The First Domino Falls

Approximately Ten Years Before the Events of Book 1: Chaos

“Woah, slow down. Tell me again, what happened?” crackled the young male voice over Joren Steel’s taccom call. The man, a person who Joren would consider anything close to resembling a friend at the precinct he worked at. The short black hair and gaunt face made him look even older than the twenty-five years he had been alive. Joren was almost old enough now to be his father, but that didn’t stop him from treating him more akin to a friend instead. Anders Flurry went by the nickname ‘Snowman’, as he preferred people use. A kid with a talent for programming, he was often pulled into Joren’s cases to use telemetry and other fancy methods of identifying where their targets where hiding.

Joren fought against the urge to scream NO! and tried to slow his breathing and center his chaotic mind. Nothing was going to bring her back, and nothing was going to heal that wound.

“They did it. They said that there would be consequences if I didn’t stop, and I stopped. I wasn’t providing any assistance to Aetherials or their supporters. I saw it on the surveillance cameras I installed just in case they decided to drop by. Some G.I. elite soldiers came here while I was at the office, and they…” He choked down his words, unable to finish the sentence. There was a long pause in the conversation. Neither man said anything, and besides the traffic outside his apartment the only other noise was Snowman furiously typing away.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Snowman interrupted the solemn silence. “Do you have any recordings of her? Anything with her likeness and voice?”

He looked at the small curved taccom across his wrist. He had a few recordings of her, but nothing too extensive. They would have to do, though. “I have a couple. Why?”

“Good. I’m sending you an address. This is all off the record so tell anyone, and I’ll deny we ever spoke about this and tell them you’ve gone crazy. I’m scrubbing this call from the G.I. database as soon as we hang up. Meet me at this address around ten tonight. Bring every electronic trace you have of her. Except her, of course. That would be weird, and I’m into some weird stuff, but not that. Anyway, I have a program I’ve been working on for years, and it’s time I tested it out for real. This is the perfect chance to see if it works as I designed it. Plus, if it does, it should somewhat help with your situation.” An indicator that looked like a rectangular page with two straight lines portraying text on the bottom of his taccom lit up blue from the incoming message Snowman sent. Joren touched the icon and read it.

Rock Bottom in D39 @ 10 standard time

“Yeah, sure. I’ll bring it and meet you there.”

“Copy that. And Joren, for whatever it’s worth, I agree with what you’ve been doing. You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

He hated that phrase ‘didn’t deserve what happened’. It meant nothing. It was empty words. Nothing would make it right. Nothing would bring back his little girl. He didn’t respond verbally; instead giving Snowman a nod and ended the call.

The middle-aged broken man sat back in his chair in darkness and silence. Normally, the silence would be a welcome reprieve from the constant commotion in the local office where he was a detective for the Galactic Imperium. At night, he would have enjoyed putting his daughter to sleep after enjoying dinner and shows on their Holovid together.

Now, the silence was deafening, maddening even, and nothing would make it disappear.  His knuckles cracked and turned white as he clenched them in indescribable rage. Even the occasional hum and lights illuminating the dark room from vehicles shooting by his skyrise apartment on Coropolis did little to take his mind away from the pain. He brought up the recordings option on his taccom menu floating in front of him, and clicked the one titled “tenth birthday”.

Her image appeared instantly in front of him, as innocent as it was lively in that moment. Her smile was infectious as she twirled around in her new dress. Its white color with gold roses woven into it made a golden ring as she threw her arms out and spun in clumsy circles. A beautiful laugh, just slightly louder than a giggle, reverberated in the near-empty room from the projection. He would have wept, if it weren’t for his eyes running out of tears to shed earlier in the night. Instead, the abyss in his stomach sunk deeper and his heart froze over.

Joren took a lengthy swig from the cylindrical glass bottle that he had retrieved from his pantry not long before he called Snowman. The brown fluid within the Leviathan branded bottle was familiar with its strong scent and taste. It didn’t eliminate the pain, but he hoped it would numb it, even for a moment or two. It burned on the way down, but the spiced rum also had a smoothness to it that spoke to its quality. And it’s lofty price tag.

‘For when life tries to swallow you whole’ was printed under the Leviathan brand. It was a catchy slogan, and it was so accurate in his situation he almost laughed. Almost. His mind only drifted so far from reality.

They stole EVERYTHING from me. She was the only person left I cared about in this dumpster fire of a galaxy. If they think this is going to be the end of me, they will be sorely disappointed. This is only the beginning. If no one else stands up, I’ll be that person.

