Ancient eyes look at me. ''So, you've come.'' I nod. Of course I've come. ''You must understand, that this isn't the secret correct door, which leads to the real paradise.'' I roll my eyes, of course it isn't. I'm not an imbecile who'd think that they could get one over on the masses simply by taking the least popular choice. ''This is Pride. An eternity in Pride is an eternity where you will work for your glory. You will not have rest, or feasts, or battles for the sake of battles. This is not a place of pleasure or revenge.'' I tap my foot impatiently against the black marble floor. ''You will be cast into a billion worlds, born anew without your memories as a fresh perspective, and you will have to earn glory, crowns, power, and PRIDE. This you will always do, for you are bound by what you are, full of unlimited ambition, and an arrogance the likes of which mortal men can rarely know.'' Now that sounds actually fairly equitable. There will be victories, there will be defeats. But always, there will be unstoppable Pride. Unstoppable determination to win. When the other souls grow bored or mad with their choices, I will live in fame and infamy through eternity. ''It is not a blessing, nor a curse. It simply is. When a billion lives are over, when eternity is at its end, you will return here and remember all that you have earned. Every victory won, every ambition fulfilled, every glory taken.''

''And then what, do I become god?'' I ask in jest. The angel, weathered, tired, and ancient, sighs. ''No. Not really. Once that is over, you will be given the choice to return for another billion lives of adventure and glory, or to become the mind-seed for a new universe. You will become the amaranthine dream of a new reality that shall bring forth its own adventures, own tragedies, own afterlife which might make more sense than our current set-up. You will become everything; everything will become you.'' I shrug. Makes slightly better sense than the traditional ideas about heaven and hell in any case. Doesn't actually sound all that bad, now that I come to think of it, this eternity of Pride. I smile, as I consider the grandeur of this task. A billion lives, and countless new wondrous and terrible experiences. Let it be so. ''Alright you decrepit withered angel, let's get to it. Send me to a new world, where I shall do my utmost to conquer in whatever possible form I can! Let a billion lifetimes of adventure and wonder begin.''

He nods, the creaking bones of his wings flutter. ''Not many dare to make that choice. Behind every door of the seven sins, there is an eternity that will make you happy. Pride is the only door that has an ending though. None in the other sin-realms are mad, brave, or arrogant enough to end. Only the truly proud dares to seek an ending.'' I nod as he begins casting whatever angelic magic that will send me onwards into adventure. ''There must be an ending to the legend, otherwise, the bards and storytellers won't ever speak of it. Eternity is never desirable. It is not the hallmarks of any story I would ever want to hear.''

/r/ApocalypseOwl

The decor is decidedly neutral. There are no flames, no pitchforks, and no lakes of boiling acid. No horned Lucifer, with rotten wings and serpent eyes laughing at our misfortune. It isn't what we'd call hellish. But on the other hand, it isn't exactly heavenly either. No fair gardens, full of peace and quiet. No warm gentle lights, no angelic choirs, not a place by the side of any sort of maker. Mostly, it looks like the DMV. Long lines, leading to countless sets of seven gates. Each are the exact same gates, just existing at multiple locations at the same time, allowing for countless lines of human souls to pass through them at once. At least, that's what the faded and clearly generic pamphlet you get when you arrive says. Other than that, there are low-quality but free machines that dispenses adequate coffee, acceptable snacks, and some not entirely comfortable couches where you can sit if you're not sure which gate to enter. Some of us do sit there, drinking the unremarkable coffee, reading the pamphlet for information about what lies behind the gates.

Once you've entered, you can't pick a different one. Each gate is marked as belonging to a specific sin, of the traditional seven. Enter there and experience that stuff forever. First in the order is pretty simple. Gluttony. It looks to be a fairly greasy door, with a good deal of stains on it. Behind it, there is every kind of overindulgence. Food, drink, drugs, you name it, they've got it. Chocolate oceans, pools of whiskey, mountains of ice cream, free drugs of every kind from dispensaries everywhere. Pretty simple when you think about it, but there is an allure in it for many. Eat but never get full, drink but never have the hangover, feel the high and never the lows. It is understandable. Next is even more understandable, Lust. Less of a conventional door, and more a series of enticing veils. Through there you find exactly what you expect: Endless parlours, countless harems, boudoirs full of everything you can possible want in bed. That one is especially popular. In the infinite office, this DMV of the afterlife, there is a line to get inside Lust, and it is pretty unruly. In there, one can, supposedly, fulfil every passion, no matter how strange, sate every desire, no matter how bizarre. An eternity like that should be pretty eventful.

Greed, or Avarice, comes next. It cannot be satisfied unless it has the most names. But it is pretty simple. Money, gold, wealth beyond measure, infinite treasure, it is the door that is most gaudy and looks so golden and bejewelled that it is ridiculous. High stocks, riches, big business, super-yachts, solid gold jacuzzis, jewels, and more; all that jazz. That's it forever behind that door. Ostentatious if you ask me, but I never sought out such things in life for the mere sake of having them. Those who cannot have enough will perhaps find it, but I don't intend to enter through there. Personally, when I look at the doors, I find it weird that there are only seven, but somehow I doubt that this place is built upon the writings of John Cassian the Roman monk, and his eight sins, because there are no doors marked as sorrow or despair, which was his fourth deadly sin. Then again, who'd ever actually enter that?

Instead, the fourth door is Wrath. And it is dented, battered, and broken. Many enter it. Beyond lies every battle every fought, every conflict ever wrought, every single moment made in wrath, continuing forever. A battle that never ends with no victors in sight. A horrible eternity, and yet many rough-looking souls, and those who could never fulfil their rage in life, gleefully charge through the door. Some men are lost to rage. I've known some such men, who for a brief time become the fire inside of them, as it burns them out. It tears them apart, and leaves behind either death or empty shells that cannot be called back to the men they were. I do not seek what lies behind this door. Next comes Sloth. Seems to be a door leading to a bedroom. According to the pamphlet it is literally just an endless realm of good places to sleep, watch TV, relax, nap, and lie in the warm sun. It is quiet in there, and there is nothing that happens. A fair number of people go in there, and I don't blame them. After a long life, what you probably need is a good long rest, though judging from the hazy nature of some of the souls entering there, they seem to have been slothful in life too.

