Never went to court. A place he was opening, a rental one.. shut down a day before opening.

Afton was a failure seemingly, but the fact that he murdered someone again. Fitzgerald shut down stores, designed plans and ideas for a new, advanced animatronics. He decided for a Grand Opening of Fazbears, with a new and shiny protective animatronics, to detect those. Of course, Henry’s intelligence allowed for it all to be done. After another series of firings, and require.. they require a night guard! Early 1987. A bunch of applications come in; but one that Stan takes a interest in particular. His son, who he loves very much. Everyone else may have more qualifications; but where else would he want his young son working at? He accepted his application hastefully. What a mistake. He was distraught when tragedy struck, taking a few years to himself. When Henry approached him in the late 80s, early nineties? Stan agreed, opening the Fazbears seen in fnaf 1. He accepted William’s son, and began to mentor the boy in a way, treating him with kindness and hiring him. When reports came in, he fired Micheal reluctantly, giving him a hug as he left, hoping him the best for his life. By 1994-1995, after the closure of that resturant and Micheal going through the Sister Location and being scooped? Stan went into that very location, it eerily scary. What was this?

As Stan stepped into the scooper room.. spotting dried blood, the parts of animatronics on it.. but no body, no endoskeletion. Stan found the blueprints and was grateful this horrible, horrible place never opened. What was he going to do with those robots, with a place to encapsulate children? Where had the endos for them went? Was this William’s pet project? Why.. just for his own sadism? So many questions flowed through, but no answers.

In 1996, Stan was called regarding a body in a bunny suit by a man, cleaning an abandoned resturant. He went to the body.. and recognized it, or him. Suddenly, in a wave of remnant- endured energy , Stan was attacked. The fight went to Stan’s side eventually, with him succeeding and placing what he thought was William’s lifeless body into a safe room.

In terms of personality, Fitzgerald is genuinely compassionate, with his set of flaws. He is a caring man through and through, not resentful towards Micheal. Stan was my first OC, made in around 2016-2017.

this is just a recap and somthing I made a while ago.

Anyways.

I entered Vietnam when I was twenty-one, fresh out of Staten Island Community College; and I intended to pursue the craft of business prior to my knowledge of myself being drafted.
I shaved my head the moment I got the letter. Then or now, huh? 
Some of my childhood friends had entered the war; simply out of their own nature or desperation. I grew up in Park Hill (well, not grew up. It was established when I was fifteen; and we moved there. My father, William Fitzgerald fought in World War Two; and he thought it important that I got my own education.) I was tested numerous times, and eventually given the role of a Ground Intelligence Officer, where the hands of dozens of men returning home were in my hands, before I’d ever seen any combat.
I trained on the M14, the weapon my father had used; but by the time I entered in nineteen-seventy two (when I was twenty two), the majority of them weren’t in The Nam. I was never intended to go into combat, merely give tactical orders, utilize my intelligence as to do so. Thus, I was never concerned with it. I graduated from the Infantry Officer Course before even entering battle, and as a Platoon Commander, I used the intelligence as to determine the best decisions for my squad. 
I’d sent out fake leaks to Charlie alongside the South Vietnamese; as to discourage them to enter areas and encourage them into going to completely nothing-burger places. 
But I can still recall my first combat encounter.
All preconceived notions of myself in battle shattered. I ducked my large frame and didn’t fire back, merely hoping for it to stop. I can’t even recall why I was out that night, maybe for a leak, to grab something I’d lost— possibly that zippo of mine engraved with lyrics from a Marty Robbin’s song. Nate Victor rained down fire. I hyperventilated, but eventually swallowed the fear down my throat and grabbed for my M1911 off my hip.
Every time I close my eyes; regardless of every life I’ve taken before and after this woman, I recall Hher face. 
She was a young Vietnamese woman, carrying an M16. She’d taken a life before due to her usage of that rifle, and 9/10 used it due to the fact that most Marines would recognize the sound and think it was simply a misfire from a squad somewhere, or something of the sorts. I still remember the explosion of blood (whether or not an illusion from my mind, considering the usual shot from a m1911 doesn’t do that.) coming out from the back of her head. Her legs didn’t realize she was dead yet, and continued to move on down the foliage before eventually going down. I don’t recall any other details about her, besides the face that she had. She was slightly older than myself, but still young. Scars on her face, burns or something else; probably from the chemical weapons used in Vietnam. 
That was on my second day in Vietnam, and I cannot put a picture to the other faces on that day.
You know, I’ve heard stories about the fragging. Constant usage of heroin. All of that; but to me, they were just that, stories. I never could put a person to my mind when I heard about any of that, just a caricature of the “Perfect” US army men for the anti-war crowd.
A drug-addicted, violent man who massacred at every turn and was addicted to war.
Now, these stories are very much true, and I don’t doubt them in the slightest; but i never knew of them myself. I never thought of any of the men in my platoon as being as such; but you don’t know people truly, and after today’s events at the restaurant with William, I don’t think I’m a very good judge of character. I simply wish to make my world sensical in a way. To understand what I’ve went through in my life and process it all. My name is Stan Fitzgerald, and I am a businessman and a marine. What else is there to me? Foolish, naive? Many things come to mind, but ultimately.
I will be a marine until death. I don’t think I can hold the weight of being a businessman much anymore.
It’s 1996, and I think I’m selling Fazbears. It has done no good in the world at this point in my eyes. Henry’s daughter is dead. William ruined his own lif

[littleboy1234f]

reminders

genocide is bad, free Palestine and all other oppressed people globally.

political violence does good for nobody except martyrdom

praising a dictatorship because they’re on the opposite end of another imperialist nation is also bad and hypocritical

hating somebody because of things that cannot be changed is also bad

go with god with every decision you make

[littleboy1234f]

@probablyapplejack credits to yodanerd for most of the Corvis dialogue

Kyle Katarn.

