Son of Hawktooth

    Son of Hawktooth tracked his quarry through the darkening forest. His loping, wolf-like gait carried him swiftly across the soft layer of pine needles. He raised his muzzle and sniffed the air. The man was close.  He could smell the acrid stink of  fear on him. This was going to be easy.
    An arrow caught Son of Hawktooth high in the shoulder, eliciting a yelp of pain. Fifty yards away, his quarry was already nocking another arrow.
    Son of Hawktooth launched himself at him. Another arrow pierced his chest. He descended on the man like a whirlwind of steel, teeth and horns.

Amanda Seinfeld

    

    For Amanda Seinfeld, cleanliness and loneliness went hand in hand. Her friends had called her weird. Her parents had called her disturbed. Her doctors had called her a germophobe. She called herself pure. And in order to remain pure, she had to remove herself from the ones who were not. 

    She had isolated herself. She had created a fortress of sterility to keep out the great unwashed. The filth-bearing masses. The ones that carry the corruption. Her fortress was not one of stone walls and spiked parapets, but one of glass, steel and plastic. 

    For a while, her isolation had worked. Her episodes of hysteria had stopped. She no longer had to scrub her hands until beads of blood seeped through the torn skin. She had lived in white, stainless peace and sterile happiness until, one day, she started sensing the filth. There was not a speck of dirt to be seen, but she could feel invisible strands of rust and decay creep under her door, reaching out for the her. 

    From then on, things only got worse. She got every single hair on her body surgically removed. Her long, amber curls. Every single hour of having her follicles individually burnt out by IPL epilators had been excruciating. But that hadn't been enough. After several months of bloody scrubbing and fits of panic, Amanda had found the solution. If she could not remove herself from the filth, she would simply have to remove the source of the filth itself. 

***

    Twenty floors above the dark streets of the city, Amanda Seinfeld looked down at the disease-ridden beasts milling around like panicked ants in a collapsing hive. Piles of bodies filled the streets. Her plans were finally unfolding.

    Amanda folded her white, delicate fingers in front of her pale mouth and, for the first time in twenty years, she smiled. 

Derpady

My mind is blank, empty and without a scrap of creativity. Also I'm lazy and tired. Double story tomorrow.

Paranoia

     'I'm telling you, Ulrich, my enemies are everywhere. Everything in here,' he jabbed Ulrich with a gloved finger. 'Literally every single thing in here, could be covered in poison.' 

     'I doubt that, Doc.'

     'Poison of the most lethal sort!' He insisted, grabbing a jar and brandishing it in Ulrich's face. 'Underdark Rattler extract!' He picked up a half-eaten chicken leg. 'Essence of beholder!' He grabbed a chair with both hands and lifted it over his head. 'CRIMSON DEATH POWDER!'

    'I think that Juniper girl made you paranoid.'

    'Paranoid?' he hissed. 'I'll show you paranoid!' 

    Ulrich sighed. 'I'd really rather you didn't.'

Poisoned

  

    His hands clawed desperately, snatching random vials and sending other crashing to the floor. He had to work fast. Faster than the poison coursing through his body. He banged his knee into the sharp metal edge of the table, but there was no stabbing lance of pain. He couldn't feel his legs. His arms were buzzing. His vision was almost gone. He was dying. He was outraged. No, he was beyond outraged. He was fucking furious.
    With gritted teeth, Blitzmann filled a syringe with six different kinds of adrenaline and pure liquid stubbornness and jabbed it straight into his struggling heart.
     

Leaving

    Juniper leaned forward, her face so close he could feel her breath. It smelled like roses.
    'Ready?' she whispered. Blitzmann didn't flinch as she planted a soft kiss on his thin lips.
    She smiled broadly, two rows of white teeth uncannily like those of a wolf's. She turned gracefully, black locks of hair caressing his face, and sauntered out the door. When it had shut after her, Blitzmann allowed himself to move. He put a hesitant finger to his lips. A smile crossed his usually rigid face. Perhaps he should go after her. Perha-
    His lips had gone numb.
    'What the fupoison.'

