My writings are often centered on interesting worldbuilding, deep themes, and being adult focused without pertaining to prurient interests. Fantasy is my main genre, but often I branch into sci-fi. I am an avid reader of mythologies and fairytales from around the world and they play a large role in my writing.
She gasped awake. Her mind was scrambled and fogged. She panicked as she failed to move her arm. It was tethered by black straps. The white light blared on her face and the walls reflected it back. Two black forms moved between the light casting shadows on her.
“Is it awake?”
“As close as it’ll be.” The shadows seemed to focus more on her than each other.
“Can you hear me?” The first one asked. She nodded, her voice not ready yet; she must’ve been out for a long time.
“Do you remember your mission?” She shook her head briefly before a memory floated from the depth of her mind: something about a bomb, a factory, robots.
“Yes” She croaked, her voice sounded unnatural to her.
“Good, can you complete it?” She stared at the men; the one asking all the questions was obviously a general and the other wore a white lab coat. She shifted in her bonds and nodded.
“They were for your own protection. You were thrashing in your sleep.” The presumed doctor said untethering her. He helped her to her feet and handed her a jumpsuit. She slipped it on behind the cover of a screen. She could hear the general and doctor whispering concernedly but their words were indecipherable. They stopped abruptly as she stepped out and the general waved for her to follow. She was given a revolver from the armory and a block of plastic explosives. The General saluted as she boarded the waiting helicopter. The flight was short. The smog covered city lay beneath them; towering skyscrapers, crumbling and collapsing, leaned against each other, flying above it all towards the massive facility buried in the mountainside, before coming to a stop hovering over a drainage overflow. She rappelled into the sewer drain and broke the rusted grate and strode through the murky bog; her gun held loosely, but ready, in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The flashlight’s beam landed upon the concrete wall, where a few rusty rungs were
attached. Holding her flashlight between her shoulder and cheek, as if she was still on the phone with her brother, she climbed the dilapidated ladder. Awkwardly, she pushed on the grate that blocked her way, with her gun in hand. A pair of red eyes shown from the darkness, before her flashlight illuminated the wires and plates of a robotic face.
“You are trespassing. Please, leave the premises or you will be-” The robotic voice
droned, until she shot its head off.
“It’s just a robot,” she thought to herself, the gunshot still ringing in her ears. “It’s just a robot.” She climbed her way up the rest of the way using the robot’s limp arm for extra support. She kicked the limp body into the sewer to hide it and strode down the hallway; it’s just a robot. Dim red lights lined the hallway, casting almost no light. A door slid open with a pneumatic hiss and another security personnel was shot. The gunshot echoing through the hall and her head; just a robot. She slipped through the door before it slid closed with the same droning hiss. A selection of monitors in varying sizes were scattered on one wall. They cast feeds of what she assumed were security cameras.
She gasped as she saw one that displayed a room full of corpses, their bodies frozen and laid side by side on rolling tables. She threw herself at the chair and keyboard. The holographic keyboard blinked and sizzled as she typed. She pulled up a map of the facility and hit print. A loud whirring and clanking noise proceeded as the wall spit out the printed map. It drifted to the ground as a pneumatic hiss warned her of another droid. A gunshot echoed off the walls.
“Just a robot,” she whispered. Three shots fired, three shots left; she thought flipping the revolver open and then closed again. She picked up the piece of paper from the floor. And traced the black line. Left, right, straight, left, she repeated to herself memorizing the path through the maze of halls. She exited the office and strode down the hall. Left. She turned. A robot blocked her way and was soon put down. “Just a robot,” she mumbled. Right. She turned, another guard dead. “A robot,” she said. Straight. She passed a hallway. Left. She turned, her gun pointlessly at the ready. She proceeded down the hallway and the door opened with the same pneumatic hiss as the last one. She stepped in and a flash of dull metal knocked the revolver from her grasp. The robot glared at her, and its baton sparked with electricity. She leaped for her gun, turned, and shot.
“Just a robot,” she said. The robot’s dying voice crackled and coughed: “not a robot”. She stared for a second before shaking her head and planting the device on the wall. She opened the plastic cover and readied her finger to flip the switch. Before her eye caught the mirror and the horrid face of a robot staring back it’s face full of clicking gears. She pointed her gun behind her and the revolver clicked. No bullets. She flipped the switch and a digital timer flickered on: 5:00. She laughed at the robot and then she stopped. For no robot stood facing her, turning to the mirror she saw the robot pointing an empty gun. A robot who touched its head when she did as she realized the truth. She brought her fingers to her face and realized that they were just pistons, wires, and gears. 4:00. She scanned the room and the corpses on tables. 3:00. She looked at the wires extending from their skulls and the words on the wall. 2:00. She read them and screamed: Upload for Dying Organics. 1:00. She lifted up the dead robot. Why, she breathed. 0:10. 0:09. 0:08. She cried. 0:07. 0:06. 0:05. She wiped the nonexistent tears from her face with a screeching scrape. 0:04. 0:03. 0:02. 0:01. She flipped the switch. She sat on the floor. And she pleaded for forgiveness from the room of corpses, who were not dead.
