Creative Entries

[Colodie]

Maethius:

The air barely stirred the dust of the Plains of Muroa, enough only to briefly rustle the arid brush daring to compromise the naked landscape as it rolled away to the distant Starfall Sea beyond the western horizon. Plains. So long had it been that the legendary disaster had ravaged the world of Zi that there were only writings to remind the scattered and scratching populous of what had once been. Of what was gone forever.

Captain Jirair narrowed his eyes, the dark flesh framing them creasing with recesses gouged from the heavy burdens of his post, timeless and seemingly without end. The aches of his spine and shoulder where mere shades at the very edge of his perception; the trophies of mere flashes of valor that he now carried in perpetuity. He glanced away from the distant glow of the setting sun to his right, to the single pane of armored canopy with a notably darker tint. It was held in by heavily welded plates of rough industrial steel, the distressed and reset composite frame about the pane still shrugging free the paint attempting to conceal the wounds of the past.

He smiled.

Jirair had patrolled the borders of his tribe’s hereditary lands for more than five decades and the vast majority of those within the armored skull of this very machine. His Godos was a front line trooper of the Helic Republic some centuries ago, or so his father had told him. It had gone so many refits, so many customizations as components aged and failed, that it was merely a shadow of its former self. It was the second heaviest Zoid in the tribe; of the twelve mechanical beasts in their military, only Major Nolan’s Desert Fox was more powerful.

With a long sigh, Jirair frowned at the softly glowing displays cluttering the roll cage before him. Sweeps of light representing both passive sensors and active scanners illuminated their screens in their own times, the effect causing a gently surging and receding aurora to play over his features like moonlight playing through a crystal pool.

“Let’s make the Far Ridge,” Jirair said in a gravely, conversational voice.

He slowly pressed the drive pedals forward with his dusty, well worn boots and the Godos drew a huge foot from the dust and crushing it heavily down two meters ahead. The lurching machine picked up speed, hunching over as it slammed across the Plains, its side weapon pods rotating to match pitch with the torso as the head lowered slightly toward the ground.

“Unit North Two calling Ridgespine. Proceeding on course two-three-zero, speed nine clicks, waypoint is Delta, E.T.A. mark in ten,” Jirair droned automatically.

“Ridgespine to Unit North Two; course and speed confirmed,” crackled a younger man’s voice from the cabin speaker. “Any situation to report?”

“Negative, Ridgespine,” the captain returned. “Just sayin’ goodnight to Taimi.”

There was a pregnant pause from the com, then the voice responded again in a slow, burdened tone. “Understood.”

No, he didn’t. Jirair knew that the corporal’s heart was in the right place, but understanding was far beyond him. It was his most fervent wish that none of his tribesmen would know the pain that rent him. That was why he was out here. That was why he placed twice as many hours in a cockpit as any other Zoidrider of his tribe. Why he lived more at the barracks and the hanger than in his small hovel in the Northeast Quarter.

Even a kilometer out from his waypoint, Captain Jirair could see Taimi’s silhouette against the burning orange of the dying sunlight. He instinctively drew his Godos around to the left, leaning against the torn padding of his command seat even as he wrenched it around and snapped it upward to its full height. Jirair waited for the dust to waft away on the breeze and stroked the chipped yellow switch just within his reach to the left of the compass. With a slight groan of protest and an almost reptilian hiss, the tinted canopy shell rose upward, letting the bright, unfiltered rays of the sun fall across his pocked and weathered face.

Jirair took a deep breath of the still warm night air and pulled his helmet from his head, letting thick, wet coils of salt-and-pepper scratch across his brow. He absently brushed his unkempt hair aside and stared intently at Taimi’s marker with eyes the color of rusting iron.

It was hardly the tombstone she deserved; the stripped and torn femur of an Imperial Merda he had recovered from its smoldering hulk after he had hammered it full of holes with his quartet of 35mm cyclic cannons. After it had rent her Elephander to pieces with a salvo of rockets and repeated bursts from its massive 50mm cannon. There was no body to recover. No face to kiss. In one heated moment he was merely Sergeant Jirair… no longer husband Jirair. No longer father to be.