I’ll burn them down from the inside. I’ll be the first domino to fall that brings down the Galactic Imperium’s reign.

He took another swig of the rum, and began playing another of the few recordings he had left of his little Ava.

Of Magic and Man

Ten Years Ago

Just a little bit more. No, that’s too far. Crank it back half a turn counterclockwise. Slowly, slowly. There! Got it!

“Are you sure this – device – or whatever the hell it is, will work? I mean, the man’s basically dead. Wouldn’t we be better off dumping him behind the building and moving on?” The Galactic Imperium soldier remarked sarcastically behind her. His uniform was the standard military issue white outfit with gold trim on the top of the matching white boots, pant pockets, breastplate, and around the crease on his shoulder. His short blonde hair was as slick as his tongue, and he used it too often. The arrogance barfing from him betrayed his low rank, if the single star under the rising sun emblem on his left shoulder was any indication.

“I was instructed by your superior to follow through with the creation of this highly sophisticated Aetherial core. Your simple human mind cannot begin to comprehend the scope of complexity required to make this scientific breakthrough, let alone make it work properly.”

Her insult must have touched a nerve, and the cold steel of his rifle pressed firmly against her large Praugian head. Her first instinct was to jump out of the way, but she knew any sign of weakness would only push her luck.

“I won’t mince words, alien. You fuck this up and you’ll be six feet under faster than that poor bastard on the table. Hell, judging by the lack of color in your weird face he’s feeling better than you are.”

I beg to differ who the real aliens are in this galaxy, invader. We were here for tens of thousands of years before your belligerent, war-loving breed appeared. I’d say go back to where you came from, but you’ve not only forgotten where that was, but you couldn’t go back if you wanted to.

Focus Tu’Mar. This needs to be right or it’ll be my time to sit at the table with the old gods. You were sent here for a reason, and this is it. Bring to life that which has no meaning or purpose. Give this man a meaning. Give him a purpose. Just as Joren Steel gave you.

The Praug called Tu’Mar wiped her four-fingered hands on her blue science coat. The webbing between her fingers made swimming a breeze, but often interfered with her projects when it secreted water anytime she was nervous. She blinked her large eyes, and the gills on her neck flared as well as her slanted nostrils.

“You aliens are downright disgusting. I’m sure you’ve heard that many times, but figured you could hear it one more time before you’re dead.” His hand slapped against his peers in a motion the humans called a ‘high five’. It made a horrible clapping noise that made all the Praug in the room shudder slightly. Despite the bad reputation that Rhonar often got, and sometimes deservingly so, Humans were the true epitome of brutes. Only one human had ever treated her with a molecule of decency, and he was long gone. She wished she would see him again one day, but that day would likely never come.

Refocus. You’re so close to completing it. Just another minor adjustment here, and another one there. By the will of the gods, I hope this works.

Tu’Mar slightly straightened one of the myriads of small metal bars woven together in a hexagonal shape with an emerald green crystal set in the middle. The metal was one called Duratanium, a cobalt-colored metal that had the distinct ability to conduct Aether through its atoms. It remained a mystery how it did this, though the Aetherials once coveted the precious metal before their kind was all but eliminated. Now that they were no longer around to hoard it, the Praug were happy to take it off their hands. So were the Galactic Imperium, who were much more adamant in figuring out its secrets in the secluded research facility they were currently in. Unfortunately for the Praug, the military prowess of the Galactic Imperium gave them little choice but to cooperate.

Still, it was better than the alternative.

“There! My calibrations are complete and it is done.” Tu’Mar took a step back, a wide smile spread across her face as she gave herself a front row seat to admire her work. Amidst dozens of small steel tools, wires, and bits of crystal sat the first of its kind and previously only a myth: an artificial Aetherial Core.

“About damn time. Put it in the half-dead man and see if it actually works. Then, we can talk about your payment.”

Her smile faded as quickly as it came with the sudden realization that she wasn’t sure it would work the way she intended. It could bring the man back to life for seconds, and instantly fail. It could simply not work at all. Science was a form of art to the Praug, and their self-worth often rested on their ability to discover new cures to diseases, invent improvements for agriculture and mining, among many other scientific fields of research. In that aspect, Tu’Mar considered herself an Aetherial prodigy.