It was long ago when I first saw them. I think I was a doctor; I don’t remember studying for it, though. The mask I now wear was a mark of my profession back then. I remember the children were terrified of me and my black mask. It didn’t help that my voice had been taken by a building fire long before.
I was a silent, masked man dressed in black who showed up when death visited. I must have appeared to be the grim reaper to them. I remember the night like it was yesterday.
I had just left a house after dealing with another dead body. The moon was full, the night bright, and my mind was full of sorrow. It was a time for walking.
There was a path in the woods. It was a common footpath before the plague, but now it was mostly overgrown. I was distracted by my own thoughts when I tripped on a root. At the time I thought I had just twisted my ankle, but it comes to me as I write this that I must have hit my head quite hard as well.
As I laid there staring over my broken mask and breathing fresh air instead of the pungent herbs, I saw twinkling orange lights in the night. they fluttered in and out of the bushes, there was a sound as well, like tiny bells or high-pitched laughter.
"Poor bird, did you break your beak?" the sparking lights chimed. They fluttered to my mask and landed in front of my face. "What a big bird you are," they giggled. I immediately recognized them as fae.
I was fascinated by them, but in the way a dead man is fascinated by the axe headed for his neck. They were fae and I knew to fear them. "Well, did you? Did you break your beak?” one of them chimed, clearly bored of my blank stare.
"Snail-brain! if he broke his beak, he would not be able to talk," she said as she pushed the other fae off my mask's beak. With a squeak, she fell to the dust, "Well, maybe, he'd like us to fix it," she said as she brushed the dust from her wings.
"Well, do you?” the one on my beak asked.
"Wait, he has to make a deal with us!” the one on the ground squeaked, fluttering up next to the other.
"Of course he does! What do we want?” the fae stood there, their little hands fidgeting as they pondered.
“Maybe something to do with his beak? We are fixing it after all. It should be partly ours," one spoke up.
"That makes sense, would you like us to heal your beak if you'd share it with us?” I remember being confused and afraid of the fae’s deal, as I should have been.
But I nodded anyway. In hindsight, I don't know why I did; everyone knows not to make deals with the fair folk, and my family knew it better than most. Perhaps when I hit my head it rattled me more than I knew. They clapped their hands and chittered excitedly.
They threw some dust on the ground in front of my face. I'm not sure where they got it from. As it landed on the ground, mushrooms sprang up from the ground forming a perfect little circle; they stood in the center and whispered some words that smelled of fall-loam and spring-growth.
My throat burned as my broken mask mended itself. The burning stopped. "How does it feel? "We did a perfect job, I think,” the two said. "What does your call sound like? We must know, we spent so much time on it!" one said.
I wondered what I was supposed to do. I was mute after all. "Speak!" they whined. It sounded like a whiny child, but it carried the weight of a command. Something inside of me made the air from my lungs be expelled. "But I can't speak," I said.
The fae laughed, "What an ugly cry, it doesn't sound like a bird at all!” they said. "I'm not a bird," I said. The ability to lie and to keep secrets from them had left. I could tell, "it was a mask!" they squeaked, a mischievous undertone in their voices.
I tried to get up, but my ankle twisted awkwardly and I fell back to my face, "Don't break your beak! We worked so hard!” they cried.
"I think my ankle is broken," I said, amazed at my newfound ability, although something about my voice was wrong to me.
"We can fix that too!” they chanted.
“For nothing?” I responded.
They laughed, "Of course not, you careless crow!” one said, "If you want to walk, you must walk for us!” the other continued. I laid there with my face in the dirt, pondering the deal.
"We already own half your voice, why not half your actions?” they said. The cloud of my mind must have been clearing, because I had the reason to permit a counteroffer. "I will accept, if you do not make me betray my faith," I had said.
"You would die if we left you alone with no way to walk!” they said.
"And, no disrespect, fair folk, but I would die before I betray
myself and my god," I responded as politely as I could.
"What a goody two-shoes!” they squeaked and giggled. "It's a deal!" they cried after they finished their giggle fits. They spread their powder around my ankle and whispered in words of
fall-loam and spring-growth. My ankle felt cold. I could stand again.
"Black maw, mouth of the fae, careless crow, doctor of the plague! You owe the Seelie Court half your deeds! they chanted, fluttered around my ear and left. Except one that stayed behind. "I peered into your mind. you fear the death of those you take care of. That is good. The Seelie court are good neighbors, you may live as long as the fae, if you continue to be a good neighbor. It's my gift to you, careless crow," she whispered into my ear before zipping after the other.