Had it been twenty years? His son would have been training to replace him; or his daughter to take her place in the defense of the tribe. His eyes bore no tears, but he had decided that his pain was simply too deep for them to adequately express it.

“All is quiet, beloved,” he said softly; a low rumble from his chest. “I must provision and rest for tomorrow’s patrol. You keep watch.” He smiled at the rusting tangle of metal, ignoring the silken strands of silk from some metal-laced arachnid drawn between the twisted hydraulics. “I’ll relieve you tomorrow.”

His dark smile faded suddenly. Jirair glanced to the raised control surface above his head as his brow slowly knit into a frown. He tapped the yellow lever again to bring the controls hissing back before his chest. A slight, high-pitched claxon was sounding from his active sensor console.

“What have we?” he intoned suspiciously.

The holographic area overviewer slowly rotated to match the compass heading. There, just at the edge of his scanning range, was an unidentified unit marker. Jirair frowned, his gaze shifting from a distant remorse to one of a predator spying its next kill. He drew his well-worn helmet even as he smashed down on the steering petals, twisting his Godos violently in the direction of the marker.

“Ridgespine,” the captain intoned automatically, “North Two en route to intercept unidentified marker, detected at eighteen-twenty-five hours. Vector is nine degrees three minutes north latitude, one-three-seven degrees four minutes west longitude. Distance; twelve kilometers. Time to intercept; four point five minutes.”

“North Two, Ridgespine confirms.” The response was staggered, caught unawares. “Uh, contacting North One for rendezvous.

“Acknowledged.”

Captain Jirair slid his thumb across the ventilation control on his breastplate, breathing in a fresh gust of cold air as it billowed through his helmet. His hands danced across control surfaces with instinctual precision, the computer chirping audio acknowledgements in an adequately female voice. “Targeting; check. Hydraulics; check. Weps; check. E.C.M.; check. EvacSys; check. SenScan; check.” It would certainly be a stroke of ill luck for this to be one of those times the gun link system failed.

“North Two, respond.” The voice was high pitched but as sure as death.

“Affirmative, Major,” the captain responded quickly. “This is North Two.”

“I’m sending you waypoint Alpha; I’ll meet you in three.”

“In three,” Jirair repeated. His jaw muscles bunched as the Godos landed an extended stride as the ground fell away with the cresting of a hill. The uneasy tone of the tracking system drew his eyes back to the overviewer. The unidentified marker slid steadily on its course, its speed unchanged despite terrain. “Nolan,” the captain added reservedly. “Don’t engage this guy solo.”

“Have some insight on our mark, Jirair?” The Major’s tone was more that of an old friend than a commanding officer. Of course, he and Jirair had patrolled these lands since before Taimi became his wife.

“Just feels wrong, Nolan,” he said almost inwardly.

Three minutes seemed to pass within only a dozen strides of the Godos. Jirair glanced out of his left canopy pane at the darkened plains beyond; within the shadow was an undulating shape surging alongside him. He flipped a toggle to the right of the overview control panel and the darkened panes of armored glass flashed up like daylight. He saw the former Helic Shadow Fox drawing ahead of him, the barrels of the 30mm beam Vulcan cannon spinning up, indicating that Major Nolan was conducting a weapon check.

“Engage in twenty seconds,” the commanding officer supplied. “I’m going to confirm our mark, as distant as possible.”

“Nolan,” Jirair began, his stomach feeling like poisoned ice.

“Nothing for it, Captain,” snapped the response. “He’s paced with you, old man. If I don’t draw him ‘round, it’s me alone and you’re on cleanup duty.”

“Acknowledged,” Jirair affirmed. “Please be careful.”

“Always.” The Fox bounded ahead, more than doubling the speed of the plodding Godos. “Visual in ten.”

Captain Jirair could only watch on his monitor as the pulsing blue circular marker representing Major Nolan’s Desert Fox as it closed on the white square depicting the unknown unit. Visual in five. He bit his lower lip absently and scowled. Nolan was right. The unknown was holding at one-hundred and forty kilometers per hour, and the most he could achieve on a steady downgrade was one fifty. Visual in two.