Assumptions

    Let us assume, for a moment, that everything we believe to be true is false. Assume that up is down, that light is dark, that good is bad. Assume that the very foundations we've built our world on are so corrupted and pitted with decay that they can hardly be called foundations at all.
    If you cannot do this, I ask that you stop reading. But if you can accept that things may not be as they seem – if you have the broadness of mind to listen and learn – I urge you to read on.
    Ready? Good, then let us begin.

Explosion

  

    Juniper had expected violence. She had expected blood and a lost limb. She had not expected this. The axe bit into the drow's gut with a wet thud who took a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth. She cringed and braced herself.
    'Wha-,' she began. Then the drow exploded with enough force to send Bloodfist crashing through the wall. Had it not been for the two-inch-thick barrier of solid steel between them, no doubt it would have done the same to her. Even so, the force of the explosion was horrifying. With a deafening roar, chunks of wood, iron and flesh rocketed across the room, painting the walls red. A piece of thigh landed between her and Blitzmann, spattering the doctor's white robes with blood. He didn't notice. Juniper turned her head and vomited violently.

*

    Blitzmann was a little disappointed. The explosion itself had been perfect. The subject was dead as could be. His assistant was being sick in the corner. All good, true, but the demon that stood before him was pathetic. He frowned down at the small, fat creature that was currently busy scratching its behind with a short, white claw.
    'You're pathetic,' he said.
    'Yeah,' it muttered.

Bloodfist

Image courtesy of Wizards of the Coast

    'Now, Mr. Fist,' Blitzmann called from behind the protective barrier, hands cupped around his mouth. 'I'd like you to pick up the axe.' 

    Bloodfist did so. The axe, though by no means small, looked positively tiny in his massive, dirty fist. He gurgled laughter. 'Y'call this lil' thing an axe?'

    Blitzmann frowned. 'I don't pay you to talk, Mr. Fist. I pay you to throw axes at assassins. Now...' He made an inviting gesture. 'Please do so.'

    'Whatever y'say, bossman.' He raised the axe over his head. 'Alley-oop!'

    Blitzmann turned to Jupiter. 'Now watch carefully, my dear,' he said, grinning broadly.

Ipso Facto

Image courtesy of Dr. Steel

    When Jupiter's pretty features paled in terror rather than flush in excitement, Blitzmann felt it best to explain.
    'I'll spare you the details,' he said. 'But here's the gist of it: a drow gets hired to assassinate me. He fails, and I perform a few experiments on him. Said drow's clan swears revenge, sends more assassins my way, yadda yadda yadda, long story short, ipso facto, I am now a sworn blood-nemesis of Clan Undrek'Thoz.'
    He couldn't help but notice that Juniper did not look reassured.
    'I use them as test subjects,' he said. 'Live bodies are hard to come by.'

Nothing Special

    Blitzmann wheeled the drow into the cleared space, the black-skinned creature tied securely to a solid block of wood. It rolled smoothly across the wooden floor of the warehouse. Juniper frowned at the sight.
    'What's this?' she asked from the other side of the room.
    'Nothing special,' Blitzmann said. 'Just another would-be assassin come to exact revenge in the night.'
    'Oh,' she said. 'No, I'm sorry, what? Another assassin?'
    Blitzmann waved dismissively. 'It's nothing to worry about, really.'
    'It is when I'm involved!' she insisted, her usual composure gone.
    'You'll get used to it,' he said, joining her behind the barricade.

Axe

    After the silent battle that Juniper seemed not only indifferent to, but also to win, Blitzmann turned his back to her with a dismissive 'Pah!' She breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Doctor Blitzmann was not an easy man to work with, but there were ways to deal with him: Prove your value. Stand firm in your beliefs. Suggest something utterly insane and overly complicated.
    'An axe, perhaps.'
    'An axe? You want m-'
    'That explodes.'
    Blitzmann pauses. 'It also summons demons,' he says.
    'Small ones,' says Juniper.
    'I think we will get along splendidly, Miss Berries,' he says, extending a hand.