Theed Heist 1 ABY.

1 ABY was a busy year for me. The Dark Trooper Project, the prison break, and this. A lot more untold stories, but this is my highlight.

Functionally the entire galaxy knew about the grand opening of the Bank in Theed. Historical artifacts, state secrets; billions of credits, and dozens of more rumors flowing through the galaxy. Who knows what went on in the back doors to get this open? What went on in the spartan rooms of the bank. It was Hutt owned, with Imperial domineering through and through. Signified to all that regardless of what blows were dealt to the Empire; all would be well. And not to mention the underlying symbolism of the Imperial and Hutt alliance.

The Rebellion is constantly watching through the galaxy. Insiders, agents, everywhere. Every corner of the galaxy.

So, upon learning from Corvis (a merc who leads the Starfall Collective. He has deep connections in the criminal underworld.) regarding an attempt at a crew being pieced together, and that the folks were as serious about this as one can be; the Rebellion sent myself out.

I was sent to Nar Shaddaa, to the levels far lost by time. The murals painted an image, and as my gait was deliberately slow; my mind was somewhere else.

I thought of a time where the place i was, had livelihood. Thousands spoke. The gunfights that left the scorch marks atop the walls; that i dared to run my hand over. The stomping of the working man attempting to get to their place of occupation before whatever limit. The abandoned B’Omarr Order monastery that only came to remind me of Odom.

The barely operating flash from a casino’s lights that only provided a dim illumination across the street. The speederlane in the center that went unused. A humming of a radio from within that building of a song regarding luck. Reminded me of a song my father hummed— kicks in heads, hole in a boat.

The oxidation in the air is evident. My nostrils picked up on it first. The industrial air did nothing but to aptly sum it all up. The coolness that stung the top of my next and my chest, even through the brown jacket and the armor I wore was at its side, ever attentive to provide the ambience like a groom at a wedding.

My imagination thrived upon the sensations around me. The world that once was, that lived and died.

I followed the instructions to the letter. To enter an isolated bar with the name of “Water’s Boil.”, to enter it’s undisturbted realms and knock on a bookshelf for a envelope to fall out with the necessary details

I entered the bar, knocking on the projected place. A bookshelf.

It opened to show.. a nightclub with nobody but a sole man with a long black robe, golden arms and blue hair. I noted the mechanical eye he had. I attempted to make the laugh that was bubbling up go down, but the bantha poop eating grin entrenched on his face deeper then any scar or damage furthered as it came out.

“What the..” the laugh bursted through once again.

“Kriff is that get-up?”

“Oh what you don’t like it? Figured the all black cloak was a little boring. Red’s much more my color anyways”

He smirks, looking over at Kyle

“Plus. It’s much easier to hide blood on red than on black”

“With that logic, Corvis; I’m covering up shit with this jacket.”

I chuckled lightly, glad to be with kindred spirits.

He chuckles, taking a sip from his glass

“Nah. You’re covering shit with brown pants. Unless you plan to go diving in it. I wouldn’t advise that”

“I mean, we never said it was mine. And that one Codrus-Ji had brown blood from that affair on Dantooine a year back.”

“True, true. Suppose not everyone bleeds red. You want a drink by the way? I can pour you a glass seeing as the bar tender is uh”

He looks over the counter

“Down with a bad case of blaster bolt to the forehead”

I looked at the decomposed body.

“Drinks as old as him? If so, I’ll have a cup of water.

“Please. You really think I’d put something like that in my body? Actually don’t answer that. But no, I brought my own”

He picks up the bottle next to him, spinning it around his hand as he pours another glass and slides it over

“If I need to be drunk to even consider your proposition considering what I’ve gone through with you sober.. I wanna hear it.”

“Hey, my plans always work out in the end. Like that one mission on Mustifar”

A clear exhale from his nose.

“I’m too sober to be hearing that. But let me hear the proposition.”

He went on about the heist; about how he already had a man in mind. Told him I could think of one; and asked if there was an age limit on this whole thing.

He said no, before handing me that envelope.

A month later. Grand opening’s old new; General Grievous’s remains were pulped of all that remained of them by spacers on Kashyyyk.

We went to a Crashed Venator; as we both waited for our contacts to arrive.

Corvis said this was the birthplace of the Starfall Collective.

Noticed the theatrical stuff he had up; including the fact he had a roommate living in the floor below it.

Apparently, the roommate financed it. And that was.. D.N.

Asked him what it meant.

Got the response about genitals, and just rolled my eyes as the wry smile sprinted up.

His contact came up.

A big man. 6’6, 240+. Blue trench coat, with some bodysuit under it. Knives in boots; guns everywhere, with red tactical glasses. Shook Corvis’s hand, then mine. Introduced himself as Ishod. Hands bigger than my head. Looked like me if I were in this profession for as long as he was. Heard about him before; he’d wiped out an entire Dark Jedi cult for Black Sun over some shipping dispute at 19, and done countless more. He was 30 now, and still looked as young as the holopictures from when he was 21. Awkward silence for a bit, then the kid came.

Niko. 5’3, about 12 years old. Met him on Tatooine, and I liked him. Smart kid; who’d had his memory wiped or some shit; and knew some form of magick. Wore a long, black robe. Short blond hair. Fearless kid, would piss on Vader’s cape without hesitation.

Ishod had already done reconnaissance. Asked him if he were a military man previously.

He jokingly said “Long Live the Emperor.”

I laughed, before cheering my drink of water to that.