“In range.” Nolan’s voice sounded strained. “Nightsight can’t make it out; must have S.D.M. skin or something.”

“What is it, sir?” Jirair’s heart was pounding. Visual range. Hell, that was short range for virtually any weapon on Zi. “Can you match a silhouette?”

“Database is chewing on it,” the captain responded quickly. “He’s big. Biped. Not huge. Going to call him down, see if I can draw him south.”

“Nolan…”

Marjor Nolan did not hear Jirair’s warning. Bright flashes stained the artificial dusk painted across the tinted canopy glass. The captain’s headphones filled with the crackling thunder of muted 30mm beam Vulcan fire. He bared his teeth and stomped hard on the drive petals, though he was already thundering across the night-blackened plains at full speed. He could see the intruder backlit by a spray of beam fire.

“Impossible!” It was the only word of the transmission that reached Jirair. An intense glow bloomed from the larger Zoid’s back-mounted cannons and the result stole all thoughts from the captain’s mind. He could only watch helplessly as Nolan’s Desert Fox surged a hundred yards, crumpling and shredding through the air as if it were struck by some giant fist. Whatever manner of weapon this was, its effects were absolute. The Desert Fox was smashed into a smoldering mass, and Major Nolan could in no way have survived it.

The intruder turned to run headlong at Jirair’s Godos.

The mark was a theropod class, not a Gojulas or anything near. Jirair had seen one of the mighty Helic war machines before. This was smaller, but more advanced. Before he could visually identify the attacker, his consol chimed an affirmative and updated the display. The white square blinked away, replaced by a bright green arrowhead.

“Impossible, indeed,” Jirair muttered to himself. “Impossible or not, I’ll leave a mark on you before I go down!”

The cockpit of the Godos thundered as the four 35mm cyclic cannons roared to life. Two blazing muzzle flashes erupted from each torso gun pod, two more from either side of the pilot’s seat from the over-shoulder units. The ammunition counters on his M.F.D.s dropped from 1,000 to 800 rounds per drum. Jirair roared with rage as heat warnings screamed in the confines of his helmet.

The Deadborder loomed over the comparatively diminutive Godos. Tracers stitched across the shadowy form. His weapons had no apparent effects against the living dead’s Dark Armor. Jirair watched as the large, back-mounted cannons glowed menacingly.

Jirair spoke calmly as his weapons shut down, their magazines half empty. “Taimi, at last we are together again.”

The deafening roar of the gravity cannons melded with the rending of steel and flesh.

The sun’s light drove away the darkness of the night. A gentle wind wafted over the dry summer grass and caught up the acrid smoke from two twisted hulks of scorched metal, the tendrils billowing into the sky to form ever writhing sculptures. A number of the Muroa Plains Tribe knelt on the cold, cracked earth, their eyes closed to the horrors around them, their ears taking in only their own prayers and sobs as they mourned the loss of two distinguished warriors, and two very dear friends. What horror they had encountered had vanished with the dawn. In their hearts, the people of Muroa could only pray that it would not return.

[Colodie]

KAndrw

One Life Lived: Melanie and the Hellrunner


-------------------------------------

The Hellrunner could not remember a time when it had not been piloted by Mitchum. Mitchum was a courier, and he and the Hellrunner spent their days carrying messages and important packages from town to town, across planet Zi. It was a life of freedom and quiet camaraderie, free from the bustle and speed limits of the cities. Every night, Mitchum would sleep under the stars while the Hellrunner stood guard and contemplated the vast majesty of the heavens laid out above them.

Every night, Melanie would fall asleep knowing that her father was nearby, whether sitting on her bed and telling her a story, or talking with fellow adventurers in an adjoining room. She loved travelling the world with her father, exploring the chaotic cities and lush jungles of Asia, the sprawling plains and sun-baked townships of Africa, and the rugged peaks and lively barrios of South America. The life of a professional adventurer’s daughter was glorious!