Assistant

    'Strapping spikes onto the squirrels won't actually turn them into...' Juniper glances at her notes. '"Unstoppable, orange killing machines," doctor.' She flicks a strand of black hair away from her pretty face.

    Blitzmann scowls at her, then at the box of chittering squirrels. 'Well,' he says, a little indignantly. 'Perhaps you should have brought me some better squirrels!'

    Juniper raises an eyebrow. 'Better squirrels, doctor?'

    'Yes!' he says. 'Better! Bigger! Angrier! Bring me a batch of pumped up and pissed off squirrels, and I'll bring you the most dangerous group of merciless killers the world has ever seen. But this,' he says, brandishing one of the small, furry, spike-covered creatures. 'I can do nothing with this.' The squirrel nips playfully at his fingers before he throws it back with the others.

    'If I may speak frankly, doctor?'

    Blitzmann waves his hand in an "of course" kind of way.

    'Our employers are deeply concerned about your ideas. They've asked you to bring them a weapon. Something that will win them the war. Quite frankly,' Juniper says, 'The quality of squirrels is the least of your concerns.'

    Blitzmann glares at his new assistant. She holds his gaze, a slightly bored look on her face. 

Phrase and Jax

    "Welp," said Jonathan Phrase, clapping his hands together. "As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I really must get going."
    Jax watched the man get to his feet and place his hands on the door. "I doubt the Metals will just let you walk out the front door, buddy," he said.
    "Jonathan Phrase," he said, still facing the door.
    "Huh?"
    "My name is Jonathan Phrase." His voice was calm as ever, but Jax could hear the steel in it. "Get it right."
    "Sorry," he muttered. He opened his mouth to ask the man a question. Then the door exploded.

Looks 2

    Even after we discovered that looking at someone could kill them, people kept dying. The effects seemed to grow stronger as time passed. The first ones hadn't died before hundreds of people had stared at them for hours at a time. Then it only took a few people. Then it took a long, hard stare. Now, all it took was a glance.

    Thomas adjusted a strap on his suit, making sure his entire body was covered. Thomas was a fast learner. He'd been one of the first to realize what was happening, and he had wasted no time responding accordingly. His very first consideration was whether the phenomenon was physical or supernatural. If it was the former, he stood a chance of surviving. If it was the latter... Well, he might as well lie down and wait for someone to look his way. As it was, he felt pretty safe in his assumption that the "Gaze", as he had named it, was a product of evolution and not, as most people firmly believed, God's divine judgement on man.
    His suit was the product of three days of labor. The innermost layer was a skintight full body suit of grey fabric, stopping at his neck. Over that, he wore a black tactical vest and sturdy pants. Thin plates of metal were sewn into the fabric. Not enough to stop a bullet, perhaps, but enough to stop a knife. He had no illusions about human ferocity. He wore a pair of military-grade boots. What little fuel they had would soon run out, and a solid pair of boots would be invaluable. His head was mostly covered by a black ski mask, which left only his eyes exposed. Strapped to his face was a large set of night vision goggles, four green lenses protruding from the device.

Derp de derp

    Argh, sorry. I'm going to skip two updates in a row. Tomorrow will be different! 303 words! Honest.

Muscles

    A transfusion of T-Rex blood was just the thing Buck Plankchest needed. That shark-riding bear had sneaked up on him when he was sleeping punching Russia. No real damage done, but he had lost a bit of blood. Now he had all the blood he needed. He accidentally flexed, and his massive upper body tore apart his kevlar t-shirt.
    "You listen to me, upper body muscles," he said. His voice was like a running chainsaw in a metal barrel filled with gravel. "You may have outsmarted my shirt, but there's one thing you can't outsmart." He made a fist. "My boot in your face."

Looks

    At the dawn of time, in 1992, it was finally discovered that looks can, in fact, kill. It started, as most important things do, with a wave of unexplained deaths. An unfortunate man or woman would simply stop whatever they were doing, keel over, and die. It was just a handful of people to begin with. A couple of models, an actor, a politician. Then a couple more. Then a hundred. Then a thousand. A million. A billion. When half of us were gone, we finally figured it all out. That was the last day a human being looked upon another.

Why So Glum?

    "Why so glum, friend?" Jonathan Phrase said.

    "Not much to be happy about, is there?" Jax muttered, glaring at the man sitting across from him.

    "Oh, I don't know about that," he said, smiling infuriatingly. "You're still alive. You're young and strong. You have an incredibly charming and handsome conversational partner."

    Jax looked at the man with a raised eyebrow. His skin was dirty and rough, a week-old stubble covering his jaw and cheeks. Grey, tangled hair fell to his shoulders. Quite frankly, he looked like a pile of rags, and 'charming' was not the first word that came to mind.

Legendary Frauds

    "You'll need more than brawn, though."
    "For what?" Jax muttered, wincing at his aching head..
    "To survive, for starters."
    Jax frowned in annoyance. He'd been surviving just fine for twenty years.
    "I'll have you know," he said, raising himself onto his elbow. "That I was trained Raoul Lefevre." That'd teach h-
    "That old fraud?" He laughed. "No wonder they caught you."
    Infuriated, Jax tried to stand.
    "He's a legend!" He shouted. "He's trained the best warriors in the world! He's outsmarted the Metals at every turn! He's a penguin who lives on the moon and I think I have a concussion."

--
Music of the now: The Streets - Going Through Hell

Headache

    "You alright, son?"
    Jax rolled onto his back, groaning. Where was he? He tried to open his eyes and immediately regretted it. It was very bright. Ow. Right, forget that. What had happened? Had they finally caught him? Signs point to yes.
    "Shit." He croaked.
    "I'll take that as a yes. You must've put up quite the fight, judging from the blood and bruises and whatnot."
    Jax turned his head towards the voice and opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. He could just make out a blurry shape some six feet away.
    "My name is Jonathan Phrase." It said.

--
Music of the now: Memento Mori, by The Streets
 

Nightmare

Before reading, make sure this track is playing.

    I touch the sigil. It's cold to the touch. My fingers start to tingle. My arm goes numb. The world goes black.

    I'm staring at the stone ceiling of an ancient prison cell. Crumbling wooden bed. Rusty iron bars. Cobblestones stained with something dark. I don't know where the light is coming from.

    I wiggle and squirm, try to force my body back up the well. It's too tight to move my arms. I cry and grasp at the slick walls, sliding further down. The light above me shrinks into the distance and leaves me in darkness.
    Beneath me, something moves.

Find Him

    "Find him." She said. They tried.
    They used DNA. They used federal agents. They used snipers. They used mind readers. They used surveillance cameras. They used satellites. They used Gordon Ramsay, but he honestly wasn't much help. By the time they'd realized that he was a master chef and not a Master Chief, he'd spent their entire budget on caviar-filled croissants. Granted, they were delicious, but that didn't help their investigation much.
    When they did finally catch him, it wasn't thanks to snipers, DNA or satellites. What finally caught him was Chocolate Gunsmoke, the best black private eye in Elevation City.

--
Music of the now: Dr. Wanna Do, by Caro Emerald 

Bwoken Nose

    "Motherfucker! You bwoke by nose!" Jax fell on his ass, clutching his bleeding face. "That really hurt!"
    When the man stepped forward, Jax launched himself at him. His head hit the man square in the face with a crunching sound, knocking him to the ground.
    "Yeah," Jax said, shaking his head. "See how you like it!"
    "I like it well enough." The man said.
    "Oh yeah? Have some more!" He kicked at the prone man, missed, and almost fell over. He felt a little woozy. He smoothed his hair back, and his fingers came away bloody.
    "Oh." He said and fainted.

--
Music of the now: Ecstasy of Gold, by Ennio Morricone