aaylastryker

Updated edits from this bit of writing I posted a few months ago - I picked it up again and did some editing, got some ideas, a little bit of a push towards the keyboard - and here we are now. Please leave some comments! <3

She knocked on the door for a good ten minutes before giving up and going in anyway. She knew what he was doing; it was 10:30 - that meant he was in training mode. She walked through the living room and the kitchen to the training room he had set up in the back. It was technically the second bedroom in these government houses, but for those who no longer had children to stick in them, they were the spare room - used as the owner saw fit.

 

Genevieve stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, not wanting to interrupt him. He was sweating heavily with his shirt off, and was beating his punching bag to hell and back. On days when he remembered his time in the war, he did just that. His favorite song was blasting loudly, so he wouldn't have been able to hear her speak anyway.

 

It wasn’t more than a minute before he glanced up for a moment, nodded his usual hello, and then continued his assault on the black leather. His punches and kicks were powerfully strong, to the point where he'd had to hang the bag from false rafters, held up by two supports going down to the floor on either side and held in place by his collection of weights. The beam that actually supported the bag had to he replaced every 6 months or so. Since he'd been at war for so long, this one was pretty old by now.

 

He paused for a moment, staring at the limp victim in front of him as it swung idly back and forth. Then he gathered all his hate together and slammed his fist forward, snapping the withered support beam in two, and sending the bag toppling to the ground.

 

Letting his eyes fall closed, the song ended; he reached over and stopped the CD, and walked out passed her into the kitchen. She followed, watching him lean over the sink. His hands were bloodied and raw.

 

"You've been at it pretty hard today." It was a statement, not a question, as she spoke. He just nodded, wiping his brow. The only thing it accomplished was mixing the sweat on his face with the blood on his hands.

 

"Let me," she offered, taking a cloth from the edge of the sink, rinsing it off and then carefully patting down his bruised knuckles. She knew better than to lecture him on not pushing himself too hard like this, he never heard her words anyway.

 

Carefully, she took his hand in hers and continued wiping away the drying blood. "So who was it?" she asked quietly.

 

"Wolf."

 

She was about to go get bandages for his hands, but decided not to. If today was a Wolf day, there wasn't any point in it. He would be back to that punching bag as soon as he put up a new support beam.

 

 

Victor Wolf was the leader of ESIT - Early Start Intelligence Team. It was a highly illegal hush-hush group within the German government, taking teens in out of high-school and sending them away to be exchange students in an honors  program on politics. Bribed with cash no youth could refuse, they became spies without realizing it, reporting back on anything they were 'studying' at political meetings. Usually, when the teen was done with high-school, ESIT would pay their way through University if they agreed to take a job within the company.

 

Victor Wolf was also the man that ordered his execution after he refused the job; Victor Wolf was the reason his entire family was dead.

He quickly walked back into the training room and started to put up a new support beam, taking one from the pile of lumber he kept in the corner of the room.

 

"Stephen…"

 

"What. What else would you have me do?"

 

"…nothing… look, I'm trying to get us all together for dinner tonight at my place. We'd all really like it if you'd come."

 

"Well we can't all be together anymore now, can we. Joe, Craig, John, Xander, Dan; we can't all be together because of this goddamned motherfucking war. Those government pigs took them away from us."

 

"They all signed up of their own free will," she said quietly. "You all did."

 

"And they all died of their own free will too? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" His voice was cold with hate, but she knew it wasn’t at her. Their relationship was strange, in that he vented at her, and she took whatever he could throw and just let it roll right off her. In return, he would listen to her and not judge, and he was there as a shoulder for her to cry on when she needed it. They were both silently grateful for each other, and didn't let emotions directed at others affect them.

 

"No. They died for what they believe in. They died for each other, and they died for us."

 

"Yeah, well I guess we're supposed to blame it on the damn 'colonies' for getting uppity again about their freedom. First India, now us."

 

"Yes, King Arthur James II does seem a tad bit upset over the whole thing, doesn't he?" she asked with a slight grin. 

 

He quickly dropped what he was doing and slammed her against the wall by her shoulders. "Don't you dare call him that; don't you dare! It's just giving him what he wants. His name is Prime Minister Cole." He stared angrily into her eyes for a moment, then the rage in his own quieted and he let her go with a mumbled, "sorry."

 

"It's alright." She put her hand on his shoulder as she turned to walk out. "Dinner's at 7. There's beer for afterward but feel free to bring more. You can crash there if you need to."

 

"Alright," he said, his voice quiet.  "Thank you, Vieve."  He put his own hand over hers on his shoulder for a moment, then she nodded and pulled away, letting herself out of the house.

 

He went on to break his second support beam of the day, and to destroy Viktor Wolf - again.

 

You know what I miss about having a house? I miss windows that you can sit in all day in the sun, then use to sneak out at night without worrying about someone calling the police. I miss parties for no real reason, with tons of people and no worries about being too loud and making the neighbors angry. I miss overhearing conversations because you know which floor-boards creak and which don't, and where people like to sit in a room. I miss light-switches on both ends of a hall, and outlets every few feet. I miss cooking at 4 in the morning and not having to worry about waking anyone or everyone up. I miss the driveway to just go out in the sun and lie down on the hot ground and savor the heat before its gone. I miss the crawlies - the chirping crickets and the cheeping frogs, the croaking toads and the buzzing cicadas. I miss the deck and I miss the trees. I miss the undisturbed snow and the beauty of an ice-covered world glittering in the sun. The lazy afternoons just basking in the beauty of it all. Knowing where to hide when the world gets to be too much. Knowing all the good hiding places and wondering where they'll keep your Christmas or birthday presents the next year and the next. I miss playing hide and seek with the cats because they know the place better than you do. I miss the endless possibilities and the crazy ideas that just might be workable.

 

But is it all really worth it?

 

Some things yes, others not. For the most part I'd say it was a good move. Yeah it changed a lot of things, but a lot of things changed on their own too. Maybe its just best to go with the flow on this and see where it takes me.

 

Yeah, we're stressed. All of us are. We're broke and half the time we're at each others throats. You wonder where the next meal's gonna come from, and on the rare occasion you do find a few pennies in the safe, they go to your next bill. Unless you find quarters - those are for the laundry. Or bus fare - it's a buck 25 now you know.

 

The weather ain't as pretty in the city. Here the rain is just rain and the wind is only on the upper floors, or sometimes down the arrow straight streets that just stretch on and on and on. You don't really want to be out in either, because the wind smells of dirt and filth and a conglomerate of poverty, and the rain could probably kill you since you're right next to the Hudson. On sunny days you don't want it to be too warm, because if it gets above about 65 it'll just be too hot, and there's hardly any trees to give you even a little bit of shade. If you need to get out of the sun on the street, a bus stop's your only hope, and they're even hotter since they're just glass boxes in the already blistering rays of light. But if there isn't any sun to breathe life into the world, it just stays a dull grey that you can't help but submit to, in the gloom of it all you just give in.

 

You see someone shifty on the sidewalk, you don't just think he's shifty, you size him up and decide whether or not you could take him - who's around that would help you, or where you are and who's working that you trust to lock the door once you're inside a shop. You order your pizza and wings from the closest place that hands out fliers, not because you think the food's good or it'll get there the fastest, but because you don't want to make an order for pickup, and the closer they are the more likely they'll do delivery to your front door.

 

You choose the building with more rules and more people instead of the cheap one family for rent across the parking lot, because the big place is a secure building - and if someone still gets in you can always hide with the little old lady and her cats. You don't have to worry about there not being one of those, because it seems that its required for every apartment building to have at least one little old lady with a dozen cats.

 

You learn to not really think about it when you see an argument going on in a back alley, you just keep on going and pretend you don't see a thing. You don't even think about the homeless guy going through the dumpster out back looking for bottles and cans - if anything you'll smile and say hello, call him by name and ask him how's pickin's. If he'll be at the usual free diner every Thursday at the church.

 

You get used to people at bus stops asking you for change. To people just talking about life and how shitty it all is and how it's all some politicians fault - because no one wants to take responsibility for their own lives and just accept that they fucked it up themselves. People on the bus will tell you anything if you feel like talking. You get to know people who's daily routine crosses paths with your own on the 24 or the 58 bus, and you sometimes pay more or less depending on what the driver thinks of you.

 

It's not completely weird to see people shootin' up on the back step, see kids smokin' like a chimney, see booze in the hands of someone way too young just walkin' down the street. Those guys you used to laugh about that would rap about anything and everything when they were on the other side of the road, they aren't all that out of place after a while. Guys without shirts and their jeans belted around the middle of their thighs, women in shirts that are shaped like bedsheets, baseball caps facing every which way, even inside out. 27 year old mamas smokin' on the front step while their 6 year old kids play on the sidewalk or in the alley; fall down and skin their knees and mama just yells SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LITTLE WUSS and keeps on smokin her fat ass to death with that look.

 

The look. It's everywhere. Kind of makes you wonder when you're gonna succumb to it. It's that sort of glazed "how the fuck am I ever gonna get out of here" look, salted with the flavor of a poor economy that isn't sure if it's getting better yet or not. A look tainted with cheap food and old clothing, with alcohol and drugs they can't afford to get but don't dare stop because if they do then they won't have any way to escape the filth anymore.

 

Sluts walkin' to the corner alone on a dark night - are they really alone or are they waiting for *someone* - whether its a date, or just someone who'll pay, who knows. Who cares? They all begin to look the same after a while. If you try to look nice, you're either a whore for sale or a woman trying hard to find a job. But if you don't dress up at all you're just another bum or wasted opportunity. Stale potential crusting over; milkin' the system for all its worth - it pays in New York to be unemployed.

 

Sirens at 4 don't seem out of place anymore - firetrucks, ambulance, police; as long as it's not in your building, it doesn't really matter. Churches closing their doors left and right make you wonder if there's anyone left upstairs to listen to the wails anymore, of it they're all just disgusted and pretending we aren't here anymore. Waiting for us to destroy it all on our own, rather than be bothered to do it themselves. I don't blame them. Why taint your hands with the scum of humanity when you don't need to?

 

The air conditioning only half works, and its silly little filters aren't enough to keep things smelling clean. And you can spray and spray and spray all you want, but that itsn't going to make the stench of the rotting world go away. So you close your eyes and forget for a minute - pretend the whirring fan is the wind in the trees, the old mattress beneath you is the cushion on a swinging bench, and that awful seasick feeling that the smell is setting on your stomach is just because you've been swinging too long.

 

You let your hair blow in the breeze, take a drink from a sweating glass of coke. Fluorescent lighting becomes a makeshift sun, and you tune out the sound of the world with the comforting tones of classic rock played too loud on old headphones. And for one moment you're back there again.

 

But it's not home anymore, and as much as you love it, it never will be. And you don't know if it really matters anymore. I don't know. We don't know.

 

It doesn't matter. You can't have it anyway.

I'd give 250,000 to various animal rescues across the north eastern states (especially Rat rescues), 250,000 to breast cancer research, 450,000 to public libraries in NY, and 50,000 to the Washington Park Association (across the street).

Before them stood it seemed a thousand gryphens, each with a dusk-raider on its back, each spelling doom to any that dared cross their path. Behind them was the meager army of rebels that they had managed to put together over the past year. Each a friend, each full knowing that many of them would not live see the end of the battle, if any of them. Each ready to defend the man or woman at their side to their own death, that their cause might be fought just a moment longer. That their deaths might not all be in vain. That their children might be saved from the hands of a tyrant, the hands of death.

It was as if in slow motion that the leader of the battle, Sahaquiel, raised his sword, the beast beneath him rearing up with a loud cry of war. Jacob could see the cry of "forward!" but could not hear it. He watched as the rest of the group charged forward around their leader, Sahaquiel remaining in the center as his troops did his bidding. Jacob could see the glint of insanity that comes with the true power of leadership, when your followers listen blindly; each word spoken, the faithful, meek bleating of a sheep in a lions den. His long black hair blew back in the wind behind him; stark, ice-colored eyes surveying the scene around him madly. Then without warning, his beast launched into the air, powerful wings beating only three short times before gliding to the front of the line.

Then reality hit him.

This was it. This was the battle they had been waiting for. To wipe out the last of Orosos' followers. He turned his head to the side, looking to Allan beside him. Allan looked back, nodding once. Then, as one, they raised their swords into the air, letting out a long, powerful cry for war. Their horses reared, then charged forward, their small infantry following behind them, each shouting their own rage, each encouraging the others onward.

There was no turning back now.

Jacob looked over to Allan, who pointed back at him and then to Sahaquiel. Jacob nodded, knowing that Sahaquiel was his to kill; it was his right as a father. But before he could do that, they would have to dig down to him.

"The coward," Jacob muttered under his breath, "locking himself in there behind them all…"

But Jacob could not dwell on these thoughts long. Soon they were all as close to the raiders as they could get, and it was either kill now or be killed. Jacob held his shield up on one side of him, slashing out with his massive sword with the other arm. It was difficult, far more difficult on horseback than on the ground, even with the many hours of practice he had gone through. He settled on knocking raiders off their mounts if they were too close to easily kill. He trusted those on the ground to deal with them, as the Raiders were almost useless on foot.

The Raiders had one thing going for them that was both an advantage and a disadvantage; they, unlike The Circle warriors, all fought with the same style. They weren't made to be used against different types of weapons; they were spear wielders, made for use against swordsmen. While this was a good tactic, The Circle was not your average army. Each person within it was unique, and therefore were best with different weapons each. Each had their own style and preferences, making them all highly skilled with their own weapons. Some of these however, were impractical against spears.

Jacob quickly blocked a jab by throwing it off to the side, then stabbed through the chest of a Raider, throwing it off his gryphen and onto the ground. Suddenly Celia jumped up onto the gryphen, pulling her bow off from across her back as she turned the creature around.

"I can't let you two boys have all the fun up here!" she yelled across to him, shooting an arrow at a Raider, then grinning at her success as it fell to the ground. "I think I'm going to get Jese and Sabra on these things too, then work up higher for the next wave."

That was something Jacob hadn't even thought about. What would come next after the Raiders? He slashed out, his blade hardly slowing as it sliced through soft stomach. Would they even see the next wave? He glanced behind him, seeing that some of the rebels were having trouble even getting close enough to the Raiders to do any damage.

"Allan!" Jacob called out, "nock them off their mounts! The others can't even reach them!" Then Jacob started using his blade like a mallet, hitting with the side of the wide blade, watching Allan do the same.

He let out a loud cry of wrath, hearing the rebels behind him roar with him. Every time he voiced his anger and hatred for the Raiders and his passion for their cause, those behind him yelled back and fought on harder. It was a simple way to encourage them, but it worked. Over and over he cheered them on, stabbing, slashing and throwing Raiders to the ground. As disgusting as it was, blood and broken bodies raining to the ground, he no longer cared. There was a fire raging within him, and it could only be put out with the deaths of Sahaquiel and Orosos, and the end of this war.

The mass of Dusk-Raiders seemed to be endless, now that they were out on the field and fighting them. He didn't dare look on ahead, for fear that he wouldn't be able to see the end of it all, yet he couldn't look behind him either, not wanting to know how many of his own had already fallen. The only thing he could do was kill the ones closest to him, or nock them to the ground for others to kill.

Then Jacob noticed something amazing. When the raiders were knocked off their mounts, it wasn't uncommon for the gryphens to eat them, yet the massive creatures wouldn't touch the rebels. They wouldn't even try. As he slammed the flat of his blade against another of the raiders, just barely able to hear the crack of ribs as the hard metal slammed into it, he understood why. All across the creatures body were whip scars, slashes, some still bleeding and raw and new. He looked at the belt of the next raider and the next, seeing that each had a thick, leather cat-of-nine-tails latched to their sides, to urge their beasts forward.

Gryphens were not unkind by nature, but they could be made to hate a man through pain.

Realizing the advantage this gave them, he worked his way through the cloud of Raiders to where Allan was bashing them down to the ground with sickening slaps and crunches. He watched carefully as the man swung out blindly, just barely catching a blow with his own sword, jarring Allan back to his senses just enough for Jacob not to be killed.

"Oh hello, Jake! How are you? Wasn't expecting company this afternoon, but as you can see," he slapped another Raider to the ground, "I seem to have picked up a few unwanted guests!"

"Allan, the gryphens are helping us. They hate the raiders as much as we do, look," Jacob said, slamming his blade against the back of one of the black cloaks, watching the raider fall to the ground in front of its gryphen, and suddenly it's head was torn off and thrown half way across the field. Then the creature simply stood there calmly, watching the chaos around him.

"Woah! Hungry little critters," Allan said, swinging out his blade again.

"Celia already took one of them. Seems they like us better than their old masters. I think we could get a mounted unit if we tried," Jacob said, cutting his sentences shorter as he slashed through the neck of a Raider. "I'll get the archers on mounts!" he shouted, slowly working his way through the mass of bodies, not knowing nor wanting to know which side they belonged to.

"What about Sahaquiel?" Allan shouted over to him.

Jacob paused for a moment, letting the insanity raining down on all sides of him, then yelled back, "I'll let you know when I have his head!" Then with a roar, he charged back into the battle from his thoughts, and swung his blade out wildly.

Eyes slit open as the darkness deepens to a colder shade of smoke-blackened grey. She's frozen; for a moment she thinks she is dead. No. She can see her breath, feel it in the darkness. There is no moon tonight. It fled, knowing the carnage about to be wrought upon Her land.

It's all so vivid in her mind; playing like a mildewed slideshow on her mental projector screen. First the fire; blinding, bright, unyielding fire. She can still feel the echoes of shattered screams, splintering through her ears as the forest cracked around her, falling to the element's immeasurable power.

Why. What had they done to deserve this terror? Were they ever the slightest bit unfaithful? Did they ever forget Her name? Her gifts?

The flames had come at them like buzzards, swooping down on their doomed prey - some of it already dead, and the rest slowly dying. Even those who had escaped the searing heat could not flee the smoke, as it bound towards them like ravenous wolves stalking a future kill. Was she the only one left? No, she couldn’t be… no…

Why hadn't the priestesses warned them? Had the Oracle not seen? Had there not been time? Why had none of their holy women been there to save them? Where had they all gone.

She lifted her head from the bitter earth. Snow. It was so hard to see in the darkness, and her numb body hadn't the will to respond, but she could faintly make out the shapes of the flakes as they fell silently around her. A shudder; as it fell around her, like the bodies of the men and women she had known all her life.

The only light her eyes could find was the sharp red glow of embers, lighting the world enough to show it was made of only blood, snow, and ashes.

With a jolt, she felt a presence behind her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She tensed, then watched the Oracle ghost above her through the wreckage, her soft white flowing dress fluttering in the wind, her pale ivory skin glowing softly. Tears fell from the woman's closed eyes.

"Help! Please! Help me Great One!" she cried hoarsely from the ground, but the Oracle passed her by, fading into the darkness. Perhaps she was going mad with the cold.

A woman in thick, hooded, red robes appeared in the now dead woods beside her. The priestesses were here; they would save us. There had to be more than just her alive. There had to be. Surveying the world around her, she saw the other priestesses over the bodies of the dead, checking for signs of life. She would live. The priestesses meant safety, home, love.

The woman carefully flipped her over onto her back. It hurt, but she could not be carried to safety with her face to the earth.

"Help me," she whispered to the woman above her, "please; save us…"

The priestess kneeled down to the ground beside her, and she could see that it was her mother in the robes. Closing her eyes she felt the comfort of the woman's presence wash over her like a blanket, trickling down her entire body. No, was that water? It was freezing, chilling her to the bone.

"Mother? What are you doing?" she asked with worry, her eyes snapping back open. She was so cold she could no longer even shiver - with neither chill nor terror.

"Forgive us," the priestess said quietly, then drew a dagger from its sheath at her side. No, that was her ceremonial dagger, she could not cut anything with it. What was going on?

"No, wait!" she screamed, but her words were cut short with a sputtering gurgle, as the blood slid down her neck and her vocal cords were slit through. Her body convulsed, eyes wide with terror and realization, before they unfocused and were left staring at the carnage they had only just understood.

The woman wiped her blade on the snow, then dried it with her robe, standing. As she looked to the sky and sheathed it, her hood fell back. "Forgive us, Great Mother. Forgive us." Then she walked away into the pitch black char of the forest, and staring eyes looked unseeing at the same empty sky. They were alone.

It is said that God saw beauty in both man and beast - his two most prized creations; the wolf who hunted, and the man who hunted him. He sought not to desecrate the two, yet to join them into one brilliant, beautiful breed of creature, to bridge the gap between they of four legs and they of two. And thus he reached out to take a handful of dust, molding it and shaping it just so. And when it was perfect in his eyes, he blew life into it, and it took its first, shaking breath. The creature trembled and cried out; for it was alone, with no pack to lead and no companion to hold. So God made more of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them, all seeking companionship and rank within their new pack. They fought, for weeks and weeks they fought, and after 14 days the final two winners came to a standstill. They could either die, killing each other, or live as separate packs. They went their separate ways, each choosing with whom their loyalties lay.

While the two packs slowly lay claim to their territory, trying to find where they could blend in and go unnoticed among both humans and the other creatures of the world, God realized what he had done. The forests and plains and mountains and oceans could never truly be a home for them, while man would never truly accept them; even now, such a young species, too corrupt to understand. So while half of them ran to the far side of the world, across mountains and oceans to the open, unexplored lands to the West, and the other half went North to the cold and snowy lands of the barbarians, God faded away, unable to look upon the horror he had created in his own mind. He could not destroy them, for they were his most favored breed, but they could not live in the world in which he had made them.

He watched them, for years and years he watched them, helping when he could. But there was nothing more that he could do now.

So, God, in his sadness, then created the demi-gods of the world, to watch over it and protect it, its people and its creatures, in his absence. Each god was attracted to one of the many societies that had slowly sprung up; the Greeks and Romans, the Indians, the Egyptians, the Celts, the Norse, the Aztec, the Inca, and hundreds, hundreds more. They promised the highest of them, simply known as God, to lead them and guide them; protect them and direct their praises to Him. And for years they did.

And when they day came that he could no longer bear it, God vanished; absorbed in his own pain, and the pain he had put his beloved creatures through. And over the years, with no proof or reminders that he had ever existed, the others forgot him. These new demi-gods fancied themselves all powerful and immortal, and because of that they were made so - by the very people who now worshiped them. Eventually they too forgot the one being who created them, breathed life into their souls and gave them orders to protect. With no leader, they did what they wanted. With no God, they were -by definition- true Gods.

But the people never accepted the one true God's other creation; the beautiful hybrid of Man and Wolf. The majority of the Gods did not choose them either, knowing that God -if he was still out there anymore- favored these creatures above all, including them. So they were left to find their own way in the world, against humans, gods and demons alike. For many years, they were simply called "beasts." But the two packs, living in two different lands, evolved in different ways.

Eventually the pack of the North was accepted by Loki - one of the gods of the Norse - who fathered the giant wolf Fenrir, and saw his essence in them. The pack of the West, an ocean away and across miles and miles of land, Atira - a Mothering goddess of all in the West - saw them for their true beauty, and took them in to shelter them. Over many years, the pack of the North became known as Lycan, and the pack of the West - Vampire. The Lycan, in the cold and lead by Loki, became more wolven, and the Vampires, in the heat and lead by Atira, more human. Yet both came from the same first two Bellua - both a perfect merge of Man and Wolf. That is where we come in.

To me; balance. That even in light there is dark, and dark in light. Life in death and death in life. The unfairness in the world and how it helps to balance everything out. The scales. The heart and the feather. Is your heart too heavy with anger, greed and hate and the blood of men for Anubis to give you to Osiris in the afterlife? And will Ammut devour your heart and condemn your soul to a hellish oblivion for the rest of eternity.... Or are you the righteous man, who will proudly look on as Thoth writes that you are meant for an eternity with the gods in the afterlife..?

That is what it means to me. Life and Death; a circle. Balance.

hmm... lets think this one out. Mexican food the rest of my life? I already pity my stomach on that one. Thai, I've never really had. French... no. Unless you mean like just bread wine and cheese, cause that wouldn't be so bad i guess. Italian, very good food, but I'd have to watch my weight carefully. Chinese is love, but I don't know if I could have it every day - that shit's expensive, and I can't make it at home.

So I'd say either Italian/Chinese or American - because we steal all food ideas XD

Random scene with Genevieve and Stephen. From fairly early on in the book probably.


~*~


She knocked on the door for a good ten minutes before giving up and going in anyway. She knew what he was doing; it was 10:30 - that meant he was in training mode. She walked through the living room and the kitchen to the training room he had set up in the back. It was technically the second bedroom in these government houses, but for those who no longer had children to stick in them, they were the spare room - used as the owner saw fit.

Genevieve stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, not wanting to interrupt him. He was sweating heavily and had his shirt off, and was beating his punching bag to hell and back. He did that on days when he remembered the war. His favorite song, "Broken Hands", was blasting loudly, so he wouldn't have been able to hear her speak anyway.

It wasn’t more than a minute before he glanced up for a moment, nodded his usual hello, and continued his assault on the black leather. His punches and kicks were powerfully strong, to the point where he'd had to hang the bag from false rafters, held up by two supports going down to the floor on either side and held in place by his collection of weights. The beam that actually supported the bag had to he replaced every 6 months or so. But it since he'd been at war, this one was pretty old now.

He paused for a moment, staring at the limp victim in front of him as it swung idly back and forth. Then he gathered all his hate together and slammed his fist forward, snapping the withered support beam in two, and sending the bag toppling to the ground.

His eyes fell closed and the song ended; he reached over and stopped the CD, and walked out passed her, into the kitchen. She followed, watching him lean over the sink. His hands were bloodied and raw.

"You've been at it pretty hard today." It was a statement, not a question, as she spoke. He just nodded, wiping his brow. The only thing it accomplished was mixing the sweat on his face with the blood on his hands.

"Let me," she offered, taking a cloth from the edge of the sink, rinsing it off and then carefully patting down his bruised knuckles. She knew better than to lecture him on not pushing himself too hard like this, he never heard her words anyway.

She carefully took his hand in hers and continued wiping away the drying blood. "So who was it?" she asked quietly.

"Wolf."

She was about to go get bandages for his hands, but decided not to. If today was a Wolf day, there wasn't any point in it. He would be back to that punching bag as soon as he put up a new support beam.

Victor Wolf, leader of ESIT (Early Start Intelligence Team - a highly illegal, top secret group that picks teens out of high-school, bribes them with cash, and sends them to be spies in foreign countries under the guise of exchange students in an honors program studying politics) within the German government, was both the one who recruited him and the one who ordered his (and his family's) execution.

He quickly walked back into the training room and started to put up a new support beam, taking one from the pile of lumber he kept in the corner of the room.

"Stephen…"

"What. What else would you have me do?"

"…nothing… look, I'm trying to get us all together for dinner tonight at my place. We'd all really like it if you'd come."

"Well we can't all be together anymore now, can we. Joe, Craig, John, Xander, Dan; we can't all be together because of this goddamned motherfucking war. Those government pigs took them away from us."

"They all signed up of their own free will," she said quietly. "You all did."

"And they all died of their own free will too? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" His voice was cold with hate, but she knew it wasn’t at her. Their relationship was strange, in that he vented at her, and she took whatever he could throw and just let it roll right off her. In return, he would listen to her and not judge, and he was there as a shoulder for her to cry on when she needed it. They were both silently grateful for each other, and didn't let emotions directed at others affect them.

"No. They died for what they believe in. They died for each other, and they died for us."

"Yeah, well I guess we're supposed to blame it on the damn 'colonies' for getting uppity again about their freedom. First India, now us."

"Yes, well, King Arthur James The Second does seem a tad bit upset over the whole thing, doesn't he?" I asked with a slight grin.

He quickly dropped what he was doing and slammed me against the wall by my shoulders. "Don't you dare call him that, it's just giving him what he wants. His name is Prime Minister Cole." He stared angrily into her eyes for a moment, then the rage in his own quieted and he let her go with a mumbled, "sorry."

"It's alright." She put her hand on his shoulder as she turned to walk out. "Dinner's at 7. There's beer for afterward but feel free to bring more. You can crash there if you need to."

"Alright," he said, his voice quiet. "Thank you, Vieve." He put his own hand over hers on his shoulder for a moment, then she nodded and pulled away, letting herself out of the house.

He went on to break his second support beam of the day, and to destroy Viktor Wolf, again.

~*~



Questions, comments, reviews, critiques all welcome.

16. Where do you go when you want to get away from the pressures of life, family, work, etc? Write about that place.


17. In 400 words, create your ideal place.


18. Write about what you'd say to an uninvited guest.


19. Begin a story with "There was once a chance I didn't take..."


20. Write about the color of hunger.