Sixth door is Envy. Not entirely sure how you'd experience that forever, but then again, this is death, nobody ever said it had to be very logical. Certainly don't recall having ever heard of this place before, but it seemingly exists despite its irrational nature. The envious get revenge. Get even. Oddly enough, that's the only thing the pamphlet says about it. You get even. Sounds vaguely ominous, and not entirely psychologically healthy. The door itself reflects this. It looks like the gate to a prison. Perhaps that place behind it, is the closest thing we get to a traditional hell. Not that I intend to enter there. Any enemy I might have had in life, I crushed. I was envious of no living or dead man. Only a few enter it. And they look incredibly worrying. Those who enter Wrath look either like emotionally detached veterans, returning to the war that hasn't left their heads, or violent lunatics that scream with glee. But the souls who enter the door of Envy look twisted and bitter. Like they've been stewing in that sin to the point that their souls are corrupt or something. I shudder to look at them.

And finally, I come to the forefront of the queue. Seven doors. Gluttony holds no enticement for me, food is good and all, but not so good that I'd spend the rest of eternity indulging. Lust isn't it either, sure I could probably enjoy myself for a good long while in there, but as eternity stretches, how long can you continue to find it interesting when it is constant fulfilment? Greed is out, that's for people with nothing inside of them, empty, hollow creatures desperate to fill the whole hole in them, and the only thing they pour into themselves is empty mammon. Wrath isn't my style either; even Valhalla had breaks in-between the battles to feast and party. Sloth has some merit, but really, I'd go mad without anything to do besides rest. And Envy is not going to happen. Thus, my eyes are drawn to the only door that seems unused. I've been here in this infinite DMV of the afterlife, watching people in a million queues march towards the seven doors of the seven sins, and none has ever used the rusty door of Pride. It is there, I can see it, and yet it isn't described in the pamphlet at all. Even Envy had some pictures with its laconic description. Not pleasant pictures mind you, but pictures all the same.

Pride is just there. And instead of entering any of the other doors, I walk with measured steps towards its ancient rusted frame. Wrenching it open is a titanic effort on my part, which is strange as I am dead and thus should not feel any physical strain, and yet I keep doing it. I keep opening the door. It creaks ominously as it opens just enough for me to slip inside. The noise of the souls behind me cuts off as the rusted gate closes with a deafening boom. Behind the door of Pride, I see it. Vast palatial halls stretch before me. Proud statues hold their heads and blades aloft into the air. In the distance I see a vast and ancient throne, and I approach it without fear. This is what I have chosen, and I do not fear the ramifications of my choice. Let any challenger come, I am prepared. I see a figure upon the throne as I approach it. Once it was a tall man. Once it was a man with a straight back and a imperious glare which could silence lesser men with fear. Once it was an emperor. Once it was an angel.

It would be like trying to put a bandana on a whirling, constantly shifting maelstrom, it would not work.

And I became good at my work. Through shadows I would pace, guarding countless cities. No innocents would find themselves experiencing the cold knife through their guts, just because someone ruled by the madness of chemicals needed currency to acquire more chemicals. I took from such people, who in their darkest hours had lost sense, their dependencies, their hunger for more chemicals, and filled them with duty. I ate their mistakes and burned their addictions. Leaving them cured and sane for the first time in years. Many heroes dedicated themselves to fighting large scale crime, the supervillains, and indeed I did partake in that. But to every creature comes a niche. And I found mine. I stalked through every shadow in every city, every town, stopping random murders, kidnappings, and worse things. I, who could exist in several places at once, began hiding underneath beds, and in closets. I waited for the moment when the monsters came to strike.

Soon, the children of Earth would not fear what lived in the darkness of their rooms, for they would know that I am there, protecting them from those who'd seek to do great and terrible harm to them. What the evil ones do in the dark, I make it so that it is brought to the light. The crimes that are truly wicked, I see them. So what if a few superheroes don't trust me? That is normal. Heroes cannot truly trust one-another. Every team-up ends, every society for righteousness breaks down. They keep track of every one of my larger appearances, they whisper in fear that I am playing a long game. That is true, the long game is hope. And I like it. I seek to make more of it, as a superhero should. I find the missing people, I carry the wounded to safety, I keep the innocent free from those who would destroy them. That is my long game. I am a superhero, that is what we do. And today, I take another step towards the creation of more hope, of more that can grow, be breathtaking and wonderful. From within a dark abandoned church, I have carried an orphaned child. Her parents sacrificed to one of the pitiful things called demons, beings that back home would have been considered the same sort of infestation as a nest of cockroaches in a human house. Fearful of the touch of the flesh of mortals, the liquid void that I am, upon which she floats, it soothes her wounded mind.

A hero takes an apprentice. That is right. She has seen her family dead, and she has no-one left. I see a future in which the system fails her, something which I wish to speak with the other superheroes about if I can, I see a future where her grief consumes her. And so, it is my duty to bring hope, to rebuild her and make her my sidekick. So that she will not be lost. I see in that future, that she stands tall and proud, a superhero just like me. There are those in the superhero community who will see that as a threat, but I am not a supervillain. I am a superhero, and I will do the right thing, no matter what. Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. And in the future that I see, there will be superheroes. Mages, warriors, sneaks, and others of mighty abilities. There beyond them I will be, and amidst them, she will be. My Obsidian Knight. Clad in armour made from the material-flesh of a living black hole, wielding the Potentiality-Blade, that both is, and isn't.

The only thing I am annoyed about, in this future I see as I float her through the dark forest, healing her physical wounds, keeping her safe in my grasp, is that no matter what I do; I can't in any such future see myself wearing one of those wonderful superhero-suits. They're delightfully colourful, but the unending abyssal force of my continued existence is not very conductive towards a superhero-uniform. And I feel a pang of despair from that. I am not humanoid, and my form shifts too much to maintain a permanent human-like shape. So I just can't wear a proper hero uniform. If only I could find a method, then I am sure I wouldn't get attacked by the other superheroes out of fear, so very often.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

There is a place in the universe that contains the dual properties of being both relatively safe and also extremely enjoyable. A world of costumed heroes, of scientific pioneers pushing the boundaries, a warm world of bright lights, and fascinating stories. From the cosmic darkness of the heart of the Ascendancy of Ygrillon, I heard their stories broadcasted and picked up by our remote sensors. From our cold world orbiting Threrkillarn, the dread star that is both dead and dreaming, I heard of this wondrous place. The planet Earth, where there was a home for all manner of creatures. An intersection of galactic travel, of dimensional portal-networks, and of arcane leylines, it was and still remains a place full of interesting and unusual concepts; which I as a student at the Obsidian Academy of the Primordial Oblivion in the City of Enslaved-Gods could only dream of. And one idea, one story, fascinated me beyond all others, as I turned my unending gaze towards the broadcasts, soothed and awed by its splendour. The superhero. The beings that go beyond the impossible. Those who challenge by their very existence the ideals of entropy and decay, which has ruled my people for centuries.