Webbed hands trembling, she lifted the core from the table, and walked it over to the man prone on an operating table. The dark skinning man had a gaping hole in his chest where his heart normally beat; replaced by tubes and wires intertwined with other body parts still operating normally within. His black hair pulled back in neat dreadlocks; his features aging him at roughly forty or so years old, though his impeccable muscle tone and physique implied otherwise. He was alive, though barely. The machinery kept him in a catatonic state as Tu’Mar worked tirelessly for the last eight standard days, taking breaks to quickly devour her meal and then promptly get back to work. Holovids beside the bed projected his various vitals to ensure he was still among the living while she worked.

This man was the cause of her sleep deprivation, building anxiety, and a number of other maladies. And yet, he was about to be her ticket to freedom.

She gently placed the core within his chest as her hands began to sweat again. Praug were naturally resistant to bacterial residue, so she didn’t bother wearing gloves while working on live specimen. One tiny plug after another, she disconnected it from the machine and prayed it would work. With the final plug removed, she stepped back, waiting for it to spark to life.

It didn’t.

“Well, looks like your freak experiment failed. Time to go out back.”

Tu’Mar shook her head in disbelief. It didn’t work? How didn’t it work? I calibrated everything to match the Aetherial wavelengths he’s outputting. It’s scientifically impossible for this core to not work.

A firm hand grabbed her arm above the shoulder and yanked, hard. She fell backwards, arms flinging in front of her as she crashed to the floor. She struggled as a second hand grabbed her other arm and she was dragged across the smooth floor. Arms waving, legs kicking, she fought with all the strength her slim figure could muster. Praug weren’t known for their physical prowess, and she was on the lighter side of her species.

“Let me go! I’m sure it’s just a simple adjustment and I’ll have it working. I give you my word it’ll work this time.”

“You gave your word already, and in exchange we spared your life. We aren’t in the business of handing out free donations. Your time is up, science freak.” The automatic door sensors detected the Galactic Imperium soldiers dragging her out and opened.

Vroom. Before they could leave, a sound that could only be compared to an engine bursting through a planet’s atmosphere deafened everyone in the room. The scientists and soldiers alike struggled to gather their senses. The man, once a lifeless science experiment, slowly sat up on the table. His movement appeared almost robotic, with a twinge of hesitation as he blinked, taking in his chaotic surroundings.

The man cautiously glanced down at his chest for an extended moment. He stared into the core as it hummed with power. Aetherial energy danced around and seemed to radiate from that emerald crystal within; the Duratanium rings rotating around it in an indistinguishable rhythmic pattern like a planet rapidly revolving around a sun without an end in sight.

“Who am I? What am I?” His deep voice asked. His eyes jumped between everyone in the room before they fixed on Tu’Mar. He blinked twice and tilted his head slightly in confusion.

Shaking with excitement, Tu’Mar scrambled to her feet as the guard dropped his gun and jaw simultaneously. His counterpart swore in awe at the merging of magic and man before them.

I did it! I knew I could do it all along. You may have doubted my genius, mother, but I never lost faith.

I told you it was possible.

Excitedly she replied, “Your name is Malik Maholmes, and you are the first of your kind. We have a lot to talk about.”