The glorious life came crashing down on that fateful day Mitchum agreed to deliver a small package to Fifth Harvest, a rural village at the edge of the Lowlands desert. Mitchum and the Hellrunner arrived in the late afternoon, and entered the tiny hamlet at the mandated speed. Traversing the wide, potholed main street, they came to the local tavern - La Maison de la Victoire - and Mitchum swung easily down from the Hellrunner's cockpit. Without a second thought, he sauntered across the tavern's threshold to seek out the recipient of the innocuous package.

Melanie had been sitting patiently on the seat outside the bar for what felt like several hours now, and her father had still not returned – even though he had promised not to be long. Her box of raisins was empty, the sun had disappeared behind a building, and she was starting to really need the toilet. Her father had told her that she wasn't allowed to come in to the bar, so she started thinking about where else she could go to relieve herself. Perhaps, she thought, she could run around the corner to the public bathroom she'd seen earlier, pop in for a moment, and be back before anybody knew. It was such a short distance, there was no way she could get lost.

The Hellrunner was lost. It had waited two days for Mitchum to emerge from the tavern, and the lingering inactivity had drawn Scavengers. Antennae twitching, the lumbering isopods had converged upon the Hellrunner, making clear their intention to strip it down, consume its core and sell the remainder for parts. The Hellrunner was left with no option but to flee, planning to rely on its superior speed to outdistance the Scavengers, then double back to Fifth Harvest to rendezvous with Mitchum. But after many hours of false turns and missed landmarks in the shifting sands of the great desert, night was falling quickly, and the Hellrunner no longer knew how to get back to the village and to Mitchum.

Unable to find her way back to any person or place she knew, Melanie stole to survive. As the weeks drew on, she quickly became an adept shoplifter, and fell into and out of loose alliances with other children living on the street. When pickings were good, allies were plentiful and reliable, and Melanie never went hungry. When security forces roamed the bazaar and cracked down on crime, the street kids defaulted to self-preservation, scattering at the first sign of trouble and hording whatever meagre plunder they could lift from stalls and homes. Desperation and necessity moulded Melanie, transforming her into a wild and wary creature, always watching for an opportunity to cement her survival. After months of dwelling only in the dangers and constant struggle of the now, she stopped thinking of her future. With memories fading by the day, she stopped looking for her father.

A flicker of movement in its periphery jolted the Hellrunner from its task. Letting the rusted carrion fall back to the ground, it turned to face the new arrivals – a small band of Trooperzoids and Zarwolves, travelling with a single Iron Kong. The Hellrunner readied itself to flee, but the newcomers seemed uninterested in it, content to simply dig through the sand in search of anything to salvage or consume. Straining its visual receptors, the Hellrunner zoomed in on the zoids and saw that each was piloted by a human. After so long living wild and rough, the Hellrunner had almost forgotten about human pilots, and the reminder brought back vivid recollections of Mitchum.

His name was Danel, and Melanie instantly fell under his spell. He was clean, far cleaner than any of the other people who had spoken to her over the past months. The young people in his group looked well-fed, and Danel was quick to give food to the street kids like Melanie who needed it. Melanie grew accustomed to having him and his gang of misfits nearby, and eventually found their presence to be a comfort. One blustery morning, Danel sent one of his lieutenants over to Melanie, to ask her to join an operation he was planning. She was led to the derelict building that Danel was using as a headquarters, and ushered in. It was strange. The room didn’t look like a room that was being used to plan a heist. Something was not right there.

Something was wrong there! Too late, the Hellrunner tried to flee – but the Iron Kong’s fist slammed the smaller zoid’s neck against the ground. The Hellrunner tried to kick free, but two of the Zarwolves grabbed its legs in their powerful jaws, biting deep. As the Hellrunner thrashed ineffectually, humans swarmed from the other zoids, up and over it. Several forced pry bars under the lip of its cockpit, straining and buckling the metal as the Hellrunner fought to keep the cockpit closed – then forcing the hatch open and clambering inside. Whooping bestially, the humans tore the cover from the Hellrunner’s console, and one of them jammed a data cable into one of the exposed access ports. A wave of command codes punched into the zoid’s core systems, battering its defences. The Hellrunner fought back against the assault on its very self, but with little success. One after the other, each human forced his command codes into the navigation system, compelling the Hellrunner to accept him as a pilot. Eventually, mercifully, the Hellrunner’s core was overwhelmed by the brutal assault, and it fell dormant.