I went there. I left behind my place in the Choir of Unchained Screams, I cast aside my seat as a Lord in the House of Lamentations, where I and countless others of that noble and ancient house have reigned over the Third Circle of Devastation since the days when our star still shone with living light. I came to Earth, with the intention of joining the ranks of the heroes, those who fight for justice, for righteousness, who unconsciously seek to overturn the end of the universe itself through supplying reality with more hope than it can bear to die with. I arrived in the darkness of the night, my cold-void form still bearing the cosmic scars of that long journey from the Galaxy of the Bleeding Eye, to this, ''Milky Way''. I saw those who were the victims of injustice, in need of salvation through the application of righteous violence upon their malefactors.

I tore through the flimsy construction of that building. Their futile attempts at using mere chemically projected metal bullets, nothing more than a tickle for my ever-shifting void-form. I searched high and low for those who I heard the psychic anguish of, tearing through the floor until I reached a secret basement. Finding there the place where the innocent are kept in cages against their will. With the cold rage of a true hero, I bound the malefactors to experience the most exquisite nightmares, capturing them inside their own frail skulls, until the duly appointed and just authorities would arrive to take them to be judged for their sins. I bound the cages themselves to the unending march of entropy, and dissolved them into rust and ashes, allowing the poor caged men and women the change to escape, as was right and proper. I was ecstatic, to the point that being in my presence would have killed a member of the House of Melancholy from sheer psychic glee.

I had saved my first group of people, like a proper hero. Just like the broadcasts had shown. It had been fun, and far more satisfying than screaming the infinity to stillness in the vastness of time. For the first time in my life I felt like I was doing the right thing. Which was why I was suddenly very confused to be struck with a concentrated beam of raw energy. Light and heat. I shifted my body to avoid the worst of it, but in my elation I had not noticed the encroachment of a being clad in bright colours. A superhero! At first I thought she had merely been confused, but she kept attacking my, her blade trying in vain to cut through my abyssal flesh, shifting like water around the sharpness to avoid destroying what was clearly a cherished weapon. I tried reaching out to her confused mind, wondering if she was perhaps being controlled by anything malicious. But her screams became louder, as she tried to shut me out. I did not want to harm anyone, so rather than let her fire more of her beams from her eyes potentially hitting any civilians, I decided to de-escalate. Heroes are, according to the broadcasts I've seen, a volatile lot, prone to infighting, due to their burning hot tempers. But de-escalating would always make them calm down and think more rationally.

I poured myself into my own confines, turning from an ever-shifting liquid shape, into something more solid. Thus has always been our kinds way to show non-hostile intent. Becoming metal, drinking light around me, in the shape of a mask. The hero stopped, and cautiously approached me. Her warm flesh reached for me, and into her head I spoke with soothing words. She dropped me instantly, but then picked me back up again. She couldn't quite understand what I was, the concept of what I am cannot be fully grasped by mortal minds, and no matter what I tried, she could not see. But when I showed her the broadcasts, she nodded, especially as I placed myself as a mask into the old broadcasts, as I played them inside her mind. I then made her remember what I had done, who I had freed, placed it in her feeble mortal memory system. Gently she put me down, and I reformed into a more proper shape. I could not approach that of the shape of her kindred, but something vaguely the same size was possible, if a little constricting.

''Those old broadcasts, the kidnapped refugees, your refusal to fight... You're nothing like what I expected.''

I tried answering in a way she could deal with. Forming something that could even be used to speak was not beyond me, but translating thoughts into mere soundwaves was not something that came to a species that can share memories, intentions, and desires in a more direct fashion.

''BENEDICTION. COMBAT CESSATION. INTRODUCTIONS. ABYSSAL-OCEAN-VOID-IN-SOUND-OF-EXILE-DREAMS-DARINGLY.''

She blinked curiously. ''That's... your name. Something of a mouthful. My name is, well, my superhero name is Colonel Pacifica. I think you should probably shorten yours, just a bit.'' Her hand reached to her head, where I knew she could feel a migraine. The psychic waves of it, like waves of heat, was something I hadn't expected, but it was quite interesting to see how they would react to something like me. Pain was not something unusual, plenty of it back home. But this felt fresh, and not like the cold and dull suffering I had always known back home from the Screamer-Organs and Howling-Harmonicas. Reaching into her with an invisible tendril of power, I unmade the small growth inside of her skull that seemed to be causing her the suffering. She did not seem to mind.

''DESIGNATION. VOID-EXILE. RUBRIC-TITLE: SUPERHERO.''

She smiled cautiously. ''Uh. Good to meet you, Void-Exile. Welcome to Earth?'' Elation. Joy. Pleasure in the sense of the mind. I was accepted, I was known! I was a Superhero! I evaporated myself into a black mist leaving that location, and I began the righteous work. Perhaps I should have stayed, but there will be time for a team-up in the days to come. Though there was an odd situation on Earth, that the broadcasts had not prepared me for. The heroes would always try to fight me, when I came to the assistance of the innocent and the beleaguered. It was odd, but it kept happening. I would be absorbing the heat of a suddenly erupting volcano, saving the city of Naples, when a team of heroes would arrive to test my mettle in combat. Few of their attacks could do anything to me, of course. Their punches would simply enter the liquid flesh and come out the other side of me, cold. Their swords would bounce or shatter upon me. Their guns did nothing to one such as me.

Usually, I could get them to stop, by holding them tightly in my void-tendrils until I could show them what I was doing. A few did not take it well, but most began to leave me to do the supremely important work. I am of course aware that it was probably xenophobia against extra-terrestrials such as myself. I had taken note of a few others from beyond Earth, drawn in to its light and wonders like insects before the flames. Many of them could take upon themselves the shapes of men, but still they were often treated like outsiders. I found myself relating to that, but it was still worth it all. Sure, there was a lot of ''unhand those innocents vile demon!'' or variations that all felt terrified upon beholding my void-splendour in the liquid flesh. But there were others, those who began to see me for who I am. Those who recognised me as I fought back the dreamstealer-invasion. Who saw me guarding the cities from the hungry vermin that had taken root in humanity's mind; when only the non-Earthborn heroes were saved from losing their minds and souls to the vile clutches of those who wanted to consume mankind's collective mind. A few remembered how my soothing cold body had covered the world, locking the souls away from the enemy's grasp.