Scythe

A name is something given at birth, something that uniquely distinguishes one being from any other. They are given out of love, compassion, anger. It’s used to call for someone, used when expressing feelings like passion or disdain, used to refer to a particular being in conversation. As the young Volkoth applied the medipatch to a moderately sized and bloodied gash on his top-left bicep, he enjoyed the echoing shouts after the initial salvo of roaring gunfire while his assailants frantically reloaded their weapons.
He was born an orphan without a home or a name. Though the planet he grew up on was hundreds of lightyears away from this hellhole, this place still felt all-too familiar. The strangling pressure of the government and their regulations, coupled with the constant threat of “legal” criminal syndicates like the Crimson Skulls, was enough to drive any rational person to the brink of losing their sanity. It’s in this type of environment that this particular Volkoth was molded into the being he was today almost twenty-five years later.
The four-armed armed Volkoth flexed the newly bandaged arm, ensuring the fresh damage would not hinder him from completing this current assignment. A grunt of satisfaction signaled his arm was still working at a satisfactory level. The wall he stood with his back resting against splintered off metal pieces from the gunfire resuming, inching closer and closer to his two right arms and his midsection.
There had been countless times when he didn’t eat for days, when he was barely able to find hydration to keep his body functioning. For years he bounced from street to street in the dingiest parts of Polaria, scrounging for even the tiniest of morsels. It wasn’t until he was rescued by a human smuggler that he was given a purpose. That was almost a decade and a half ago, and he still thanked the old gods for him every day he was able to keep breathing.
The two folded scythes on his back were his weapons of choice. He removed them, and as he did so he snapped them forward, sending the blades flying to a ninety-degree angle before locking into place with a satisfying click. He was given this assignment, to send a message to a specific Crimson Skull Underlord, and he wasn’t about to let their brawny body guards take him down. He focused, time seemed to slow down around him. He felt that familiar pull, that tugging at his instincts that so often throughout recent years guided his scythes and his movements when forced to defend himself.
He opened up his mind and his body to it, and felt the Aether course through him, suspending the light-grey fur covering his body and arms in midair as it reached his toes and fingertips. He never thought it was an intelligent being that provided him this power, but he couldn’t confirm it wasn’t, either. Regardless of where it came from, he was grateful for it. It saved his life dozens of times before, and he didn’t doubt it would again today. He understood it was a tool to be used at his discretion, not a weapon to be used carelessly.
His hands taut as they gripped the intricately carved handles of the scythes. He inhaled, and as he exhaled, time nearly froze around him. The plasma bolts and lead bullets continued to relentlessly pummel the wall, though now the debris flying from the assault rocketed by at a snail’s pace. He was ready.
The Volkoth emerged from cover, much to the surprise of half a dozen Crimson Skull bodyguards who recovered quickly and resumed their fire, now concentrating on him. Each had the symbolic icon of their crime syndicate, a cracked skull with four crooked teeth and no jawbone tattooed somewhere large and visible on their bodies. One bodyguard had it tattooed on his neck and also painted on his metallic bionic arm. Most wore dark colored pants, and all had tears and stains on their clothing. Compared to the Volkoth approaching them who wore pants that reached to his ankles and a bare, scarred chest, they thought they had the advantage. They were quickly mistaken in that assumption.
He snapped the handles of the scythes together, feeling that familiar locking of mechanisms click into place, with a quarter turn of his wrists, they secured into place. Still walking towards the guards firing wildly at him, he rotated newly created the double-bladed staff counterclockwise, time progressed at a drastically slowed pace for him as he watched bullets and plasma shots float harmlessly passed him. Those that were headed for him impacted the whirlwind of scythes, their movement guided and protected by his connection with the Aether. The scythes perfectly deflected the bullets and plasma back at the attackers, striking them with varying degrees of damage. Some writhed in agony from the smoldering holes in their bodies, while others ceased firing for fear of taking more self-inflicted harm.