We began strategizing. First things first; we’d strike at the most public time of day. Make it as public as possible. But first, we’d have to pin this on someone. Create some disruption in the Imperial alliances. We snatched up the uniform of the Pykes, since Corvis had some kinda beef with them. Before I even had to call Austin, Ishod informed me he’d already gotten a way into the security system and the layout and that we’d be striking later, at 2 PM. It was 5 AM then, for context. We decided to hop through rooftops on fucking jet packs. Break in vi the vent; use gas similar to the ones the Pykes had used on an incident to steal a shipment. Make it clear that whoever did this were the Pykes and it’d line up.

After we utilized the gas to knock everyone out, our man on the ground (Ishod) burst in and just found his way to the vault. Guess they decided on reputation over any actual security.

Niko burned up the openings to the vents; making our jobs infinitely easier as we simply got in.

Moved in through the vents (with Niko obviously moving the easiest.) We got into the vault. Everyone’s take, ultimately was 50 million credits and whatever was in there.

Ishod got some weird purple diamond, I got a red Mandalorian suit of armor that was of legend; Niko got the other suit and a painting.c Corvis took assorted boxes.

We blew open th roof and left with our stuff, having to hide riverside and making false reports via Ishod’s contacts that we were headed into Gungan territory.

I rest back now, staring at my Mandalorian armor and thinking.

What a clusterfuck.

Jan picked us up after that, and we all split.

And I stare down at it, contemplating what to do with it..

A weary smile creeps onto my face at last, as I put this book down.

[littleboy1234f]

INTRODUCTION/PASSAGE0.5

I remember back onto a few things, my broken body reeling me into the halls of my past.

That day I met with my father to inform him of my decision of joining the military. Special forces; some special forces thing to protect people around the globe. In the memory of Kyle.

I could see it in his eyes. The regret in all of it; about how this wasn’t what he wanted for me. The sorrow in it. And most importantly, the guilt and how he felt responsible in his own way.

But he just told me to consider what I’d be really fighting for. And it was..

Strange.

Meeting them all first.

Blond-haired man. Slightly shorter, and just off the aviator glasses; the perpetual stubble and the beret, one could tell what he was.

A quite taller, tan-skinned man who had shoulder length hair, a goatee stubble which was shaved as to barely follow guidelines.

And the reunions.

Me and Kayla had gone off to a separate camp, segregated by gender. Brother went there too, apparently, before his death.

This was just a slideshow, basically. Rehashing years of work into a few months for people who hadn’t been hashed in the first place. We were taught squad structure. Four people. Proper formation, how to wage war and win. How to get into your opponents head. Torture. We hadn’t learned how to use.. weapons. Hand to hand, sure. Wrestling, Jiu Jitsu, etc.

Ayesha. Operative who would only join very rarely, and someone who was considered a “wild-card” by the top echelon. Someone who Kayla knew, and I’d seen.

The reunion with her was..

early in 2010. I think February? She’d heard about some news regarding Ayesha. She was shot dead somewhere in Hungary, and it was…

2014, later in the year. I’d returned from my campaigns. My own war. The cold M1911 pressed against my chest, and I contemplated it. This was my “finding my purpose.” As to ensure that this world was rid of men similar to myself with myself as the last one.

I heard a voice. Richard.

“Randall. Let’s speak. You can consider if you’d want to do that after, and I’m not stopping you.”

He passed me something; a blank Birth Certificate. A chance at another life. To be someone, free of the restraints. Only man alive who I would trust that far.

“Might as well speak.”

I put the gun on the table, and we spoke about the opportunity he was..

POW!

I watch from the sight as his body crumbled over from the shot to his neck. Krausher stared at me, and I just let the bleeding and broken man be. To let him suffer and die atop that hidden second floor.

He was a supe supremacist. Kidnapped random supes who had no purpose in the world after the massive restrictions put on them; torturing on them with no purpose, throwing them in holes and whatnot. I walked away. It was a cathartic feeling. It was…

.The explosion; specifically modified, not a regular one. You’d tanked RPGs before. Direct ones. Seems like the grenade was made to take you down. You could barely breathe. Ribs likely shattered, fading into unconsciousness. Home would heal all. Home healed when you were lit ablaze. Family. Arin. Haytham. Blade. Niko. Kayla. Family would heal. They were..

You’re still here in your broken body, reeling through your memories. Your life. And you return back to the proper order that you were reeling them through.

PASSAGE 1

You hadn’t slept in the last week. It was August 7th. You were in Robbin’s apartment; when you should’ve really been in your underground bunker. You’d learned much about Arin. His full name, place of residence. Parents. Deceased wife.A lack of specified employment. Not.. “Cozart Consolidated.”, but according to the IRS, he was employed and paying taxes annually as properly.

He didn’t rent/pay for the home he lived in, instead being a “gift” from his employers. His entire life was owned by them, basically. Doesn’t make much according to his taxes, but who knows how much really?

You continued your search for knowledge regarding Arin, which has gone on for too long.

Every single end, grasped at. What college did he go to? What was his father like? His father’s name was coincidentally Richard. He was a surgeon general and raised his son harshly, from psychological evaluations of Arin.

Back to him, he was described as a grieving pushover whose scientific knowledge was outweighing Myro (who’d actually failed Science. Ironic.) Didn’t doubt he did most of the work, either. Had his masters and a doctorate. Began working with them right after his wife passed. He had a few charges for disorderly conduct and Public Intoxication , but they didn’t have any actual consequences.

Off of that, Arin was a grieving drunk of a widower, no employment, no actual path in life when these men came to him with a job offer. They bankrolled him out of all of it. Consequences. Being a loud drunk in the city that stops for nobody. The center of apathy globally; and yet the city that raised you. In its dark shadows, is reserved for its indigenous. The community that’s underlying. The life beneath it all. Even as they drive out the indigenous, they’ll still see what you see. The painted picture of graffiti, the daily commute of millions. Your eyes grow misty in the thought of returning there to stay forever. The community which you last rejoiced with in Christmas week of 2012. Sure, you’d been there after. But you hadn’t let it remain there. Brian lived there for some time, and he probably had a moment like this, hoping to remain there but knowing that there’s work to be done. As for you, that was the Good Fight. The Good Fight mentioned in the Bible. The one spoken about in Timothy. To accept the Charge of Preaching, handed to oneself by God.