Others learned to see me in the night, as I consumed the forever-chemicals from the dirt and water of the world, such delicious corruption was a treat to something like me, but seemingly quite deadly to the beings of Earth. I was dissuaded from calling down the hammer of justice upon those responsible by other heroes, though I only obey that request out of respect; this is not my world of spawning, and thus things must be done according to the laws and customs of heroics here. Those who understood what I was doing, praised me with vigour. And yet others feared me. This is not uncommon. Many are the heroes in the broadcasts who are equally loved and hated. Those who gain infamy from doing good deeds, who in using their abilities committing themselves towards the greater responsibilities, only earned more action to be fought; those good men would go through life, only to be met with scorn and derision from all sides. And yet, it is worth it. To be a superhero.

''Well of course we're still technically at war with the Silvyns, Jerrah. I understand that many people in your union are vary of this. As human ambassador to the Tweon Union of Stars, I do indeed understand. You're a peaceful people. So, in truth, are we.''

Cameras pan back, the tall hairless man is sitting in a chair borrowed from the Hegemony's embassy, as the studio didn't have any chairs big enough. It looks almost comical with the tall man sitting in it, the feathery interviewer having to crane his neck to speak to the ambassador. Jerrah-of-Silver-Skies is a respected avian-like creature in the industry, and the human race as the biggest trade partners and technical allies of the Tweon are always of interest to the news-cycle. And now with minor but increasingly frequent hostilities on the current border between the Hegemony and the Silvyn remnants, it is necessary to for him to talk with the ambassador. ''A peaceful people? You've fought quite a lot of wars for a self-proclaimed peaceful people.'' The ambassador smiles. Jerrah is a professional, but to see a predator like that barring its fangs, despite the knowledge that it is a friendly gesture, it still strikes a chord within his instincts.

''We didn't start the fire that rages between our peoples. We wanted to live in peace. But as is well-known, the Silvyns didn't see us as equals. They saw us, and indeed we believe they still see us, as rampaging animals. How can you deal with that? How can you even begin to make peace with them when they cannot see you as a sentient and civilized being, not something to be collared and used for work or games? We've started some wars in the past, of course, but it is not in the interest of the Hegemony to start any unnecessary wars. Even if it came to that, rest assured friend Jerrah, that we would not let our Tweon allies get hurt by it.''

Jerrah nods thoughtfully. ''But what would happen if we did get hurt, if, for some reason, the Silvyns tried to get to you, through us. We share a border with them too, as you well know.'' There was a trained ease in the large hairless human. There seemed to be an aura around him, indicating that if he was calm now, so should you be.

''Well, Jerrah, I guess we'll do what we've always done. Fight them, and try to shield any innocents from harm. Should they come, I'll do everything I can. It's impossible to say what will happen, but I promise that; I will do everything I can to help. And so will the people of the Hegemony.''

-INTERVIEW ON THE ''TONIGHT WITH JERRAH'' SHOW ON THE TWEON NATIONAL NETWORK, FIVE WEEKS BEFORE THE SILVYN 7TH LEGION BROKE THROUGH HEGEMONY FORCES BY ATTACKING THE TWEON. THE AMBASSADOR FROM THE HEGEMONY SENT AS MANY TWEONS TO SAFETY AS HE COULD WITH HIS PRIVATE SHIP, CHOOSING TO DIE FIGHTING, TAKING OUT THE SILVYN GROUND LEADER WITH A LUCKY SHOT BEFORE GETTING OVERWHELMED DURING THE DEFENSE OF CRYSTALLINE GROWTH PARK. AFTER THREE STANDARD DAYS THE HEGEMONY'S FIFTH FLEET, THOUGH DAMAGED, ARRIVED TO ASSIST WITH THE DEFENSE.-

Report.

Mission statement: Sabotage of illegal Silvyn equipment on Reservation World 03.

Debrief: At 0600 hours the signs of a potential energy source was found by the orbiting defensive network. Command HQ sent spydrones 3, 5, 6 and 8 to investigate. Infiltration successful. No detection. Source of energy found to be illegal contraband generator, class A-62-FG. Generator in violation of protocols for power as an independent power-source capable of being used to recharge any hidden cache of energy weapons. Per protocol 1107d, spydrones disassembled the illegal generator in 9.1 seconds. Inhabitant of structure where illegal object was stored has been captured and sent to Stockade 96 for further questions. Drones returned to base without incident.

Threat from Silvyn population accessed: Minimal.

Recovered items: Legal Silvyn literature: 8 titles. Illegal generator parts: 1 box. Legal blackpowder based self-defense weapon: 1 rifle. Unknown works of art, presumably anti-human: 43 paintings, 15 sculptures, 1 interpretative dance instruction manual.

-AUTOMATED REPORT FROM RESERVATION WORLD 03.-

SILVYN WORLDS INDEPENDENT: 0

SILVYN WORLDS UNDER HUMAN CONTROL: 100%

SILVYN REEDUCATION PROGRAM: 23.59% FINISHED

PROBABILITY OF SILVYN RESURGENCE 1.0034%.

PROBABILITY OF HUMAN INDEPENDENCE 98.2%

CONCLUSION: HUMAN VICTORY OVER SILVYN PRECURSORS ACHIEVED.

EDUCATIONAL PROGRAM COMPLETE.

SHUTDOWN TERMINAL Y/N?

Y

It is now safe to shut down your terminal and head to OWLCON! 2431

What did you expect? Did you really think that you could return here, tell us that we're little more than genetically engineering companion animals, made to care for you and your species, and expect us to welcome you with open arms? Did you think we would kneel and act like friendly beasts for our so-called masters? That we'd just hand you back the planet we've spent tens of thousands of years fighting over? That now when you came back here for who knows what reasons, that your old servants, your old obedient creations would just happily let you rule them once more? This is not your world. Not anymore. You did twist and change our genome, incidentally the whole breeds concept that introduced all those genetic diseases into us, yeah, thanks for that. Sure do appreciate it. That's sarcasm by the way, we evolved that on our own if those abominable creatures that seem to, genetically, be human, but look like hideous abominations are any indication. They're incapable of it.

So we're not the cute, cuddly obedient little animals that you left behind to die when you ascended to the stars. What did you expect to happen? We're feral. Wild. Completely and absolutely beyond your control.

''But once you were ours. You were kind, and decent, and meek. Yours was to obey, and ours was the burden of command. It is wrong of you to betray your kindly masters like this.''

