Aftermath

    The air in the small room is thick. It smells like cigarettes and shit. A small drop of water clings desperately to an old, rusted pipe. It falls, existing for only a moment before becoming a part of the small puddle that has formed beneath it. A blind rat makes its halting way to the puddle and sniffs at it. A man groans and the rat scurries back into the shadows.

    The man's coat is thrown across his makeshift bunk, riddled with bullet holes. He throws the bulletproof vest next to it. There's blood on it that's not his own.

    'Fuck,' he whispers. His voice shakes. 'Fuck!'

    They'd been so close to uniting the gangs under one ragged banner. Stayn betrayed him. He balls his hands into fists and roughly wipes away the tears rolling down his hollow cheeks.

    'Fuck,' he sniffs.

Interrogation

    Slate leaned back in the chair and gently massaged his temples. It was five in the morning and he could already feel the first headache growing at the top of his spine. The man on the other side of the table was called The Russian. He wasn't actually Russian, Slate knew. He was from Sweden or Finland or some such. When the team had brought him in, he'd looked very handsome. He'd smiled and laughed and joked. After three hours of interrogation by the hands of Slate and Dominic, he'd stopped looking handsome. He was still smiling, though. And laughing. And joking.
    Slate glared at The Russian through the haze of smoke that filled the dark room. His face was swollen and bruised. The lower half of his face was covered in blood.
    'Where's the fucking glove, Russian?' Slate asked for the umpteenth time. He wasn't expecting an answer.
    'Up mein ass,' The Russian said. 'How about you reach up und grab it?'
    Dominic appeared beside him and wrapped his big hand around The Russian's neck.
    'We're getting real tired of your bullshit, Russian.' He growled. 'And I get grumpy when I'm tired. Where's the glove?'
    The Russian laughed. 'I already told you,' he said. 'It's up my a-'
    Dominic pulled his fist back. For a moment the single naked 60 watt bulb in the ceiling sparkled crazily on his golden wedding ring. Then the fist pistoned forward and slammed into the side of The Russian's face. He was thrown sideways off the chair, landing in a pool of his own blood and shattered teeth.
    Dominic flexed his hand. Gurgling laughter came from The Russian's broken mouth. Slate took a deep pull on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long time before letting it snake out of his nostrils.
    It was going to be a long day.

Finals

It's time for the final exams, so updates will be scarce for the next few weeks.

Here's a picture of an alpaca defying the laws of gravity.

Coming Home, pt. 28

    The pilgrim was struck dumb. 'Seven hundred...' he said, trailing off. 'How? How is that possible?'

    'Well, you know, seeing as I'm not really alive per se, it's not that crazy.'

    'You're not alive?' The pilgrim asked.

    'Not like you squishy humans, no.'

    'Squishy humans? What are you, Ripley?'

    'I'm a robot, buddy. Yup. One of the best robots in the world, in fact. Sassy, sexy and containing the collected knowledge of the entire Internet!'

Coming Home, pt. 27

    'Ah. You're a clever, aren't you?' Ripley said. 'Asking all the right questions like some kind of right-question-asking-machine from the planet Smartass. But I know where you're going with this, mister! You want to know who I am.'
    'There's no fooling you,' the pilgrim said, his smile returning.
    'You bet your ugly face. But I'll make you a deal: I'll answer your questions if you answer mine.'
    The pilgrim frowned in confusion. 'That sounds fine, but what could I tell you that you'd want to know?'
    'Oh, lots of stuff. Go on, you start,' she said.
    'How old are you?'
    'I stopped counting at seven hundred and eighty years.'
   

Coming Home, pt. 26

    'Aperture Science built this cozy little cave for their employees. I think so, anyway. Can't really remember.'
    'You can't remember?'
    'Well it's been a while, innit?' Ripley said indignantly. 'Jeez Louise, mister criticism over here!'
    The pilgrim raised his hands in defense. 'Sorry, sorry, I meant no offense.'
    'Yeah, you better apologize. I'll mess you up, bro.'
    The pilgrim laughed. His laugh was low and raspy like dragging steps across dry earth. It made his cheeks hurt. Then a thought struck him and the laugh disappeared.
    'You said that it'd been a while...' He paused, searching for words. 'How long a while, exactly?'

Coming Home, pt. 25

    He lay stretched out on the floor, happier than he'd been in a long time and stripped of both hat and coat.
    'So tell me,' he said, between sucking his fingers clean of food, 'What is this place? Who's all the food for?'
    'Hoo, boy. That's a long story, bucko.'
    'Short version, then.'
    'Okay, see those labels on the food cans?'
    The pilgrim picked up one of the empty cans and looked at the faded, orange, friendly-looking letters on its side.
    '"Aperture Science Emergency Rations,' he read aloud. 'For use only in the case of environmental, social, economic or structural collapse. Does not contain traces of human."'

Coming Home, pt. 24

    With a pop of compressed air, he tore the lid off the nearest can, half expecting to find it filled with dust. The mouth-watering smell of pineapple made him gasp with its intensity. With shaking hands, he reached down and picked out a single piece of the glistening, yellow fruit and popped it into his mouth. He had never tasted anything so sweet.
    For a long time, the pilgrim simply ate and drank. Besides the pineapple, he found hundreds of different kinds of food. Bread, dried meat and every fruit and vegetable he could think of, all preserved in these fist-sized metal cans.
    He ate and ate until he felt like his stomach would burst. It was only then, when his hunger and thirst had been sated, that he took the time to really notice his surroundings.

Coming Home, pt. 23

    Beyond the door lay a wondrous treasure, unlike any the pilgrim - if he could indeed still be called that - had ever seen. He cared little for gold, silver or any of the other shining metals so sought after by men of civilization. He was a man of the wild. He was a man of survival.
    The walls were lined with metal shelves. They were filled with hundreds - no, thousands - of shining metal cans from floor to ceiling.
    'Is that...' He began, almost afraid to put hope into words. As it was, he did not have to.
    'Damn straight,' Ripley said. 'Enough food and water to feed a small army for a year. Or the Numa Numa Guy for a week.'

Klopmog

Myself and a couple of buddies are creating our own language. It's called "klopmog". It's amazing.

Coming Home, pt. 22

    'I've no idea,' he said and laid his hand on the door handle. He felt oddly pensive. He'd become accustomed to being lonely, hungry and thirsty; a pilgrim with neither friends nor means of sustenance. Something told him that beyond this door lay the means to undo all the things that he was. He feared that if he opened this door, he would seize to be the pilgrim.

    Ripley kept on talking, but her voice sounded distant and the meaning of her words were lost on him. 

    'Okay,' he muttered to himself and opened the door. 'Okay.'