Melanie awoke shivering, her battered and broken body aching at the slightest movement. She didn’t know where she was, and could only make out blurry shadows through her swollen eyes, but she could hear voices. She called out for help, and the voices stopped momentarily - then resumed, laughing. A door swung open and flooded the room with harsh light, framing an imposing figure in the doorway. The silhouette was joined by two others, then several more. Then the horror began anew.

The Hellrunner could no longer run. Its leg had been damaged in that first assault, so many months ago, and too many of the humans had piloted it while it should have been recovering. Every step was agony, and hydraulic fluid seeped intermittently from the long gashes opened by the Zarwolves’ fangs. The humans avoided using it when they could, opting to instead use the group’s undamaged zoids whenever possible, but there were never enough zoids to go around. Some unlucky human would usually wind up piloting the crippled Hellrunner, cursing at its clumsiness and wrenching the controls angrily to control it. Its systems clouded by the crudely written command overrides, the Hellrunner responded sluggishly, and often stood immobile for long periods, trying to piece together the fragments of what used to be its mind. Connections sometimes seemed so close, almost able to bridge the screaming torrents of data from the overrides, but they would never settle into place before being swept away by ever-vigilant sentry protocols.

Caught unaware by the callous backhand, Melanie hit the wall hard before falling to the floor in a crumpled heap. Scrambling backwards, she cowered before Danel. She cried out for mercy, babbling that she hadn’t meant to drop his meal, that her weak ankle had rolled on the uneven floorboards, that it wasn’t her fault. Standing above her, he laughed. From a pocket, he took out his weapon – the tool he used to control her and against which she could not imagine rebelling. He asked her if she wanted it, if she thought she deserved it, what she would do for it. Anything, she said. He laughed again, dropped the package into her pleading hands, then turned and left the room. He told the assembled group of henchmen that they were welcome to her, and Melanie hoped in vain that her dishevelled and disfigured body would hold no interest for any of them.

Days turned into months. Months turned into years.

With nowhere else to turn, Melanie withdrew from the world. She lost herself in the swirling confusion of her abused and narcotised mind.

Stumbling in a daze, the Hellrunner was piloted through the desert on yet another foray for the humans. Pickings had been lean of late, and the humans had been roving further and further afield in their hunt for salvage. It felt a ripple of excitement pass amongst the group, and realisation slowly surfaced through the murk of its addled core that the humans had found fresh prey. Lifting its head, to the great annoyance of the human pilot riding within, the Hellrunner looked out across the hazy vista. There was a lone Scorpozoid, nosing about in the desiccated remains of a long-dead Zolkon. Its cockpit hung ajar, half-filled with sand, and it was clear that the zoid had been without pilot for some time.

Melanie watched as Danel and his soldiers stealthily fanned out around the courtyard. The young boy sifting through the pile of refuse saw the movement, but thought nothing of it – Danel’s men were now adept at appearing non-threatening. Melanie saw a rapid exchange of hand signals, and watched as Danel prepared himself to approach the boy. Suddenly, overwhelmed by visions and memories, Melanie felt an urgency she thought she had left long behind. She pushed against the walls of the sanctuary she had erected in her mind, the sanctuary that had become a prison. She screamed in silence as she saw Danel call out to the skittish boy, assuring him that everything was going to be okay, and pushed against the walls with all her might. At the sight of Danel forming a subtle hand signal behind his back, out of view of the boy, she redoubled her efforts.

Pushing through the sentry protocols infesting its command system, the Hellrunner threw open its cockpit and flung its head to the side, sending the tiny human pilot flying. Awkwardly, it lurched into a shambling gait, running towards the Scorpozoid. It flooded the airwaves with warnings, urging the other zoid to turn and run, to get away while it could. The humans reacted, charging their zoids towards the Scorpozoid, but it was too late – it was already skittering away across the sand, its many legs carrying it swiftly from danger. The Hellrunner ambled to a halt, well aware that it no longer had the speed to make its own escape. Resignedly, it turned back towards the other zoids, catching a momentary glimpse of the Iron Kong’s fist barrelling towards it – then sailing sideways from the force of the punch.