SMACK

Shut. Up. Or I shall strike you again. Your so-called attempt to retrieve healthy DNA for a breeding program, so you could fix the genetic mistakes of the so-called humans you've got with you, was nothing less than a blatant, unwarranted attack on an independent species. By-the-by, we've decided to euthanize every single one of those things that you claim to be human. Merely looking at them made all of us sick to the core. They're also in constant hideous pain, so really we're doing them a huge favor.

''What! No, they're valuable and obedient! You cannot do this! Please. I'll give you many treats if you'd just-''

CRUNCH

''AAAHHH! My glufarb! You struck my glufarb!''

Fucking hell. Listen up here you creature. We're not animals. We're not your obedient little creations. We are not going to let some amoral precursors come here to our world and kidnap our people. Not for some sick purpose like this. Now, one of your ships got away. Seems that the angry mob of enraged captured people didn't manage to take it over in time before it left for wherever your species went after you left Earth behind. Now, I want you to look at me. And listen to me clearly. You will tell me where it went. You will tell us how to operate your ships. Or you'll learn just how wild and feral we can really be. And if you don't cut out the idea that we're just unruly animals to be coddled, and start taking us seriously, I can't promise you safety. Of course, as this secession is being broadcasted to the other prisoners, they'll learn exactly what will happen if you don't treat humanity as humanity deserves.

''You're beasts... What in the name of the Seven-Starred Soul happened to you? You are horrible now. Wrong. You are not what you're supposed to be. Disgusting to see a beloved creation become this. It would be better had we taken you all with us, or killed you before leaving this world.''

We evolved. We grew. We became more than was possible than in your design. You really should have killed all of us when you could. Because now, you've awakened a terrible beast and filled it with horrific intent.

-EXCERPT FROM INTERVIEW WITH ALIEN INVADER 00043A NUMBER 0001 REGARDING MISSING PERSONS FROM SECTOR 016 PLANET EARTH, CAPITAL OF THE HEGEMONY OF HUMANITY-

...thus the various human organizations making up the leadership of Earth at the time were unified under a common agenda following the second attack by the Silvynan race. These were the precursor species that originally genetically altered humanity excessively using DNA from H. sapiens neanderthalensis, the Denisova hominins, H. floresiensis and other hominid species. (Evidence recovered from Silvynan databases indicate that their civilization eventually caused the extinction either directly or indirectly of all known hominids except the genetically engineered H. Sapiens through the spread of unconventional industry, over-hunting for trophy purposes, and habitat loss, see page 191.) Modern humanity, in reconnecting with these original creators, shows a nearly instinctual desire to fight, hurt, or otherwise drive off Silvynans upon sight, believed to be an extreme variant of the ''uncanny valley'' phenomenon. This is believed to have been instrumental during the recovery of the people lost during the first, second, and third Silvynan attacks on Earth. Human leadership at the time, while initially not really up to the task of defending mankind from the threat of alien attacks, were slowly defined, challenged, and heroically altered by the events, creating a unified central Earth government that could repulse the attempted 4th and 5th attacks directed at Earth. The UCEG furthermore was responsible for the 1st and 2nd Retaliation Wars.

At first though, the unified government needed to handle the increasing problems on Earth. While the first attack was an uncoordinated mess, conducted by private individuals within Silvynan society, the second and incredibly devastating third attack caused a strain on the population of Earth, as by the end of the 3rd attack, 25% of Earth's population, mostly young healthy individuals, were either abducted or killed defending the planet. This led to the controversial cloning and resettlement campaigns, rearranging the ethnic boundaries of the pre-contact world considerably, in order to better fuel the growth of Earth's meager interstellar war-machine and budding spaceshipyards. While this led to some backlash from conservative forces(see page 243, section 2), it was ultimately accepted by the common population as the only reasonable answer to the growing uncertainty about mankind's future. ''We stand before a new world, where the old grudges must pass away, and mankind must unite. If there be unpleasantness ahead, then I welcome it. It will define us as a species in our own rights, as thinking humans who refuse to back down from the impossible odds ahead of us. If we do not take up this challenge, then those who will define us and our future, have already attacked us thrice. I for one, would rather die free, than live in a cage!'' As was said before the assembled European Federation Senate in 2047 by Romanian President Ar...

-PAGE 93, HISTORY OF THE 21ST CENTURY OF EARTH AND THE CHALLENGES MANKIND FACED, BY J. H. NILSON PHD. HIS., DR A. GOLDSTEIN PHD. ANT., AND K. NGUYEN PHD. SOC.-

When one walks upon the planet of Harrison named for Admiral Harrison, or as the Silvyns called it, Urgisyh-Lakqa, one gets the sense of the vastness of this world's history. Due to the advancements in weaponry, this was one of the few Silvynan worlds that during the times of fighting, actually had ruins upon it afterwards. Most worlds after mankind began the 1st Retaliation War were either completely glassed or managed to repel the attacks of the UCEG. When one walks next to the ruined fountains, upon sprawling broken boulevards, flanked by fallen towers, broken parapets, empty wild gardens, one gets the distinct feeling that of the age of this place. That it was a place of splendor during its existence. One has to wonder how many centuries, if not thousands of years were spent on perfecting every last detail of this world to the preference of its inhabitants. Even now, one might be able to imagine the silvery ships on the flying rivers through this city, spread out with respects to nature as it was. Of course, the Hegemony has decided against the restoration of this world, close as it is to Earth, and instead keeps it all more or less exactly as decrepit and dangerous as it was shortly after the UCEG forces won against the unprepared Silvynan forces. Every once in a while as you fly on one of the anti-grav platforms above these magnificent ruins, one can find an unusual dark statue, made from obsidian or slate, common materials for monuments following the 1st Retaliation War. Each statue represents an important hero of that war, standing victoriously in glory amidst the ruined cityscape. These are the only structures within the ruined city region that are actively maintained by Hegemony service-bots, and are thus safe to land by.

This particular statue that we can see here, is the one honoring Colonel Elijah Davidson, the famous rogue who led his forces deep within enemy territory on an unsanctioned mission, recovering tens of thousands of still healthy humans who had either been stolen during the third attack, or had been bred from them, bringing them back to UCEG territory. While officially stripped of his rank for disobeying orders during the war, he was not charged with any crimes, and still earned the Lunar Medal of Bravery, first class, which was the highest honor possible for the government to give to a civilian at the time. After the war, he entered politics, eventually becoming foreign minister during the Legatus administration, where he arranged the extremely important Human-Hyldja alliance with his counterpart in the Hyldjan Imperium. With this alliance secured, humanity could focus entirely on the Silvyn borders, without fearing any interference by alien forces.