I recite a prayer.

Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. I myself am the greatest of these. But for that very reason I was treated mercifully, so that in me Jesus Christ might exhibit his inexhaustible patience, making me an example for those who would come to believe in him for eternal life. To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God,be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen.

And the fight of Righteousness will be fought through me, and my rifle. To send those responsible down to hell via its fire.

Hellfire.

Arin is another one of those men, who’ve been so thoroughly claimed by mortal vices due to the same tragedy you both shared; the death of your better halves.

You live a spartan life, as that General from a lifetime ago in your eyes.

You shared none of those vices to him and Arin, but your original war shared one thing.

Hatred. Wrath.

But to fight the Good Fight, you shunned those emotions. To pursue righteous, fortitude, gentleness, and love.

The mist in your eyes transitioned into liquid, before focusing back on the Good Fight.

The line you drew into the sand in March of 2013 will never be crossed. And the Lord will stay foremost, and Second to him are those who’ve fallen in this good fight. Your hands graze over the initials of Thomas Leeks on your rifle. For the man who, he himself was willing to fight the Good Fight and paid with his life.

And with the location of his place of residence and a peer into his state (even if outdated), the last few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fall into their place.

Passage 2.

Reconnaissance. The surveying, assessment and evaluation of an enemy. To learn how they operate in each and every way. Their routine. What habits they stick to.

Most can never realize how predictable they are. How quick, one intending to extinguish their metaphorical flame that’ll always burn within me alongside the wicks of Thomas, Kayla, Boone and many more can do that.

Arin isn’t methodical. He’s never been through the hell that is War, but he’s been through a hell that we share. And it haunts him as it does me. Takes up everything in his mind, though.

I can subtly tell. He doesn’t check for cars behind him. Doesn’t try to check if he’s being tracked. While Blade keeps the pressure on them as to not MAs them catch up that something’s wrong, i continue to hunt the most important little bug that’ll enter my web.

Goes to a supermarket. Buys fish to cook, alongside caffeine and other miscellaneous items. Doesn’t notice the little things. Man in a self checkout, leaving the moment he enters the line for the cashier to scan his food.

I take my American Rifleman magazine (a magazine that provides nice knowledge on munitions that keeping in mind would be great), my beef jerky and the small Coke Vanilla into my car and watch him leave a few minutes later. Take a bit to start tracking him. Follow where he goes to make a detour, and document the location, the time stayed, etc within a notepad.

Not distracted for a moment. Keep the magazine and shit in their bags as I watch.

Arin was around my age. Knew he was already widowed. Wore glasses, as i remembered. Plaid shirts. Relatively loose and normally open, looked like your average hipster. Not skinny, but not necessarily in perfect shape either. Reckoned he was like 5’9.

Get to crack open that magazine as he sleeps. Caffeine in the coke does good for me. Jerky provides me the calories to keep going.

After reading it, I plot out my schedule for the day. I spoke to Blade via phone on how it was going, and it was nice to hear from him. Few more days of RECON. Already determined the day. August 13th, Saturday night. He gets break that day, and would have been up late. He’d be in deep sleep by the time that was necessary. Know some shit about computers, taught by Richard. Learned the in and outs of his system. Looping the footage. Disabling it, or creating false alarms as to regulate him throughout the week. Uses a digital lock. Easiest shit ever, relying on his trust in modern tech. Resisted not doing it right there, that night.

Decided to catch my own sleep. Used his own surveillance system. If he awoke, I’d know. Slept in my Ford M151, modified to the Survivalist’s standards.

Same old, same old. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of.. what could’ve been with Boone.

PASSAGE 3.

August 13th. 2 AM. Arin fell asleep at 11. Would be in a deep sleep at this moment.

Black as the night ever could be. Constant raining; the outpour allowing me to do what I want to.

I entered his home quickly, leveling through the shaft; climbing up the hobercraff’s path.

Asleep. If I were intending to do nothing but blow his brains out, then that’d be perfect.

Told him to wake the fuck up. Reach for anything, brain’s would be splattered over his pillow.

Nodded.

Told him he’d tell me everything I need to know, and that I expected him to be intelligent enough to not make me have to pull out my tools.

Mentioned something about me scooping out eyes.

Good. He knows what’ll happen to him at a moments notice.

And he asked one question; with the naivety of a child.

**Why?**

Told him the obvious. They had done something horrible to someone I loved, and if he didn’t get to speaking; I’d show him what they did to them.

Lips quivered. Nervous little bastard.

Asked him what was going on with them.

He explained in rushed words; he’d cloned their leader in a real efficient body.

Asked why she’d need that.

He said no, about Wyatt.

Already killed that bastard. How’d they bring him back?

Specifed. Said it was senior.

Asked him to continue.

He explains that Senior had a stroke a few years back; and he was paralyzed from the waist down. Remarked something about how he was still able to smack his asshole boss.

Myro?

Yeah.

I told him that I didn’t tell him to stop talking. Explain why he thought they were innocent, or whatever misconception he had to ask me why.

He said that they were decent people, just trying to make medicine on people. Sure, they experimented on live humans but it was all ethical. They consented.

Told him that if he didn’t start speaking the truth and the whole truth, he’d have to re-learn how to walk.

He said that was **his** truth.

Told him he’d better wise up, and quick. Start this story of his at the beginning.

Here’s what he told me.

After his wife passed; he’d frequently went to parks and whatnot, drunk as fuck. Told him to go forward.