The raging and suppressive fire subsided, until only three Crimson Skull bodyguards were still able to stand; the others writhing in agony of from grievous wounds. They charged him with metallic fists and brandished basic, mass-produced swords. The Volkoth was happy to give them a warrior’s death, and with a smile detached the scythes back into two smaller separate weapons.
He met the first thug head on, ducking to the side to easily miss the metal fist flying towards him., then countered with a scythe cutting clean through their back. As the two other guards snarled and charged him, the third fell to the floor, limp and lifeless. They stopped short of swinging for him, dropped their weapons, and sprinted passed with ghost-while terror painting their faces.
He exhaled, and shook his fur like he was shaking off heavy rainfall as the rush of Aether subsided. The heightened senses, the feeling of control over time, the enjoyable tingling feeling throughout his body, all of it faded away, until it was just him in a metal hallway peppered with bodies and an army of smoking holes from the bullets and plasma.
The warrior stepped over the still bodies and into the office, where a human figure sat in a fancy black chair. The ceiling lights in the room barely lit the desk in front and centered of the room, with a holovid positioned in the middle of the desk providing better illumination from its blue neon glow. It flickered off as the warrior approached the man, flinging off any remaining blood and gore from his blades before sheathing them on his back in a buttery smooth motion.
“Underlord Redbeard.” The Volkoth didn’t bother hiding his seething hatred for the man seated in front of him. He was surprisingly tall for a human, even though he sat in a chair that looked too comfortable for the piece of trash occupying it. He sported a long, orange-red beard with matching long hair flowing past his shoulders, a long gaunt face, and emerald eyes, but any other features were difficult to distinguish in the poor lighting.
“You took out some of my cheaper bodyguards. I’ve already requested more and they will be arriving shortly, so you don’t have a lot of time. What is it you want? Clearly, if you were here to kill me, you would have by now.” Despite the calm demeanor, the subtle twitches of his left eyelids gave away his frustration at the ease of which his guards were dispatched. It took everything in the Volkoth’s body to restrain himself from beheading the arrogant bastard. He reminded himself that he had a mission, and he would complete it. No additional bloodshed was permitted past that which was necessary. That was his code, and he would stick to it.
“The Resistance send their condolences for your guards. We suggest other means besides digging through the scraps of Coropolis, and you may find them more,” he paused for dramatic effect before finishing with “well more alive than these ones.” Redbeard squinted, but made no other noticeable movements. “We’re tired of playing games. Cease any and all interference with our operations, and we will allow you to continue your reign of gluttonous greed and debauchery.”
He considered the peace offering for a moment before agreeing. “I’ll see what I can do. You see, I can only speak for myself, and I have no doubt that other Underlords will not find your lackluster offering appetizing. Though, I’ll try to keep them away from you, out of good faith, of course.”
Stroking his groomed deep-red beard apparently manifested a question from the criminal mastermind. “Before you leave, tell me, mighty Volkoth warrior. What is your name? You look oddly familiar. Have we met before? Surely we already did our best to recruit someone of your obvious talent.”
He turned his head around slightly and grunted in amusement at the audacity of the suggestion. “My name, is Scythe. If we had met before, you have my word that you wouldn’t be breathing today. Consider this a first and final warning.”
Scythe turn around and left the depressingly dark room without another word, carefully navigating the scattering of bodies he left in his wake. Moments later he was again left to the peace of silence that always came after every battle. It was an odd feeling, surging adrenaline and Aether pumping through his veins, only for it to magically vanish minutes later, as if it had never been there to begin with.
His nostrils flared as he exhaled a relieved breath. It was Underlord Redbeard’s lucky day the Resistance had sent their most obedient warrior to send the message, and that he had practiced restraint as part of his craft. The unredeemable villain responsible for his parent’s deaths, and that of a myriad of others, should be praying to the old gods and the new for forgiveness and compassion. He wouldn’t be shown it again.
His name was Scythe, and though he knew this mission was complete, there was always another around the corner.