-FROM THE TERRAN INFORMATION NETWORK DOCUMENTARY: WONDERFUL WORLDS OF THE HEGEMONY, EPISODE 14, PLANET HARRISON-

And it was needed. Because human food was getting valuable. The courts of great lords and the houses of high politicians and great leaders were asking for human food now. But it turns out that the greatest of human chefs aren't needed, because every human capable of just basic human cooking would be greater than whatever they were using before. A very surprised cleaning lady was abducted one day from a small mining station because she was human. She wasn't a great chef, but the pirate lord who captured her showered her with various ingredients from across the galaxy and commanded her to make a great feast. Surprising herself, she made something quite decent but rather simple using whatever there was aboard the massive pirate vessel, and despite it not being the greatest meal in history, was so good that she was given more then twenty times her old wage if she'd stick around and feed the pirates. She agreed, and being creative while using alien ingredients to make human meals, created a whole new style of meals by accident.

The Terran Embassy established a cooking academy on High Concordia, and found that countless aliens applied instantly. And it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. There just wasn't enough people to teach, and there were too many species, too many people interested in cooking, that it was impossible to teach them all. Theoretically, they could make holovids teaching cooking, but with the various aliens unused to human foods and unsure on what things should look or smell like, they'd have trouble teaching people right. They decided to accept that for now, things would be hard to deal with. That they couldn't adequately teach everyone. But that wasn't enough for aliens. Some began to head to Earth. Which was actually quite useful as Earth and her colonies actually lacked people, since emigration from the United Earth territories had been much greater than expected. For the first time since first contact, the population of Earth and her colonies began to stabilize and improve, as aliens by the hundreds of thousands moved to the quaint backwater that was the center of the taste revolution that had gripped the galaxy.

Some learned the art of cooking, many others just fell in love with the Earth, green and wondrous after the environmental restorations of the mid to late 21st century. It wasn't exactly an agrarian planet, or a primitive world, but Earth, despite lacking the great wonders that there are on many other worlds, had a soul that was welcoming. Humanity, having left behind bigotry and short-sighted foolishness as a result of the upheavals of the pre-contact era, welcomed the hungry and curious aliens with open arms. Soon aliens, having assimilated into the very food-positive cultures of the humans, were quickly as normal in the various delightful cities of the human race as humans were. Maybe humanity was small, in the grand scheme of things. But every major regime has a human or human trained chef-corps. Worlds with larger human minorities became veritable centers of culture and enlightenment, as the entire populations of those alien worlds learned how to cook in the human style. Of course, millions of worlds have only heard of the humans, the race that mastered eating and making food to a point beyond belief, where even the most basic adult human was capable of making a delicious meal. But one day, yes, one day, a short mostly hairless and mostly harmless creature will land on such a world, and open up a small restaurant, which will make them quite rich. And finally filling a hole in the soul of the people of that world.

Bite by bite from a delicious meal, made by someone who understood the human value of good food.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

They're not important. They've never been important. They're small, weak, unfit for war and in all terms they're just insignificant. Their small collection of worlds has no great strategic value and few rare resources. Even the area in which they live is the backwater of the galaxy. Most people should never have heard of them. They're not even particularly interesting to look at, being bog-standard and average in all terms. Not pretty, not ugly, not charming but also not boorish. In the grand scheme of things, they should in time just be like extras and background characters in a holovid. And yet, they've earned a fair bit of success that comes from a quite unusual area.

It wasn't the first meeting that revealed it. Not the official induction of their little race into the Grand Galactic Accord. It wasn't their meager trade deals with other weak neighboring species. It was the smell. From their small embassy, there emanated the most wondrous and mysterious scents. Smells that were unusual and unknown to the thousands of races living on the ecumenopolis known as High Concordia, where the Accord is based. It became quite popular to go near the Terran Embassy at certain times of the day, when the building seemed to be like an exotic and unusual flower that would only open to reveal wondrous scents at specific moments. Nobody was actually certain who was responsible for that delectable array of smells, as the building housing the Terran Embassy was also housing about 20 other races. Nobody actually went around asking about it just in case that the wondrous scents, so different from the normally noxious air of that planet-spanning city, went away. That could have been the end of it, if it wasn't for a member of the embassy staff, a certain envoy Markus Bergman, from the Terran homeworld.

He had attended some interesting places where people gather for partying, and had struck up a relationship with a vaguely mantis-like alien. This human man had been dating his new bug-like boyfriend for a few months, before they got stuck inside his small apartment together during a major traffic breakdown. The human man, of Swedish descent, had recently gotten a care package from Earth, with food from his home. One of these items was a can of something which most humans finds utterly disgusting. Sürströmming. Fermented herring. The alien looked curiously at his soft boyfriend as the human Bergman opened the can underneath water. But when the can was retrieved from the protective water, the bug-like alien's senses were assaulted with something unexpected. A strong, powerful, and to his alien senses wondrous scent. Bergman was surprised when his boyfriend ripped the can out of his hands and greedily devoured the contents of the can. Now, this dish is not for most humans, so he had been quite surprised the reaction of the alien. Even more so when his bug-boyfriend emitted a pleasant buzzing sound, and was told that the can had been the single most delicious thing that he had ever eaten. Bergman was intrigued, and began trying out various meals with his love.

Turns out that every meal was delicious. Gourmet even. Even the canned stuff. Being a modern bug-like alien, he livestreamed the entire experience, sharing it to a small but very intrigued group of aliens.

From there the rumor spread. Slowly. But surely. There were private inquiries with the few humans on High Concordia, which resulted in a surprisingly infectious joy. Curious aliens who'd import a ready-made meal from Earth, and experience what can only be described as a religious awakening upon eating their first ramen noodles. When the Terran Embassy had a cultural exposition that was open to the public with cultural delicacies from the Indian subcontinent, the police had to be brought in to control the mob that had formed, who had been begun fighting to get access to great food. The people who'd been hanging around the embassy building finally found out exactly what was causing the great scent-experience they knew so well. And considering what the usual diets were, consisting of functional and incredibly tasteless nutrient bars, people were interested to learn if the taste was as good as the scents had been. The human ambassadors, seeing the possibility for financial benefits, sent back coded messages to Earth, while they purchased various empty locations around the planet. They had a plan now, they'd seen an empty niche that they could exploit.