Guy car to him. Offering him a job. Name was.. Brian . He went by that.

My eyebrows shot up to my forehead; but he couldn’t tell. A tell does nothing good for you. Helmet covered it.

He continued.

They offered to move his wife’s body before he could even accept. Felt overwhelmng; but he couldn’t refuse to know his place in this world. He’d be an assistant, second to the real boss’s sister; a scientist named Myro. I knew this, but didn’t feel the need to interrupt.

Said he’d work on some mind-wiping thing for veterans with PTSD, people whom gone through traumatic events. Said he’d also built something to return those memories, but his boss ain’t know.

He worked on other stuff throughout that time; but a lot of it was unfounded and just “far dreams.” Experimented on some peopl himself to extract their “potent dna.” In its healing properties. Said something about how it could heal physical trauma which one shouldn’t come back from.

Said something about them being dismantled, and they told him it was some other evil group that hated the progress they were making. Big pharma or whatever. Told him it was all bullshit.

Eventually, in 2015; they’d taken over the scientist gang with the real cloning stuff. Got some guy named Haytham locked up in Wyatt’s own basement.

They’d gotten their own secret to cloning; and a few weeks ago, he’d cloned the boss. Got him into a new body with all that fancy dna from earlier. And said on the same day; some guy’d come and killed the sister’s/daughter’s body guard.

Told him if that was all; then to say his prayers. Closed his eyes. When he actually began to do it; I hit him upside the head and got him into my car.

Awoke tied up.

PASSAGE 4.

I stared down at him as he came to.

“Now. I have some more demands. You’re going to be my personal pal within the organization. Whatever I need to know; no, whatever’s known by you, gotta be known by me. Nod if you understand. And if you understand that screaming’ll get you nowhere but to Saint Pete’s gates.”

He nodded, so I tore the tape off his mouth.

“You’re going to be my informant. Understand? Now. You’re going to, when you gotta meet with them? Request a list of all of their filesbfor their bases, or something that’ll get you that. Say you’ll reorganize, or whatever bullshit would get you there.”

He nodded.

“Not a moment will go unsupervised. Act as if every moment of your life from here on out is being reviewed by me. And I don’t expect that I’ll have to threaten you anymore, because I don’t think you’re stupid. Are you stupid?”

He said no.

“Good man. Now. I’m going to drop you roughly a mile from home. I’ll presume you know your way. Think deeply about what side’s advantageous. Alright, Arin?”

I watched him from my scope as he came through on a head of grass.

That was that. To be or not to be, Arin?

Will you be alive from a week from now?

It’s all your choice, little man.

All your choice.

THE END.

[helsingvania]

massive wip

im trying to get on vgen rn so i can keep things organized and perchance get some commissions in officially. i need 100 likes and 5 unique comments

[nourhamoda24]

DON’T SCROLL. MY MOTHER IS SUFFERING.

If my mother dies, don’t tell yourself you did nothing.

You saw this. You read her pain. You knew how serious it is… and you chose to scroll.

Her thyroid is severely enlarged.

She went to the doctor… and the truth was devastating.

She needs surgery. Urgently.

Every single day, she lives in pain.

Every breath is heavy. Every moment is harder than the one before.

The doctors were clear:

Without treatment and surgery, her condition will only get worse.

This isn’t impossible. This isn’t out of reach.

A small amount from many people could save her life.

Something you might spend without thinking…

but for her, it means relief. It means hope. It means life.

Don’t be the reason she suffers in silence. Act now. Help now. Share this.

Vetted by @gazavetters #731 | Donate

[xxemarrde]

Nour and her son Mohammad deserve to live, never to, as Jehovah forbids, die. Palestinians are human beings just like us and we can't live without them in this world. Please don't look away. Do your part to share this post to spread the word. Please help the donation grow quickly.

[nourhamoda24]

Please, my friends, don't leave us alone. We desperately need you. My son is my only hope in this life. Don't let him be lost to me. Please, you are his last miracle. Don't watch him die and ignore him.

[thatoneautisticfnaffan]

And if I said that there’s SA subtext between Butcher and Hughie?

The Boys: Herogasm Issue #5 / The Boys: Dear Becky Issue #1

Putting these images side by side, Butcher and Black Noir, who sexually assaulted Hughie, parallel each other. While it’s not shown here, Hughie is sitting on the toilet for both frames.

The Boys Issue #3 / The Boys Issue #4

Let’s see here, we’ve got the new employees (Starlight and Hughie respectively) right before they’re assaulted by their bosses. Homelander forces Starlight into sex and Butcher forcefully injects Hughie with compound V. Homelander and Butcher act in similar ways, praising their about-to-be victims. Starlight and Hughie are looking away from them, unaware of what will happen next.

Sure, it wasn’t intentional on Ennis’ part, but holy shit is it difficult to ignore.

[littleboy1234f]

Very interesting. Didn’t peep this

[littleboy1234f]

@probablyapplejack listened to this playlist while making this: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_B9RHdLJRujBGAWtT8fMR78oBpgjpqM8&si=VOA9_AT8_pvtAbre

Clark

Clark

Just as The Alamo. Surrounded by more than they can handle. But instead of being with comrades, they’re on their lonesome. It won’t be thirteen days. It’s a matter of hours, if not minutes.

In a bunker within the base, that’s shut closed. They enter in smaller waves, but they have the numbers to keep this going. They’ll kill the man inside via tiring him out. The bunker is underground. Immune to all elements on the opposing sides hands besides flesh and blood. Besides entering directly with your firearms and facing on the sole man. The ordeal at hand prior to the man’s entrance was a deal. Between the Human Scientists and a corporation that majorly funded the government a few years back; since the time of my grandfather serving. They made worse plastic weapons than the M16. Main leader in the laser weapons industry that I knew did nothing but get more men killed than the enemy could ever do in their most erotic of dreams. What they’d been doing since Korea with those aforementioned plastic weapons. When the US government restructured, monopoly busting began. The Defense Industry became useless with them deciding to use their own massive surplus of arms, and focusing on the betterment of the people rather than the destruction of others.