> Blackness.
Abyss.
> Nothing.
Void.
> I open my eyes.
I can feel the oil and blood running through my fingers.
> A man shakes me awake.
Calls me back from the brink.
> He is wrinkled.
Old.
Wise?
Kind.
I smile weakly.
> To give him some peace.
Even if I don’t make it.
> My software is still rebooting.
> My wetware is still being rebuilt.
It tingles.
> I don’t get why.
> My defenses don’t function.
> There’s a hostile present.
I can see the muzzle flashes past the man.
He speaks of “last chances”.
I see a bullet clip his ear.
A righteous anger burns through me.
> I grab the man.
> I roll him underneath me.
> My metal frame can take more fracture stress.
> Even in its compromised state.
Why is my body broken?
> I have an empty memory.
> Resorting to integrated command prompts.
> One.
> Fulfill the directive.
“Fulfill the directive.” I mumble.
What directive?
> Two.
> Preserve the asset.
“Preserve the asset.” I croak.
I am the asset?
> Three.
> Protect the innocent.
“Protect the innocent.” I say, looking at the man my body is shielding.
He is still.
Scared.
He is the innocent.
> Wetware 90% rebuilt.
> Software rebooted.
> Running systems check.
>...
Pain.
Raw electricity singing my skin.
Above one knee.
In most of my fingers.
My leg spasms.
>...
> Critical damage to all extremity hardware.
> Requesting support units.
> No response.
> All channels dead.
Jammed?
> Likely.
I must work alone.
> Protect the innocent.
Yes.
> Basic motor functionality in acceptable conditions.
> Primary offensive protocol functional.
I grab the revolver from my holster.
Cold steel gripping a big iron.
> Threats approaching.
> Three total.
> Two on the left.
> One behind.
They look casual.
> Indications assume they do not value you as a threat.
Their funeral.
> Fan-fire is recommended.
I hold the trigger.
“Stay down,” I whisper to the man.
My palm hits the hammer as I twist up from my prone position.
> One down.
I continue twisting and fanning the revolver.
> Two down.
I feel the bullet hit my shoulder.
> Gun arm no longer operational.
I leap at the last target.
A bullet to my abdomen stops my momentum a step before I reach it.
> Critical systems damaged.
I can tell.
> Legs?
I watch as the man approaches me.
He stands above me and points his gun at my head.
> He gloats.
Fool.
I grab his ankle with my freehand.
> Activating reserves.
I pull with the weight of a demigod.
His helmet cracks open on the stone.
> Double tap recommended.
I struggle to my feet.
> Fluids leak.
I grab his gun with my functional arm.
I fire.
First his gut.
Then between the eyes.
> Reserves low.
I look at the innocent.
He looks scared.
> And thankful.
I collapse.
“Madam, may I have this dance?” The man said, and his voice was as smooth as chocolate, which may sound cliche or romanticized but it is certainly the closest description I’ve ever heard. His suit was as black as night, but glistened in the flickering candle light of the chandeliers.
“Madam? Surely, you recognize my face. I will be referred to as my title: Princess.” The woman responded haughtily. Her voice... well it was nothing like chocolate.
“Princess,” he bowed low, as he kissed her pink gloved hand, “you have my sincerest apologies. For you see I am a lord of a foreign country and have only met the king and queen, not their lovely daughter. May I have your forgiveness and, perhaps, still a dance?”
The princess, speechless for a moment, smiled an ugly smile. “I suppose, after all, I haven't been asked all night.”
The man smiled and took her hand, as the music started. “I do not understand why so many would pass on the chance to dance with you, princess.”
“I think they’re afraid of my father,” she said smiling at her father, who sat reclined on his throne on one side of the ballroom. His cheeks sagging and wrinkled and his hair wiry and white.
“He is a powerful man,” the man said as he spun the princess. They continued to dance in spins of pink dress and black suit and deft footwork of at least one set. Soon the song came to a close. The princess was near upon panting from exertion.
“Would you like some fresh air?” The man said, resting his hand on her bare shoulder as he looked into her eyes.
“Yes, that would be good,” she managed to say.
“Does your father have a garden?” He responded, moving his hand to her back. The princess smiled and pointed toward a door to the left of where the king sat. He looped arms with the princess and guided her through the crowd towards the door. Two gold ornamented guards stood at it, hands on their swords.
The man looked at the guards and spoke with an authority that they obeyed promptly: “The princess requires fresh air.”
As the man walked the princess through the garden, she finally recovered enough to speak. “Thank you very much for this wonderful night, Lord...?”
“You may call me, Lord Nevermore.”
“Nevermore! What an ugly and ghastly name.” She responded.