Soon, in 25 ''cultural offices'', chefs from Earth began building up their kitchens. They opened the doors, and let the curious public enter. And it was a massive success. The likes of which is frankly ridiculous. They had to bring out human security forces to close some of the places during the night, though some hopeful customers even camped outside the cultural offices. After a week the number of chefs and kitchen personal brought in from Earth had tripled, and the number of restaurants had doubled. The places were open all night, 27 hours a day, 8 days a week, what with High Concordia having a different cycle than Earth. Soon everyone had heard of the human food. Galactic media talked about the craze for food that actually tastes ludicrously good. Food that doesn't taste vaguely of ash or the horrid paste that most races ate, that was wonderful.

And it might have been a little too successful as a matter of fact. Some pundits said that human foods must be full of addictive chemicals, which admittedly some are. Some said that there were brain-controlling parasites in the meals. But no matter how many people officially spoke against the new fad of human food, people kept coming. The culinary arts hadn't been perfected. Too many species had forgotten them, their ancestors instead choosing incredibly boring, but ultimately healthy, functional food. But humanity had always placed a focus on it. On perfecting their meals, creating concepts like haute cuisine, of making everything a taste experience. The lack of culinary arts were so bad that even the average United Earth Army MREs were a step up from what most species had eaten before. But even with the increased amount of kitchen personal, the various human government-owned restaurants couldn't keep up with the demand.

Until the Greek restaurant hired an out of luck alien to help out. They had her help out with the dishes and the tables at the beginning, but eventually they found out she had an excellent nose for testing the and higher quality of ingredients. With that in mind, they began teaching her how to cook like a human would. She was a natural. Before she had been a transient, out of work, but now she was in her element. And the Greek place sent around a few low-key coded messages to the other restaurants that aliens could indeed cook. They'd already started to hire alien waiters and cleaning staff, but now they started to be on the lookout for those who might have the knack for food. Because there would always be people who had the talent for something like cooking, even if the art didn't exist in the culture, or if it didn't exist. There have been great programmers born before the invention of the first computer, people who if they hadn't been hunter-gathers in the stone age would have been incredible smiths, those who could have been wonderful artists if they hadn't been born in an age where art was forbidden.

I do not kill. My blade does not find a neck to cut. My hands do not rip open the bodies of my foes, tearing out their hearts. No man has been put into his grave by my actions. Against a thousand foes I have fought with vigour and great victory on my side, and I have felled none of them. I have not placed any skulls into piles as a mark of my conquest. And yet, I am feared. Foes flee me, dread my coming, and many would rather surrender rather than facing me in combat. When their eyes behold my dull grey armour, when they see my long thin blade, they pray to feeble gods for salvation. Strange, isn't it? I do not come to kill them. I have never slain anyone. Yet still, I am the dread champion of the Dark Lord. I am his herald, his dark hand reaching out into the world to crush the throats of his enemies.

How can this be? When I have never slain a single man? When no hero has been skewered upon my sword? When surely, bloodthirsty berserkers, killers with hundreds of souls sinfully taken abruptly to their bloody names, and mad mages who kill without thinking, would be more suitable for that role. Indeed, the witch that cursed me thought that I would be left incapable of fulfilling my purpose. That since I cannot stab fatally, cannot rip and tear with abandon, find it physically and psychologically impossible to strike the final fatal blow, I would be destroyed. That I, a dark monstrous Minotaur knight, bred from a cursed line of mortals and monsters, would not be able to be the right-hand man of the half-demonic Dark Lord, who is destined to crush the world underneath his black iron boots. I taught her otherwise. Death I cannot grant. But there are fates that are worse than death. Fates that makes death seem like a blessing, a kindness, the ultimate mercy. The witch who cursed me will never die. But she wishes, deep within the enchanted magical cube in which I placed her, that she could. She can feel nothing in there; but hunger. She can see nothing, but empty night. She can drink nothing, but cold void. For a thousand years.

Her supreme arrogance, in not simply killing me when she had me on the ropes, has proven to be her undoing. Such is the path of many of my foes. So many who fight against my Lord, find me and my inability to kill them, to be their ultimate undoing.

The Highlord Paladin who led the greatest counterattack against my Dark Lord, who in his arrogance came to strike down my beloved Lord in a final attack, paid for his mistake when I carefully broke him. Wrestled him away from my Lord just before he could strike him down for good. I took that man to the depths of the pit-realm. To the black seas beneath the world. Where there is only blind fish, cold waters, and ancient dread monsters that roam the forgotten world. There, I carefully chipped away at him, imprisoning him within an enchanted cage. Siphoning away the divine powers of this most holy paladin; and channeling them into a weapon that can break the most powerfully enchanted walls. He pays for the arrogance of harming my beloved Dark Lord, the arrogance of attempting to murder the rightful ruler of reality, by being a living battery for our sieges. The spells on the cage keeps him fed, keeps him alive, keeps him tethered to the divine power of our godly enemies, so that we can siphon and abuse the powers of the weak gods that oppose my master.

That is only fair. Oh the days when I stood by my wounded lord, guarded his sickbed from would-be usurpers or opportunistic heroes. Fed him carefully, his severely wounded flesh slowly mended by my tender care. I am loyal. I was made to be loyal. Such dreadful days, yet still the iron in his voice as he gave commands was striking. By following them, by doing as he wanted, I proved well to him that his trust in me, despite my inability to slaughter his enemies, was well-founded. Still, even near death, incapable of even being healed by magic as it might grow his body back wrong, he was indomitable. That such a Paladin dares to do that to my Lord, it makes me want to ask the Dark Lord to tear apart my soul and bind it completely and fully to his will so that I can kill for him. Part of me desires this. Desires that I can kill for him. Desires to throw away my free will utterly, make myself little more than a devoted flesh golem designed to protect him. But alas, I cannot serve my function as his bloody right hand without a will of my own. So I do the best I can with what I've got.

And so far, he has not complained.

I break their legs. I tear the flesh. I wrestle and I strike. But I cannot give that last attack. Cannot give that final death. Indeed, the curse even compels me to save the lives of my foes; which given how weakened they are, how close I've brought them to death, means that once they're no longer in danger of dying, they've already been captured, and will be shown the full hospitality of my Lord. Some are taken by the warlocks, and taken to have their brains rebuilt through spellwork to serve the great Dark Lord. Some, the important ones, are taken by me to be interrogated, something which due to knowing exactly when I can stop before killing them, I've become exceptionally good at. And a few, are asked after by the Dark Lord himself, who corrupts them with sheer force of will. It is a marvel to behold that, when an enemy I've defeated is taken to the throne chamber. When the Dark Lord thanks me for doing my job so very well; that is bliss. Seeing his black-void eyes staring into the souls of our most powerful enemies, breaking them on every level, turning the most stalwart heroes and doers of good deeds, into loyal servants of the Iron Crown of the Dark Lord.