I watch from a football (🏈) field away, hidden by the foliage and the rising sun. The man inside the bunker is Blade, my brother in arms. Odds are bad. And mentioning that former corporation; now trafficking MGAA in the absence that’s been left in the last year for good. Trying to put that shit back in the market makes you deserve this, and dealing with the scum that are the human scientists make the cold, white fury within me dump its reserves more methodically. They’re on a rooftop, all hurdled up around the bunker entrance. Blade has forced it closed. Gets no signal at the moment. It’ll only be a few minutes till they get it back open. I grabbed a napalm grenade. Knew what it does. MGAA isn’t very flammable, so it’ll be temporary. Laser tech may keep it burning. Fucking hate that shit. It’s a delight to watch it burn in a few seconds. I analyze the men. Zarabi, the head of the organization/ corporation. Dude dealing with him is semi-important to be regelated this job. Honestly, still surprised how punctual they are after me and Blade have interrupted nearly everything they’ve done in the last few days.

It goes ablaze in a large blue flame. Fuck. They’ve probably cut it with Fentanyl or some kind of shit of the kind. Some of that shit that was running rampant back in the 2000s; that kinda cigarette that allowed one to harness the smoke, probably that. I watch as Zarabi burns ablaze, in panic. I just watched, no intent to put anyone out of their misery. I saw one of them burning, in that stupid fucking armor back in 2013. They went to open the bunker even ablaze. Trying to do their job even to the death. I used that slit in the neck to blow off their throat and put them down. Marty Robbin’s Ballad Of The Alamo plays in my ears as I look down at it ablaze. The intense chaos going on down there. Wondered if this was how the final stand went there. I take my mask off to watch it with my own, unprotected eyes. To witness the beauty of.. the end. The end of the corporation who’d ruined hundreds of upon thousands of lives throughout the years. The fire burns away the sins. It reminds me of that woman wearing Kayla’s armor, she. I bashed her head in with the butt of the shotgun as we were both ablaze. No scars remain on my skin from it due to my own healing. I recall using the weakness that was intentionally placed in it for the soldiers wielding it, incase an armor was compromised. For this exact scenario, someone wearing one of our armors against us. Placing on the helmet, I already know what’s next.

I rush across the foliage, down towards the rooftop. The flames dissipates as I climb up the side, opening the bunker, yelling that it was me. Blade thanks me as I help him out of it, and the arm-hug we give shows only to our camaraderie. I haven’t told him the details of why I’m doing this. He’s owed that, and I’ll tell him eventually.

PASSAGE TWO

Returning to my base as I clean my firearms, with Blade having returned home. He’s getting a well deserved break. And I wish I weren’t at the moment. It makes my mind wander onto what I’ve been attempting to avoid all this time. The subject of Boone. What am I to do about him, the man who taught me how to fire a gun, how to fight war? How to think in it? If he’s even aware of me being on the opposite end. I think up scenarios of me gaining him as a inside agent or whatever. I meet up with him at a bar on false pretenses. He’ll ask why I’m not dead. Would I be able to do the impossible, of convincing my brother in arms to do this? I can’t kill him, for the sake of his son. For the sake of us. Don’t think he’d kill me either.

Passage Three

Cut the shit, Randal. You’re being more naive than I thought. You know Boone, and above all else; he follows orders. He’s licensed himself out as a mercenary. For whatever reason or motivation there is, he’ll kill you. He probably has the capability to do so.

A report comes in from your scanner; large explosion nearby in the deep, deep outskirts. Someone going down to NYC or north to Albany reported it. On a desolate road. Heard from miles away due to how loud it is. You got yourself dressed in the disguise of your identity, William Taggart; a detective in a federal investigative branch.

Arriving at the scene, you told the bystander’s it’s been handled. To go on their way or risk being arrested. They do so. And you investigate the scene.

It’s been exploded from within. Location was a human scientists facility as a bunker. You get into the cameras; or what remained.

The scene pieces itself together. They arrived in a hurry. Boone and Myro. Someone’s after them. The person who is.. is a superhero. Flashy, vibrant colors. I look down at his body, and it pieces together.

Thomas Leeks, the district attorney was under a secret identity as a superhero. You recall back on your cynicism. You were dismissing him as being another one of those nothing burger men with false promises. Yet, he died for this. You look at the footage. He’d been shot down by Boone. Cut down. Yet, broke his knee. He was very strong and durable,intelligent and highly tactical. I read up about him in that moment. A hero. Dying for a cause. After Thomas broke Boone’s knee, he died before the bombs went off. I could tell that by his body. Eyes already closed, accepting death in both sadness and acceptance.

I looked aside to the remaining bits of the armor, coat and the skeleton, continuing to watch the footage on my daredevil PDA.

Myro left him in there and self destructed the base out of some false fear of thinking Leeks was still alive. He yelled the name of his wife and son, unable to accept it and maybe asking them for forgiveness as it exploded. He ran at the door, attempting to break it open as he was vaporized.

I think back onto the cynicism. A fucking hero, and I dismissed his words as him “wiping his dick” with the files I gave him. I grabbed the fabric and the remaining bits of armor, taking it with me. Couldn’t involve anyone who wasn’t already involved. He was an unacceptable tragedy. Knew it was his choice to get involved, especially when he broke the law via not following the supe shit, having to be patrolled with a cop. But he went off to do what was right. To fight the Good Fight. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but knew it WAS in a way at the same time. Never again. Never again.