Codename Stormbringer

Few things energized him more than the hunt. The hunt to bring down criminals posing a threat to the Galactic Imperium, and those within its protection. The hunt of those running from the grasp of justice, running from their inevitable fate. Running, from him.
As he plugged a thin blue cable that was resting amid the myriad of small robotics in his chest keeping him alive into a matching port on the front of his holovid, a smile crossed his face. Just this month, he had apprehended three more criminals aiding in hiding Aetherials, and even managed to catch and kill one of those bastards. They may be magical, but they certainly weren’t omnipotent or immortal. That, he was sure of.
The holovid blinked to life, showing his vital signs as stable, no anomalies remained from the damage his body sustained in his last encounter with an Aetherial, and the core that powered the mechanical limbs on his body was fully charged. He unplugged it, let the cable retract on its own into its little compartment, and then donned a black shirt that he had hanging in his closet. Never one for fashion, he had many black shirts in there, as well as his Galactic Imperium outfit, pistols resting in their holsters, and shoes, which he had taken pride in shining the night before.
A beep in the device implanted within his left ear alerted him to an incoming call. He pressed an inconspicuous button below his ear, and greeted them. “Demico here. What are the leads today?”
A gentle but firm female voice responded. “Good morning, Captain. I hope this isn’t too early.”
Never too early, if it involves…
“It’s an Aetherial, Captain. Two soldiers reported they ran into one of them yesterday.” She said, without waiting for a response. “Spotted outside a dilapidated bar called…what the hell was its name…oh yeah, Rock Bottom. It’s down on the ground level of District Thirty-Nine. Facial recognition was only able to pull up a name and where the Grid lists them as residing. His name is supposedly Kai Stormbringer, a middle-aged human male who we have traced to a large multi-species apartment complex a couple blocks from that bar.”
Of course, this Stormbringer would be hiding there! It was so obvious, that it’s incredible he hadn’t thought to start checking all the local watering holes for wanted criminals. Their numbers must be so low they are getting desperate and careless. Then again, if I were wanted by the most powerful military in the galaxy, I would probably be drinking my life away too. I wonder if this is the last of the Aetherials. I hope not, because the hunts sure are exciting!
“Thank you, Rodriguez. Ready my squad. E.T.A. is twenty; we will depart for District Thirty-Nine in twenty-five. Mission is Codename: Stormbringer.”
“Roger that. E.T.A. is twenty and I will personally make sure they are prepped and ready for Codename: Stormbringer.” Aetherials could be a tricky foe, should the squad not be completely prepared for all possibilities. Their varying abilities and stages of mastery could make them a Rhonar’s plaything, or a deadly combatant.
“Oh, and one more thing Rodriguez.”
She paused, a growing hesitation creeping into voice. “Yes Captain?”
“Thank you for the good news.”
“You’re welcome, Captain. See you soon.” If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn he heard the faintest sigh of relief after he graciously showed her gratitude that very few received.
The call disconnected and he was left with only his thoughts as he dazed off for a moment in thought, still staring at his uniform perfectly folded in front of him on a slightly angled display. The black breastplate with gold trim showed signs of wear, but it reminded him of how far he had come since the day everything changed. It had been eighteen years, but not a day went by the fire inside his soul didn’t burn to see all the Aetherials dead or otherwise disposed of. They were a nuisance, a plague that needed to be eradicated; vermin, that needed to be hunted down like the monsters they were. He didn’t just want them dead, he wanted them to suffer, like they had made him suffer.
He picked it up in his reconstructed hands, and pressed it to his chest. What sounded like tiny drills and locks clicking into place could be heard momentarily, before he rotated his arms to ensure it was firmly locked in place. Unlike other soldiers, his uniform wasn’t just worn, it was part of him. And for that, he was thankful. It allowed him to dedicate his life to the one solemn being in this galaxy who gave him a chance to survive and make a difference: The Holy Emperor Tenon.
Next were his similarly colored greaves, which he laid them in place and heard the same series of satisfying drills and clicks, before he slipped his shined brown boots over them. Also, still unlike other soldiers, he refused to wear protection over his arms, instead electing to intimidate his prey with a clear view of his bulging muscles baring scars from years of training and hunting. Though they were reconstructed after the attack that nearly took his life all those years ago, they were still the most human part of him, besides his head of course.
The pistol holsters matched his boots, a dark leather that each clipped onto a side of his waist. Finally, he retrieved his pistols. Their long barrels and extended plasma magazines allowed him to pour on the firepower while still maximizing the damage of every shot. The fruits of his labor were marked with tallies on the sides of his pistols, and with over twenty tallies between the two golden guns, he was satisfied with his trophies. Though, as a self-proclaimed hunter, there was never such a thing as too many trophies or a lack of enjoyment in the game.
He was a player in the Aetherial War game, as the common folk called it, and he played to win.
After running his hands through his steel-colored short hair, he deemed himself presentable for the mission ahead. No mirrors would be found in his small apartment, only a bedroom with a closet, a tiny dining area for a single individual, and a toilet with a shower. He didn’t need any more reminders of the tragedy so long ago. His hair could be a disheveled mess, and it likely was, but he would never know.
The disfiguration of his face and body used to bother him, but now, he embraced it. Their stares gave him confidence to know others were terrified of his appearance, though they never dared to utter a word about it to his face.
They knew what he was capable of if they whispered about it in his presence, and it gave him power.
You’d better be ready for the hunt, Stormbringer. Because I am. And I’m coming for you. I hope you put up more of a fight than the last one. They were so…disappointing.
He walked out the door, a rare smile on his face, because today, today was a great day. He had a date with destiny, and its alias today was Stormbringer.

Triple M

     DING!

     The bell on the coffee brewer loudly alerted Marc that his delectable caffeinated drink was ready to be consumed. It was somewhat of a rarity now; with so many technological advances, hell ships could fly to distant systems hundreds of lightyears away in a matter of      weeks through magical wormholes, it was downright a miracle coffee was still around. He figured with all the advancements, there would be mystical pills you consumed to get your coffee fix sated. Well, technically there were, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, he was glad there was coffee, and the coffee was ready.

     Marc waddled over to the dark brown machine and stubby sausage fingers grabbed the steel cup with steaming black liquid inside. He raised it to his nose, giving it a satisfying and exaggerated snort of aroma before flicking a button to turn off the machine. The red light on it blinked off, and he smiled while he made his way slowly to his kitchen’s cooling unit. It wasn’t large, maybe an arm’s length wide and a human’s torso tall, but it held what he needed. A wave of his flabby hand in front of it made it produce a happy beep boop and its front door retracted inside to reveal the chilled contents within. He grabbed the clear glass bottle containing hornless-goat flavored milk, poured an eyeballed tablespoon of it in there, then returned the container. The door shut promptly as he turned to walk away with another satisfying bleep blop that sounded like it was saying “thank you” in some coded machine language.  Or it was saying “hope you die soon.” Either way, he didn’t care and kept moving at an overweight snail’s pace to his office.  