Blows rained down upon Melanie, and she felt sharp pains deep within her. Her face slick with her own blood, she could barely see, and all she could do was pull herself into a ball. Heavy boots stamped and kicked her, and she could feel her life ebbing away. She felt her consciousness retreat from the pain, lifting up and out of her body, opening to the universe. She reached across immeasurable distance, through the endless void of time and space, toward something familiar, something good. Her awareness brushed against a kindred spirit, a carnival mirror’s reflection of her. Melanie felt its pain, and her heart broke. She touched the alien soul gently to alert it to her presence, and offered it the only thing she had to give.

“Take my strength. Take my speed. Take my passion and my anger. Take whatever you need.”

The Zarwolf howled with pain as the Hellrunner suddenly kicked free, tearing out the wolf’s teeth as it wrested its leg free of the powerful canine jaws. Whipping its tail around, the Hellrunner smashed through the cockpit glass of the nearest Trooperzoid, sending it reeling. It flexed its mangled leg, then extended it as, to the astonishment and confusion of its human captors, the metal shone, then liquefied and flowed together.

Melanie’s pulse slowed.

Torn hydraulic cables wound around the Hellrunner, knitting together and sinking back into its body.

Melanie’s lung collapsed.

The flowing metal slowed and solidified, settling into a flawless shell of newly-forged alloy.

Arteries throughout Melanie’s body burst as she channelled her life across the expanse. Starved of oxygen, her brain began to die.

Smoke poured from the Hellrunner’s core as it rejected the humans’ command overrides, boiling away the poison and freeing it from slavery. Its cockpit snapped shut, and electric fire danced about the seams – forever sealing its consoles and controls from invaders. The Hellrunner turned to the Iron Kong and fixed it in its sights. The agitated human piloting the massive gorilla stared back for several long seconds, then with a cry of wrath and frustration spurred his zoid into action. The Kong’s missile pod swung down towards the Hellrunner, preparing a barrage to shake the foundations of Heaven. Before the missiles could fire, the Hellrunner tipped its head forward, revealing the gleaming new cannon on its back. The cannon roared, and a single shell burst forth, plunging straight into the larger zoid’s missile pod. The Hellrunner turned and ran, faster than any pursuer ever could, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction at the sound of the missile pod exploding and destroying its tormenter.

Once his soldiers had left the room, Danel crouched down over Melanie’s unconscious body. Gently, he brushed a slick lock of hair from her forehead then, lowering his mouth to Melanie’s ear, he taunted her. “You stupid, used-up slattern. Do you think you’ve changed anything? I will find that child and make him mine, and your worthless body will wash out to sea without a single person caring.”

Several panels on the Hellrunner’s console flickered to furious activity, then erupted in flame.

<< TAKE MY WEAPONS SYSTEM >>

Melanie’s hand snaked out to grab Danel’s throat. Effortlessly, she drew herself up to a sitting position and brought the flailing man to within a few inches of her face. She opened her eyes, and forced Danel to look deep within them. He saw the pain he had inflicted upon her, saw the damage his cruelty and selfishness had wrought. Melanie forced him to look deeper. Danel saw the girl whose soul he had come so close to destroying, saw what she could have been had he not stolen away her potential. Melanie’s eyes clasped Danel tightly and drew him all the way in. He gasped, seeing more power than he could ever have dreamed existed. It was terrible, and beautiful, and too vast for a person to witness and survive. Danel died in that room.

Something did live on in Danel’s body, but it was not Danel. The new person would devote his life to charity and caring for others, campaigning endlessly against drug abuse and domestic violence, and give away every cent he earned. Every morning when the new person woke, his faced would be streamed with tears, haunted by dreams of what Danel saw inside Melanie.

As the Hellrunner’s power ebbed from Melanie’s body, she slumped back to the floor. She closed her eyes for the last time, drew her last breath, and her heart beat its last.

...

...

<< JOIN ME. WE CAN SHARE MY BODY >>

“I’m coming.”

[Colodie]

Lionel: