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October 31st, 2007
08:02 am
A young woman walked along a street in the evening, surrounded by the open air and sunset. Her destination was far from any town, across a wide desert. She carried a backpack that, to the casual observer, might seem too empty for the length of her journey.
Scarcely a dozen cars made their way down the road in the three days she traveled. Several stopped to offer her a ride, though she never got in with them. She hated seeing cars. The cars ruined her view of the desert scenery.
A light flashed in the distance. She looked up at it and frowned. Another car. The driver of the approaching car flashed his lights at the young traveler. She moved a few feet off the side of the road and shuffled onward. She looked to her feet, to avoid eye contact with whomever might be in the car.
The driver stopped next to her, but she kept walking. Quickly, he put the car in reverse and lowered a window to shout at her. “Need a ride?”
Her response bore no ill will, just the desire to continue onward. “No.”
“Come on, I know where you're going,” he said. She stopped, and he stopped the car. “You're one of them, aren't you? You're going back. I'll give you a lift.”
The woman turned and lowered her head to the passenger window to get a look at the driver. “You know what I am and you'll still give me a ride?” He nodded in what he hoped was a sincere manner, but to her looked as if he planned to harass her the whole way.
She leaned back and slid the backpack off one shoulder and around her front to peek inside. The thick cables leading from the bag to her nape parted her hair in the back, unsettling the dust and sand that had collected after her run in with a previous driver. She had attempted to avoid confrontation with that driver by moving several yards away from the road. That didn't stop him from driving off the road and trying to mow her down. He saw her as many others saw her: a monster to be stricken from the land.
“Alright,” she said, and reached for the door. “Do you know how to get there?” she asked as she sat down.
“Sure do,” he replied, and started to turn the car around. “How much time do you have?”
“A lot less than I'd like,” she said as she closed the backpack again.
“I'm Devin,” he said as hit the accelerator, “What's your name?”
“Echo,” she replied. He glanced sideways at her with a shocked look on his face.
For several hours, the two of them traveled in silence. Echo had learned long ago that when dealing with those unlike her, she should only speak when spoke to. She rather preferred the silence, especially around new people. She hated answering questions, the same questions, over and over.
“So . . .” Devin started. Echo continued staring out the window. “So, um, I thought the Echo zom—” She quickly turned to him and glared. “Sorry,” he returned to watching the road in silence.
Echo made a mental list of things she hated most. At the moment, the list was short: Cars, questions, people asking questions, and the word “zombie.” She especially hated being called a zombie. “Zombie” implied she should be shuffling about desiring brains for consumption. She clearly did not shuffle. However, the average person, once hearing “zombie” used to describe those like her, immediately associated such things with her type. The mob mentality arose and the fear of the new and unknown took over.
“Sorry,” Devin continued, “I thought the Echoes had expired.” Echo remained silent, her gaze returned to the night scenery. “I'm a bit of a zombie enthusiast, oh, sorry again,” he apologized nervously as Echo scoffed at the word.
“Ever since I was a kid and saw the public announcement about reanimation, I've been interested in all those involved. I collected all the information I could about each production type and how the batteries have evolved. I remember reading that the Echoes were the first to fully achieve sentience.”
Echo's face washed over with relief, though she remained looking outside. In her four decades of existence postmortem, she'd never met anyone who understood, however insignificantly, what she was. She opened her bag and glanced at her battery again. If she hadn't accepted the ride from Devin, she wouldn't make it to the facility.
“Yeah, we were,” she said. “After us, Vivific worked on better batteries and in larger numbers. Echoes were a short run. Didn't even get into the twenties.”
“If you don't mind me asking,” Devin said, “What number are you?”
Echo turned to him and said, “Promise not to get all fan-boy gushy on me?”
He raised his right hand, “Promise.”
“One.”
Devin's gaze quickly shifted between her and the road several times, his mouth opening and closing to form questions but never actually saying anything. After a few minutes, he found the courage to ask, “What are you doing out here? Vivific says Echo One's used as a greeter still. You can't be One. No way. Besides, I heard the body for Echo One was an old lady.”
Echo let out a noise of disgust and folded her arms around her backpack. She may be old but she was no old lady.
Devin continued driving in silence, unsure of what to say. He'd studied Vivific's public history enough to know that Echo One was also Delta One, Charlie One, and so on. She was the first body—the first corpse—experimented on. The only pictures the company had released regarding the reanimation projects was of the batteries and other equipment. They never showed the bodies out of respect for the families of the deceased. He had no way of knowing if Echo was telling the truth or not.
Somewhere, in the desert, a man sipped coffee. :)
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October 7th, 2005
11:06 am - This was not a good dream. This was a great dream. (originally written years ago)
A new game had been released, and I was part of it somehow, behind the scenes. The game was a "safer version of real life that educates children on the dangers of the world." The dangers of the world being the demons and undead beyond the city walls. The children go in, choose a character, and begin playing.
After a while, the market for the game skyrocketed, and people would pay (or be paid) to have their custom designs in the game. This was good, seeing as I was the artist. More money for me. After a few years, I grew tired of the secure job, and sought adventure.
I had made enough money to be able to move somewhere else and a friend and I were moving my stuff to my new appartment. Being as anything outside the city walls was full of danger, I went ahead with some money for the rent and security payments.
To make the trip a little easier, I shifted into a wolf form, got down on all fours, and ran. The land was snow-covered, but I felt no cold. I came to the outter limits of a city, and I began to run on the empty highway. The snow must have scared everyone off the roads. I heard a rumbling and something to my left shot out of the ground . . . and followed the highway. It was just a train.
I continued on the highway and made it past the city. Finally, I made it to the building beyond the city that I had chosen.
I shifted back to normal, I paid for my appartment, and went into it. I then created a portal to the previous town. My friend, my brother, and I moved all my stuff into my new appartment. I said my goodbyes and thank yous, and closed the portal.
The first thing I did was log into the battle network for the game I co-created and played.
The log in system for this game was a bit strange. You could log in your character at any time, and play around town, but you had to speak to the Matron to get permission to exit the city. One would exit by way of a portal to another section of the world. Usually, the matron is automated, pay a certain amount, have earned enough experience, etc. But not when I played. Oftentimes, I would log in as the matron and freak the kiddies out.
I'm just so evil.
Another part of the system was that if your character is able to do one of the One-Time Quests, they get to adorn the Matron statue with something of theirs. One-Time Quests can only be done once per realm. Once someone does this quest, no one else can until the yearly reset. After the quest, you have to give the Matron something of yours, namely a weapon if you're a barbarian, your pelt if you're a druid, your staff if you're a sorceress, your bow if you're an amazon, your shield if you're a paladin, your blades if you're an assassin, and your wand if you're a necromancer.
At the yearly reset, your item that adorns the matron becomes a unique, personalised item, only one of them per realm, so your name is immortalised in the game. It also adds incentive for the long-time players to either collect these, or for people to get theirs back. The items are strong in their own right, giving insanely huge bonuses, but are even stronger in the hands of their owner.
If you somehow manage to do more than one One-Time Quest during the year, you can adorn your local matron with more than one item, thus making a SET. The only problem with making a set, each item will be weaker than if you'd adorned her with one item. Making a set also gives it a lower rarity, meaning that you, and several other people, can wear your set.
When I log in as the Matron, the statue becoms animated, so there's a ten-foot-tall, eight-armed sorceress with an Aztec sun-god headdress walking around with the weapons and armour given to her by the one time questers.
I became bored and went to bed.
I awoke in the middle of the night to the sounds of prayer. I looked to my desk and noticed my idol was missing. I walked over to the next room, still in my pajammas, and saw a pair of monks inside, praying. One was old, the other was young. They had many idols and fetishes in their room, so I asked them if they'd seen mine, a small dark statuetted of a winged man, with silver mixed in with it in random places. They began to search through their idols and asking me if they were it, even if they didn't remotely fit my description.
If I said that the idol wasn't mine, they would take the time to explain to me what it means. One was of a water god, meant to hold water within it, though it didn't look like it could hold much water at all. One was for the god of mice . . .
The old priest left the room to search elsewhere in their appartment for idols. The young priest invited me to sit next to him, and he asked me questions, stating that I looked familiar. He said I looked like something he saw in a game once, namely, my game. He handed me my idol and asked whether the idol was based on the idol in the game, or the other way around. I explained to him that the idol was a big part of my life, and came to me long before the game, and without it, I cannot dream. I left the monk's room, and returned home. The idol was placed back on my desk where it belongs.
The Idol gave me good dreams that night for being kind and rescuing him.
I moved out there because I sought adventure in life. After a while, this was granted to me, as I soon realised that the building I was in was once a hotel, and a haunted one at that.
The spirit that had moved my idol into the hall, where the monk had found it, returned to my room often. He would try to touch me in my sleep, he would poison my dreams. He would always try to harm my idol, becuase the idol would try to protect me.
Ghosts are spirits locked into a room, Idols are spirits locked into a relic.
The ghost lusted after me, because my soul, though cleansed, was of his wife . . . which he murdered. He was a sorcerer, and in a fit of anger killed his wife with a spell. He tried to raise his wife, but she was already passed on. After several years of trying to contact her to ask her forgiveness and failing each time, he took his own life in hopes of seeing her on the other side.
But that's not the way souls work. They pass on to another body after being cleansed of their old memories, unless they've got something weighing on their memories that is so strong it holds them back. The ghost's obvious remorse for his actions bound him here, while the idol was once a paladin, dedicated to protecting innocents.
The Sorcerer-ghost had been awaken by my presence, and began to live in this house/hotel as he had once done before. Tricks and traps disabled long ago began springing again.
The tenents in the building soon realised that we were now trapped within. The owner of the building had been possessed by the ghost of the sorcerer. The tenents and I began to search for ways out, by examining all doors. We came accross a gallery of pottery and idols . . . and my idol was trapped. I had to save him.I pried at the glass that kept him captive, but I couldn't get it to move. I tried to break it, smash it, cut it, everything. I couldn't get to him. I fell to my knees and sobbed.
One of the other tenents consoled me, and we stood up to continue our searching for an exit. The next door I opened led into a dining room, and another door beyond that. Always wary of traps, I tiptoed into the room, only to be greeted by a rottweiler. The dog backed me toward the door, which I could not exit because of the people behind me blocking it. The dog got right in my face and said, in the voice of the wizard, "My dearest wife, you know you are not permitted here." Then the dog punched me in the face.
We moved on. We found a spiraling stairwell, and began to decend. There were various traps down the stairs, and soon, I was the only one still running. Upon reaching the bottom, it was a dead end. I turned and ran up the stairs, passing the people who had been caught in the traps. Those that were not dead grabbed at my legs for help, while those that were dead grabbed at my legs to stop me. Somehow, they were able to pull my clothes from me, and, finally, at the top, I met the sorcerer.
He somehow compelled me to walk up a set of stepping stones in the middle of the stairwell. I wrapped myself in curtains that were hainging around the stairwell (they were still attached to the ceiling) and began to walk up these stones. In the middle, the wizard removed the stones from under my feet, and I fell down the tower.
I never hit the bottom, because I was grabbing on to the curtains. Or maybe I did.
I don't know, I woke up.
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July 26th, 2005
09:10 am - Written today, for a PIF project. "Crazy Letter."
72605
J736-z
I fell again last night. He called out to me as I fell. "We could stay here forever, for free!" "I don't want to sneak around anymore," I told him. "I think they heard you," I said. I saw them coming and I lost my grip. My wings failed me. I landed on my neck and stared at the ground. Their feet approached. They were coming to chase us away. He stood there and yelled at them. I don't think he cared about me, only extoring them by using his supposed grief. I breathed, slow and raspy. Eventually, I died.
-Schroe
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July 13th, 2005
10:35 am - Old writting, originally writtin 07 Feb. 2005
I am legendary. That is to say, there are legends about me. I do not see why, as nothing I had done in life was worthy of legend. The stories about me happened after I died.
In life, I was a woman, and I did as women do. I served my husband faithfully; bore and raised his children. He defended our homeland, and I defended our home. I died as many women did in our time: a fatal blow to the head from an enraged husband. It matters not why he was angered, nor why he struck me. I was merely a housewife and this was my final reward for my years of servitude.
He wept for me, the fool that he was, and begged for my forgiveness. He took my body to a strange man on the mountain. The mad hermit tossed my lifeless corpse into a pot and, for all I know, pickled me like a vegetable. My vision was cloudy after my death. My mind - my soul - remained in my body. I wanted to see what was going on, but my body blocked my sight. I removed myself from my corpse.
It was as if the floodgates were open. My addled mind suddenly knew all. I knew that my husband did not care for me. I knew that he only wept because he did not know how to raise his own children, or clean his own home. He desired me only as a servant. I knew that he had children by other women around the town, and in other towns. I knew every spreading of his bloodline, and of everyone's bloodline. I knew everyone's thoughts. It was too much to take all at once, and I retreated into my body as it soaked in a briny fluid.
Much to my chagrin, my eyes opened. I felt the warmth of the liquid I soaked in, and saw that even my head was in the liquid. I clawed at the sides and tried to pull myself from the pot, and tried to hold my breath. I was so disoriented that I couldn't find my way out. I saw only greenish goo and felt only solid walls. I panicked and drew a breath to scream. The fluid filled my empty lungs, and warmed me from the inside. I exhaled the volatile mixture as if it were air and realized that I was still dead.
I calmed myself and slowly searched for the top of the cauldron with my hands. Once I found it, I pulled myself up. The pickling sludge slowly dripped away from my eyes. To my right, I saw my husband. My first reaction was to spit on him. The green fluid hit his cheek and he screamed. He wiped off the sludge with his sleeve and I saw that he was burned. I looked down to see a fire burning. The liquid I was in was boiling!
The man of the mountain laughed at my husband. I turned to view the hermit and saw that he was no man at all, he was a monster. He towered over my husband and bore tusks and horns. He dressed in feathers and animal skins and tied strange fetishes to his horns. His long nose was pierced in many places, and his longer ears in even more. He laughed again, and I shuddered. I slumped back into the pot and released my spirit once again. They can reanimate my body and use me as a zombie slave to meet my husband's needs, but I would have no part of it.
I spent a countless number of years away. I travelled many places and saw many things. However, the further I travelled from my body, the less people I saw. I could not communicate with anyone, I could merely watch. I watched as cities crumbled to unseen foes. I watched as graves were dug and subsequently robbed. I watched as the constructs of mortal men advanced in technology. I cared little for it all.
My curiosity carried me back to my body, to see what had become of it in all these years. I could feel its location, and I walked to it. The closer I came, however, the less I felt it. It was as if it were in pieces, and each piece called to me. I was confused by the many signals, but I eventually found a part of me.
My finger was in the possession of a shopkeeper who sold many curious things. It was kept in a box labelled 'Preserved Finger of a Dead Goddess'. A plaque under the opened box told the shoppers that the finger is believed to hold great power and, if one were so bold, if you cut off your ring finger and replaced it with mine, you would gain all the goddess's powers. So wrong on so many accounts! It wasn't even my ring finger.
I placed my ghostly finger inside the preserved one and raised it. I could see the bewildered look on the shopkeeper's face as my finger tapped on the glass of the case around the box. He cautiously approached the display cabinet and shuddered as he passed through me. I kept tapping my finger, hoping he would eventually open the case. After a few minutes of staring, he pulled a key ring from his pocket. He fiddled with it, clearly shaking, and pulled a small key to the lock. The moment he opened the case, I took my finger out and to a window. Luckily, the window was open. I crawled out and left, happy to have found one part of my body.
Having my finger allowed me to now see the living. They could clearly see my finger floating along. I hid, though, as best I could. I did not want anyone to try and catch this floating finger.
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10:10 am - Old writing, originally written 16 May 2002
I often have very detailed dreams, most telling a full story before I wake. When I do awaken, I rush to my PC to put my subconscious into words before I forget the dream. When the dream leaves some holes, I fill them in, and create a story. When a dream contains similar scenes and people, I group them into stories. The following is from the "Amanda Story," which happens to star a secret agent that shares my name.
I was in a long coat, sneaking through a futuristic building. The walls were smooth, and reflected the dim lighting well. The slightest movement was repeated in the mirror-like surfaces. Someone else was with me, a girl. She seemed to be less experienced with this; she was probably assigned to me for training. We were searching around for the exit, our task of collecting certain information having been completed, and she kept asking me what's going to happen next. I kept telling her not to worry, but in reality, I didn't know what was going to happen.
Everything started according to plan. The usual plan of "Get in, get it, get out," was going smoothly, until we were on our way out. We were ambushed. The exit we had planned out from the blueprints of the building simply didn't exist. We were led to believe that there was an extra lift that went straight to the penthouse offices of the building, which would lead to the helipad.
Instead, we found ourselves face to face with a dozen guards. Their captain was standing in the center, and he ordered the guards to hold their fire until he gave the command.
He walked up to Sandra, the rookie I was with. She was visibly shaking with fear. How could they let such a weak person through the ranks, I thought to myself. I was standing perfectly still, my eyes on the captain and Sandra. He got closer to her, and she whimpered. He laughed, amused with the imposing presence he had.
We were there to take some small piece of biotech that they'd taken from us earlier. It was small enough that it could be hidden on one of our bodies without it being visible. The captain was looking over Sandra's body, trying to find where it might be. She closed her eyes and muttered to herself when he started searching her belt's packs.
Why would she be so nervous, I thought to myself, she doesn't have it on her . . .
Then it hit me. One of the packs on her belt had a trap in it, and as soon as it would trigger, the guards would be all over me. They wouldn't be able to attack her after the trap triggered, she'd be dead. The pack contained a small explosive, meant to destroy the belt and person looking in it if she were to drop it. The blast would take out her left hip, possibly separate her left leg from her body. It would send her arm flying into the face of a guard, and it'd remove the captain's head, if he were looking closely at it as he opened it. The impending spray of blood and appendages played in my mind over and over.
The vision of Sandra's death fade from my head as I said, "She doesn't have it." The captain quickly turned to me, and I stood perfectly still. My jacket was still on, and he touched the collar.
"Such a fine coat," he said, "You must have been confident of your escape, to wear this. Did you honestly think you'd make it out of here alive?"
"Yes." I don't think he was expecting an answer, but when I spoke, he jumped back a few feet. Perhaps he expected that I'd attack him as I said it. He looked at me, angered, and I smirked.
"I remember you," he said. "You were here before. I watched you move out, so silent and graceful - so perfect."
"I'm no Joanna," I replied, a pop-culture reference to a video game heroine, "But I'm glad you're pleased with my work." I then took a bow, leaning forward. He jumped to the side, out of my reach, and I came up with a smile. He seemed more afraid of me just being there than Sandra was when he was searching her. Sandra! I had forgotten about her. I glanced over to see her still sweating bullets, her eyes on me. She was worried, because she didn't know what I was going to do. What was I going to do? I didn't even know. All I knew was to play it cool, and minimize casualties.
There was a short silence, and I broke it with, "How are you planning to search me? You can't do it from over there." I grinned at him, and this made him both nervous and irritated.
He became angered at his loss of control in the situation, and pointed his handgun at me. "Take off your coat," he said, "I wouldn't want to damage such a beautiful piece of clothing."
I did as he commanded, and let the coat fall to the floor. A guard behind me picked it up. I stood, and said, "What next, knickers? Brassiere?" I could tell the jokes were raking on his nerves. The less rational he was, the more likely it would be for him to miss if he took to arms.
"I don't wish to see you naked, Amanda, I only wish to see you dead."
I heard a gunshot.
My ears rang, the noise swelling and blocking out Sandra's screams. My vision blurred, and blackness swarmed into view from all sides, I turned to Sandra, and I grabbed at my chest. I don't know if I ever reached it, or if I even moved. My body was numb.
The scent of the gun smoke that filled my nose, and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth were the only things left to me. I fell to the floor, Sandra fell to my side. I couldn't hear over the ringing, and I could barely see her mouth moving.
She spoke to me, but I don't know what she said. She held my hand, but I couldn't feel her comfort. The only thing I could feel was the shock of the shot, and the anger at my failure.
Rage began to swell in my mind. It overpowered the pain. I no longer saw blackness, I only saw red. The world around me moved slowly, even I moved slow . . .
I only assume that Sandra had injected the test-drug we had stolen, giving me the strength to stand. I don't know if she did, I knew only that I was on my feet again, and that the bullet wound in my chest made no matter to me. I drew a firearm, and shot madly around the room. I heard no sound; the pain still rang in my ears. I saw little; the rage still red in my eyes.
Someone came closer to me, and the pain in my chest swelled. I fell again from the second blow to my chest. Luckily, this was only a punch. The man stood over me, but soon fell. Sandra had taken to arms for me, and the guards dropped like flies.
All her victims were injured, none were dead. This was the way we were taught, and she had followed it. All my victims, however, were slain.
Sandra helped me to my feet, and she half-assisted, half-dragged me to an exit. I slightly heard her radio for help, and only slightly remembered her words . . .
"Don't die tonight," she said, "Heroes don't die like this."
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