     The office was adjacent to the kitchen, which was by design. A converted bedroom, the “office” was a collection of a half dozen holovids mounted to a long wall to his left as he walked in. Instead of clothes where the closet would typically be, he stashed boxes of candy and adrenaline drinks. They were terrible for his health, which he figured already hit rock bottom so it was only uphill from here anyway.

     He sat down in the chair facing the holovids, and it groaned from his weight that struggled to stay within the chair without spilling over. The six holovids sprang to live, displaying live feeds from different news channels around the Core. The coffee was still burning hot, but it also helped him focus on any juicy new events. Beautiful and elegantly dressed news reporters gave their individual takes, that somehow all blended together to Marc, on their channels, trying to inform the uniformed of what they should be aware of, and how they should feel about it. Well, that was his job, and he was going to make sure he did it better than any of them.

     Marc pressed a couple buttons on the glowing keyboard in front of him. He read the headlines, pulled up his trusty recording software that featured the most simplistic visual interface imaginable (which was still almost too complicated for his computer illiterate mind) and made a couple notes in another program to the right side of the projection.

Aetherials piss off pouty Emperor Tenon

Then destroy a literal underground arena

Before finally escaping with a supposed G. I. defector

     Today is going to be a good one, he mused. The Grid personality glanced at the time on that bottom central holovid, made sure he was comfortable with a few butt wiggles, then pressed a button on his illuminated keyboard resting on the desk in front of him. It was time to go live.

     “Welcome to Triple Down with Triple M. If you didn’t already realize by now that I’m Triple M, then you should probably go jump off the nearest building, you moron! I’ve got some real shit to talk to you about today, so if you aren’t willing to open your ears and mind, why the hell are you still listening? Go play your virtual games and live your useless life in blissful ignorance.”

     He coughed a couple times, swallowing the chunk of phlegm that had dislodged itself and made its way to the top of this throat. The gross pause allowed him to take two more sips of coffee to wash down the mucus before continuing.  

     “Now, I don’t know about you, but whenever I get a chance to piss on the almighty Emperor, I piss as much as possible. From what I’m hearing, it sounds like I’m not the only one. Not one, but TWO Aetherials were spotted on Coropolis yesterday. As if that wasn’t enough to blow your mind, well get ready for it to completely explode. They got into a tussle with some Captain Douchebag guy, then they supposedly killed an innocent civilian in cold blood.” He used air quotes for supposedly, though no one could actually see him doing it.

     “Okay, well that would be enough for me to go on about for a while, but it doesn’t stop there, folks. They then crashed a local underground, and I mean that in more ways than one, fighting ring and caused some real chaos there. The death toll is still being counted as I speak. Who knows how many bodies they took out in that hell hole?” He had no idea if that was true, but half the “facts” the other reporters were, well reporting, weren’t either. It was all a game; he was just another player like everyone else. Another series of coughs occurred followed by more sips of steaming coffee before he continued.

     So that’s crazy, right? Two Aetherials in one place, who manage to escape, kill some guy, then trash an underground arena. Well, it doesn’t stop there. Turns out, I’m getting reports that they escaped with the help of defected Galactic Imperium member. That’s right, one of their own didn’t just betray them, he took a big smelly dump in their backyard and then rubbed their face in it! You can’t right a story this crazy even if you wanted to! I can only imagine the face on big, bad Tenon when he hears about this. I’d bet you ten creds about forty more people are going to be jettisoned into the endless abyss of space after this.”

     More hacking of phlegm, followed by more sips of his deliciously bitter coffee, before he concluded this section of his show for the morning.

     “I’ve been Mad Marc Maddoc, thanks for listening to Triple Down with Triple M. Maybe you all aren’t so bad after all. Or maybe you are a bunch of weird degenerates. Don’t know, don’t care. Go do something useful now and I’ll be back in two standard hours to tell you my opinions on today’s happenings and why I’m right.”

     He pressed a button and stopped the recording, then sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile stretching his flappy cheeks. His coffee was over half empty, and that wasn’t going to fly. Triple M needed his coffee, and the people needed Triple M.

Just Another Day

To most, the arid topography of Vos was pretty much hell. Rainfall was seldom, and when it did come, so did the chance of chemical rain that ate through flesh like a scalding knife through butter. As if that wasn’t welcoming enough, there were the occasional ravenous beasts that ventured too close to settled territory. So, yeah, hell wasn’t too far off base as an accurate description for most.
Greymore Sky wasn’t most people though.
A self-anointed Protector, he tasked himself with guarding those in their small town. He was just one person, but someone had to look out for the elderly, young, and feeble. No one else volunteered for the job, so he voluntold himself he would be the one to take up that position. An unlimited cache of booze made the long days and short nights more bearable.
Just another day, Greymore thought as he checked the clip on his Mk. II Asaki Plasma Rifle and flipped off the safety. The weapon belched to life, atoms smashing and producing a stunning orange glow from the chamber roughly halfway down the gun, centered between the barrel and the stock. It gave off an eerie luminosity that he would have admired on this serene night, if not for the reason he was out this late at night, or early in the morning, however you looked at it. The Asaki line of rifles weren’t pretty to look at, but they were damned reliable, and that’s what he needed. Something to rely on.
He aimed down the sight, waiting for the perfect moment to let loose a volley of deadly molten liquid into the intruder. A puff of breath out the side of his mouth blew aside stray white hairs that threatened to obstruct his view, and that would only lead to a quick untimely end for the Protector. The only one death was coming for tonight was the intruder.
Greymore removed his eye from the sight. Scanning the horizon with it for the last couple minutes hadn’t revealed the threat. It had to be somewhere. He knew it was somewhere. His heavy sleep was never disturbed unless something threatened the village. Or him.
He shut his eyes and cleared his mind, forcing all thoughts down into the depths of his consciousness. One deep breath. Exhale. A second deep breath. Exhale. A third deep breath. Pause. Long exhale. One second passed, one second and ten milliseconds, one second and twenty milliseconds.
There! He didn’t see it yet, but his eyes weren’t getting better with age. His other senses remained sharp, and they kept him alive. For now. He pivoted thirty degrees to his left and raised the rifle again. His mind still clear, he extended his senses out, his bare feet shifted slightly for a sturdier stance. The calloused soles wore years of wear and tear, yet still remained sensitive to any vibrations in the cracked dirt underneath.
Miles off, he felt multiple vibrations. Pounding hooves kicked up a massive cloud of dusk behind them. A family of brown-bellied bull-lions charged for the town. Their black coats of fur covered their six legs and massive feline bodies, with their bellies featuring a leathery brown skin. Short curved horns protruded on the top of their lion-like heads that had puffy manes, while the females shared the same characteristics minus the horns and manes. They were predators to a lot of the sparse wildlife and settlers on Vos, but tonight they were the prey. That could only mean one thing: something much bigger and meaner was on their tails, and it was headed straight for the town.
He knew he had to act quick before they got too close. He reached for a small metal device in a pocket on his belt, and retrieved it. Holding the triangular thing to his mouth, he blew into a perfectly shaped hole on one side. To the human ear, the pitch was unnoticeable. To bull-lions though, it sounded like the wicked screams of a wounded member of their herd. Greymore hoped it would be enough to drive them in any other direction except the one they were headed.
Distant roars rumbled across the gap between them, and through the magnified scope he could see the cloud turn ninety degrees to its right and continue away from the small village. As the cloud shrunk, he still felt something wasn’t right. They weren’t running towards something; they had been running away from something. His senses warned him that something was big, nasty, and racing towards him.
Again, he extended his senses, his feel searching for the disturbance and where it might be coming from. Deep underground, something stirred. It stirred as it moved soil and rock, sending shockwaves of vibration that he could feel throughout his body now as it drew close. This must have been what spooked those bull-lions.

Come on, you big nasty bastard. I’ve got a surprise for you right here.
The ground trembled under him, the intensity of it nearly knocking him off his feet. A couple hundred feet away the dirt burst into the air, and in the dust and debris towered a beast he hoped he would never see in person again. They were a rare breed of wurm, one that can devour small one-pilot space ships in a single lunge. Their bold navy scales also protected it against a variety of projectiles. It’s only known weakness: the eight blinking eyes on the front of its long, cylindrical form. Half a dozen rows of dagger-like teeth gnashed together in a deadly maw waiting to devour flesh.
Inhale. Exhale. He took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly as the creature bellowed a nightmarish roar that shook the earth as much as its movement. Greymore closed his eyes, searching for that center of focus he knew was there. He had suppressed it for a long time, but that fiery focus still burned, even as dim as he kept the candle lit. It was there.
As he opened his eyes from his trance, he saw the creature hit the ground with incredible force and begin slithering towards him. Its mouth gnashed hungrily the whole time it approached. His eyes flickered and began emitting an eerily similar glow to the one still coming from within the center of the rifle he held. He poured more focus into the central chamber of it, and its glow became a beacon of orange brilliance.
A twisted smile crept up the corner of his mouth as he whispered, “not on my watch, pal.”
Just another day in paradise.