CONCLUSION.

I return to my base with the pieces, grabbing a small razor blade I’d used to shave to engrave a name into the barrel; the part i’d hold each time. Where my fingerprints would always feel. I engraved it DEEPLY.

T.L.

Thomas Leeks.

I wanted some form of vengeance for both of them. To strike back. And I began to read the files about.. a “assistant to Myro.” Named Arin.

[littleboy1234f]

Passage 1.

Günter Von Cozart.

Related to Fredrick the Great only by law, Gunter fought the Seven Years War, before going off to the Colonies to train and galvanize their forces. He was a very efficient leader during his time; saving over ten thousand men from the British, successfully defending a town near Canada against what’s over twenty thousand British on an attempted new front in the war, and conquering Maine.

He stayed in the United States after his wife came overseas , and his family remained until this day.

I am not related to this man via blood.

Instead, during that time period?

I was related to a Frenchman who called himself Marquis De Moser who had his ass saved by Gunter, and an indigenous man who lived on the island of Hispaniola who has no information regarding him anywhere. A few generations later; the maternal side of my family were in Latveria, fighting my for a resistance against the Nazis.

Now, a few generations back again.

My paternal side, having moved from the Dominican Republic in the 1860s due to the Spanish invasion. He fought for the Union;

For American citizenship for his entire family, and to the right of self determination for millions. From scholarly writings he’s made to document himself; i think of him as a well educated man who I would’ve delighted from having a conversation with.

He studied in Europe, was a poly linguist who was fluent in four languages at the minimum, and literate in more.

Yet, he was willing to go off to war because he believed in the cause he fought for. He believed it was important.

And, my grandfather paternally fought in the greatest war in contemporary history as did my maternal grandfather and grandmother; out of necessity. World War Two. My Grandfather fought in Africa the British, shredded German forces on Normandy; and after reaching Berlin, joined the island hopping campaign.

He passed away from medical complications related to a gas used during the Korean War over forty years later, when i was seven.

I remember him as an intelligent man. He explained to me fables of old, and asked me what I gathered from them. He explained to me poetry from more modern times and did the same. He viewed Education as being more important than anything else. To think for oneself, and to reflect onto history and gather a path for yourself.

I’m sorry. I tell them all this. My brother, my father, and my ancestors. For keeping the Clarks at war.

This time, I’m stepping onto the same continent that my grandfathers did for their war.

I didn’t finish on my maternal grandfather, but he was the main resistance fighter, per se the figurehead for Latveria. In conversation, mentioned in the same context as Tito. When the Soviet’s steamrolled through, they recognized that this man UNITED them for an identical cause. And that did not align with Stalin’s causes.

He was exiled; but not in the way you think he was.

Instead of killing him, or exiling him in the historical context, they refused to make a martyr of him.

They stripped him of all legacy. Of it all. Left him penniless.

And yet, Kendrick still went off to fight a war that benefited nobody, besides those at the top. So did I.

With the intentional sabotage of gear sent as to cut corners and to get more of a profit.

To gather drugs and to sell them.

The locals are harmed.

The American people, overseas and in the nation are harmed via proxy.

And not to mention those fighting on both sides; the people it awoke within them.

The people who never returned home, either physically or mentally.

For some domino effect that never went true, and left the nations of Southeast Asia as a hollow version of themselves to this day.

And the cycle repeats.

The Clarks go off to war. For varying reasons.

And in the next few days, I will be arriving at the selected battlefield, which is Haugesund, Norway. I’m staying at a hotel around the area, in Rogaland.

PASSAGE 2.

I continue to scribble down onto this notepad at a corner in the bar. And I decide to give an explanation. To myself at least.

This war is based around protection of the innocent, not the base instinct of vengeance and a cold furious rage that led me on the one back in 2013.

I started this for Niko. I started many other wars in 2014 for those children. I killed Krausher FOR the innocent people he’d kidnapped just off their identity.

Been doing it since my initial war ended.

Isn’t vigilantism, either. Tried to get the law involved as much.

Travelled down to New York to speak to the DA. He was a dark-skinned man, with a goatee, with braids assorted in a ponytail for professionalism. Name was Thomas Leeks

I remained under an identity Richard gave me.

Doctor

Francis Fury, an Irish doctor whos family moved to the US when he was younger. Didn’t apply any facade nor accent.

Just gave him my ID then gave him a copy of what was in the PDA.

Said he’d look into it . I know, in English that means “I’m going to wipe my dick with these files. Go fuck yourself and never return.”

The tender comes by.

Familiar guy, we’d spoken about my struggles to quit alcoholism a few months back.

Told him frankly that I’d fallen off the wagon.

His eyes widened, and he asked when.

Told him it happened earlier yesterday.

He said that my me and my pal weren’t drinking alcohol yesterday, so he pressed for more.

I told him I wasn’t speaking about alcohol, and after a wide, deer-in-headlights esque look at me, he said “Really?” And just walked away.

Back to what I was writing.

I’m not going to stoop to levels of depravity as once had. I’m going to stay methodical. I’m not going to let my rage overtake me, nor a cloud of fury. My war is built on the protection of the innocent, and truly decimating the human scientists so nobody has to experience what I did. I want to make the world better for good people. I want to fight the good fight.

And I know how to do that.

Me and Blade have decided to divide and conquer, well; divide as in split up. I’m going to Europe, as I mentioned earlier.

Blade’s going to do what I did; raid bases, get information. Gave him the run down on everything from my own experience.

As of me, let me explain.

From Avirel’s PDA, she had linked up (Not in the way you’re thinking. This is American English. When we say “linked up”, we mean connected with/ teamed up with someone, not engaged in coitus you british bastard. Just kidding. I love you. This is OOC) with a European ring that’d established itself years ago, according to them and their paperwork. They had a monopoly on.. chemicals and materials needed for cloning.