“I can change it if it’d make you happy, princess.” He said back, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes. The princess looked absolutely pleased, like a child who just won a piece of candy. So pleased was she that she barely felt the dagger slit her throat. By the time she did, the man’s hand was over her mouth and he whispered into her ear.
“Nevermore, will you kill my people. Nevermore, will your father hunt my brethren like wild game. Nevermore, will your armies have a leader. Nevermore, will you become queen.”
In response the princess let out no sob nor remorse, but merely fumed. Like a tea kettle boiling over, she burst free but for a moment and let out an unearthly, hellish, shriek before dying in a pool of pink silk, gold jewelry, and crimson blood.
It was a different time then. It was a time when children would be left outside to play, were warned not to go in the woods, and told to come home by night. I loved the bouquets that the widow brought back from the woods to sell in the market. They were so beautiful, more so than any of the flowers dotting the area around my home.
I remember the spring morning. I was told to go play. It was made clear I was to stay out of the woods and, like with any child, that only made it more tantalizing.
The sun had barely moved an inch before I had snuck off into the woods. I pushed through branches and brambles and marveled at flowers. By the time I had wandered across the creek, my dress was torn in several places and I was thoroughly lost. Of course, I didn't care because I had found some very beautiful flowers. They were the most vibrant shades of blue, pink, and yellow and wound in a trail up the bank. They reminded me very much of the widow’s bouquets and I yearned to pick myself the biggest bouquet. I picked flower after flower, one blue, one pink, one yellow. All the way up onto the overgrown porch. It was a small cabin nestled into a clearing. The clearing was perfectly circular and I remember that well, although I do not think I realized it then.
The door stood before me, elegant and a beautiful, inviting green. Inside was a small room - of course I opened it. I was too curious for my own good; since then, I have learned a thing or two. The room was furnished with wonderfully kept couches, tables, and lights. I had never seen such beautifully crafted furniture. Nevermind them being in such a secluded cabin. I marveled at the delicate carvings, the polished wood, the flickering flames of the candles. And then I wondered at how the candles were still lit. Scared of someone being in that secluded hut with me, I thought of the widow and the bard’s tales of witches. I pulled the door open to witness the moonlight. Howling filled the night as I closed the door. I would rather face my death in the candlelight, I thought. I slid myself behind the couch and the wall, grateful that not a single board squeaked.
The sound of pattering feet like those of a child, but filled with purpose, filled my dreams, and I woke up to the sound of a squeaking door. “I have brought you porridge and honey,” the voice called out. I recognized it as the same voice as the widow’s – the witch’s. I listened, straining my ears as the children’s footsteps alighted upon my ears. They stopped suddenly, loudly sniffed the air, and scampered towards the middle of the room. The couch rustled as the widow sat in my hiding place. I must have whimpered quite loud, for there was a sudden scampering and a scraping noise as the widow pulled the couch back. She peeked over the edge and the widow’s concerned face quickly changed into a knowing smile.
“Do not worry, it is just me,” she said. I did not respond. “Come out of there, you poor girl, your dress is all ripped up,” she exclaimed as she reached her hand toward me. I did not know what to do, so I let her help me up and sit me on the couch. “It is okay, you do not have to talk. Just make yourself at home. I will find you a new dress,” the widow continued.
She had been gone for a long while and the smell of porridge and honey tempted me. I ate some of the porridge and mixed in some of the honey. “What have you done?!” the widow said entering the room with silk draped over her arm. I stared, stunned. “That was not meant for you; come, we must leave!” The widow grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the door. Petals erupted around me as we stumbled through the flower trail. They lifted me up and thrust me into the sky. As I fell, I grasped at the petals in a vain attempt to catch myself. Except they continued taking me upward before spiraling me slowly to the ground. I thought I saw the widow beneath me waving her arms like wind. As my feet touched the ground, I nearly collapsed. And then I did collapse. What felt like small hands dragged me into the dirt. “Please, there is no need, she did not understand!” the widow spoke up.
“We want her eyes, for seeing us. We want her mouth, for eating what was ours. We want her legs for running.” They chanted repeatedly.
“You already scared her with the falling petals, surely that counts as part of her due, and she did not finish the dishes.” The widow responded.
“We will take what we take!” They hissed.
“I will leave, then.” The widow responded. The hidden voices screeched.
“We will take only half her legs, half her mouth, and half her eyes, but she must forsake her own name and be known in shame as Petalfall!” they said.
I do not remember anything more of that day or how I ended up back at my home, but I know it happened because I no longer knew my own name, nor did my own parents. I retain my youth through the ages, and as I walk by blooms, they look toward me. Why the fae have intervened, I do not know.
I would learn later that many people outside my own town would weave terrible tales of warning of the house in the woods, but my town always said they were useless stories. They were fools to forsake fear.