Meeting happens tomorrow. Flight is in five hours, but I can’t sleep and the bar isn’t closing. Got everything packed, and the airport is close enough. So the Clarks go to war..

PASSAGE 3.

You sit on that airplane, out looking the window. You’re in first class. Francis Fury is going off to Europe, with his connections allowing for him (or you), to bring all the items you desire.

You admire the view you have, looking out the window.

Haven’t had a vacation since those years back; and it was just as much of a vacation as it was a change of scenery as it is now.

Still gotta fight the good fight, no matter where you are.

This.. kingpin of illegal chemicals, or whatever’s provided this. You know where and when they’re going to be there. You have on a long-sleeved striped polo, jeans and combat boots for that just in case. A watch lies on your wrist; the one Boone gifted everyone. You wonder where he is now. Probably raising his son out there. You’d calculated; his son should be about 16 now, born in 2000.

Richard’s a colonel now, due to his exquisite handling of nearly every situation, every scandal that’s came his way. You wouldn’t be surprised if he threw his cowboy hat into politics from the long talks you had with him. He’s basically the modern day Ulysses S Grant. He would be the first truly American president after all. He grew up in a reservation camp in Arizona, and graduated in political science.

Ayesha’s dead. You remembered when Kayla told you the news, and it didn’t surprise you. That’s how her story was destined to end.

And Kayla’s story should’ve never ended there. You should be in that plot of land (which you’ve used as a bunker to wage war since her death; and now return to.) raising a family. She’d gotten off of birth control and you remembered the month before you’d started arguing.

Life was good.

Too good.

And the flight attendant diligently gives you your cheez-its alongside a cup of coffee.

Sipping it as you look out; you’d remembered something.

Ears didn’t pop.

It’d been well over 10 years SINCE you’d been injected, so this was usual.

But it was nice. To have that pain in your ass disappear thanks to a magic injection a few years back.

Even with the dosage of caffeine and produced cheese, you slip asleep on your way to Norway.

PASSAGE 4

I awake, take my suitcase and quickly make it to the hotel.

High-end. From some of the money back in 2013; they had a shitload of safes in their bases. Always took all I could get. Weapons would go in the bunker, money into the same place. Saved it for a rainy day; and it’s hailing like a motherfucker right now.

I decided I’ve slept enough on the plane, and I get a rental car. My breakfast consists of a pack of Beef Jerky and a Yoo-Hoo as I drive, all taken from a market. Follow the directions on my old Survivalist PDA, some PDA that was a “Special edition Daredevil”, red with the double d’s on it for promotion of that Ben-Affleck flick which honestly wasn’t all too bad. Painted it yellow when I was in college; so it looked like his classic costume. Has all the data I need. Global geographic map, with updating routes, records of everything necessary, and lastly.

Pictures of Kayla, the most valuable thing on it. Look at them for motivation. To ensure nobody has to suffer what I did. And the cold, hard fury I promised wouldn’t take over remains as an energy vessel in the back of my heart, coming in only when my body views necessary; like my Adrenaline reserves. I parked outside of the closed lighthouse which lights were still on, even at 7 AM. I broke in. Shut the cameras off via my PDA’s other capabilities (thanks, Richard. Would’ve thought you went to school for engineering, computer science, anything besides poli-sci with that brain of yours.)

I go up with a sniper rifle.

Glint would be obscured by the light from the lighthouse, so it’s the perfect spot.

One issue.

I’m not very good with a sniper rifle. Only half decent, and at these ranges; it turns into being worst then a mule handling one. The 12.7mm Survivalist rifle was always my speciality, it being modified in every little aspect for me.

I look onto the scene. A very large, green-skinned man speaking to Myro. And a man in.. Is that a Beret? Who the fuck is..

That’s a clone. They’ve cloned Boone. Has to be. No other way. No other fucking way.

and that’s when my body determines it’s necessary.

POW!POW! POW!

I begin to fire out of pure rage. One knicks the green man’s cheek, one is only protected thanks to Boone tackling em. And I know it’s Boone in that moment.

I hoped the blood of the covenant was thicker than the wads of cash in that moment. He rushed to prepare his rifle to fire-back, and I jumped down the staircase, catching myself only with the sniper and pulling myself up.

Damn.

Had to return ASAP.

Got onto a flight back in the next two hours.

And I drifted asleep immediately, to distract oneself from the revelation. Thinking was for home. Strategizing was with those around you, your current brother in arms. You stare down at your watch with an inkling of sadness; one that you knew would roll up into a flood eventually.

The next installment is coming sooner then later. I plan to have at least 3 out this week (og story, all the way to Boone’s death before Sunday.)

[mutalieju]

I think some analyses of The Boys comic have the tendency to point at Hughie and claim that he is intended to be the audience surrogate and the good guy in the story which imo is just an extension of the (misguided) attempt of trying to see the story as a black and white hero vs villain narrative where if Butcher is the villain then Hughie must be in the right.

The thing people like to point at is Hughie's calling out Butcher for his transphobia but if you look at it in context Hughie is doing it because he is frustrated with Billy. Just read the whole conversation! Even when doing it he can't help but to center himself. "You know I hate that shite" like maybe neither Butcher or Hughie are meant to be total examples of being in the right? It doesn't even mean Hughie doesn't care about the subject since he certainly cares about Bobbi as his friend!

Hughie remains in most ways the way he is during the comic but while it means him never becoming okay with violence it also includes him not fully coming to terms of his relationship to the systems of power. A big example of this is in his backstory in 'Highland laddie' where he just never even realizes the ways he was a part of ruining that guy's life via police violence. He never realizes it!

[littleboy1234f]

I loved that Hughie was actually FLAWED and not this perfect guy.