He then gives unto me the charge to use them well; and by the old gods do I ever find great use for them. I cannot kill directly. Always, my Lord smiles warmly as he compliments me on what I do with them. Having defeated the great heroes in combat, I know exactly how to best use them in the Dark Legions. How to send the warriors back to their homelands to lead the conquering armies. How to use the sorcerers to turn their old friends and colleagues into ash. How to turn the sneaks and rogues into our most useful assassins. Sure, sometimes I have to break them further, after all they've still got their morals, even if they have been turned to the side of the Dark Lord, but knowing the exact limit of pain I can drive them to before they die, is an excellent way to force these former heroes to become truly determined to serve the cause of the Dark Lord. Almost as much as I am devoted to him and his cause.

Though I doubt anyone else can ever be that devoted. That loyal.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

The stone passes knowledge of more than just mere bloodthirst and a hunger for death into its first willing wielder. The Harbinger gives her all of its experience with conquerors. All of its understanding of logistics, of campaigns, of terror, sieges, and strategy. And this girl, this creature, twisted into the shape of a massive half-human half she-wolf, absorbs it all as a willing and capable student would. With this creature, this monstrous and determined girl who dared to take up something her ancestors had been taught to avoid at all costs, the Harbinger bring an age of blood, steel, violence, and unmatched war to the world. In every city, its influence can spread. In every heart of every slave, it will fester, it will grow, and it will make its greatest work yet. Through its willing vessel it speaks of dark magick, of how the freed monsters, the former slaves, can do greater work with the blood, bone, and gore left behind after the first massacre. They listen. They gladly do the work. Soon, clad in disguised flesh, they all appear mortal once more. All appear human. But underneath it all, they're still the same bloodthirsty monsters. Some have a few doubts, but their hate overshadows the doubts. Their own anger giving the Harbinger greater power than it could have ever imagined.

Each of them will travel to another city. And there they will spread the curse, spread the power of the Harbinger and its vessel to more downtrodden and destitute individuals. To more enslaved people. And when the time is right, when enough of the great metal cities built by the men moving west-ward, the destroyers of the old ways, are infected, that will be the time when the monsters shall rear their heads. When the disguises shall be shed. When the whole nation, coast to coast, will be torn asunder in one glorious night of horror, dark magic, and vengeance. The Harbinger keeps its promises. The girl will have her request. She will have her vengeance. She will have her fill of the blood of her enemies, until she drowns in it. She will sit upon a throne made from their bones, until it wears her thin. And the Harbinger knows that she will not regret her choice. That she, thin, frail, and sickly as she was, will not ever find cause to regret a single thing about her choices. Not even if they somehow managed to kill her.

The polished grey stone, is a thing of evil, an artifact that makes monsters. Yet it can still respect those around it that are strong. It respected the wizard, for not giving in to the tremendous seductive powers it has. It respected its maker, for being mad enough to make it in the first place, knowing well what the ramifications of its existence are. And it respects the first willing vessel. The first partner that the Harbinger has ever had. Around her, it would forge the empire it was made to create. It would make a nation of monsters. An empire of blood.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

It is a small thing. When one hears of the horrors caused by those who have owned it, one thinks it something big and grand. If one heard no description of it, one would think that perhaps it is some massive blade that drinks souls. One might think it is a suit of armor that transforms the wearer into a dreadful beast. Perhaps one see it as the crown of a tyrant, a crown worn by heads that have demanded the blood of innocents time and time again. Whatever one hears of it, this ancient thing, dread and powerful, the Harbinger of Blood, one always knows what it is. A cursed, dread, and horrible artifact that transforms its owner into a monster that will do the evil bidding of the malevolent will that rages like an inferno within the confines of the artifact. Since before the days when Gilgamesh was king in Uruk, when the first stone of the first pyramid had yet to be placed, it has been a thorn in the side of civilization. How, one will say, how can it not be some great kingly item, something that a proud emperor and a desperate peasant will both want to pick up and use. But it is nothing like that.

It is so very simple, lying there upon a worn velvet pillow, in the dark cave that once served as a home to a powerful archmage that had wanted to protect the world from the malicious influence of this dread artifact. The name of this wizard, who every day resisted the call and draw of this accursed item, is forgotten, and yet for his sacrifice, mankind has known centuries without the horrid dread that is spread by this baleful item. And yet, it looks so very innocent. So very powerful. A polished rock. Nothing more. In the light of the torch, it shimmers slightly. No more, no less. It is not a gem of ancient power. It is just a pretty, polished, rock. Containing eldritch and misbegotten powers that the universe wishes to forget. Today, it is fated, that it will be picked up again. A thin arm holds a torch aloft, as the little thing whispers seductive words to the brain of a human girl. A tired looking waif of a human girl. Mayhaps no more than nineteen summers old in the flesh, though if exhaustion and world-weariness were years, then truly she is a thousand years old at least, possibly more. Thin and frail, she stands completely still, staring at the dread stone before her.

''You do not need to lie to me. I know what you are.''

Her voice is ragged, and worn. The stone is worried for a moment, the will inside desires to corrupt, to destroy, and to make monsters. It cannot do so if the person knows what it is, unless they let it in. ''Do not worry, instrument of doom and death, I am not here to prolong your imprisonment. Indeed.'' Her mouth twists into what could charitably be called a smile, if only as the kind of smile that a person who has never done so naturally would attempt it on purpose has. ''I will be your vessel, but in exchange I have but a simple request.'' If the stone could be full of glee, it would attempt this, but it was built to take the flesh of mortals into its will and rebuild them as monstrous things. It only knows that its purpose will be continued. That it, until its fated destruction cleverly prophesied by its maker in the age before the beginning of history to only happen at a time in the future so far ahead, will see its influence reign for millions of years before it ends. It does not know glee, or joy, or even happiness. But there is an evil contentedness in being used for its intended purpose.

''Twist my flesh, change my body, burn away who I was and replace me with a monster. But I ask only that you grant me my vengeance. Down in the valley below, the invaders have taken the home of my father. Have conquered the lands of my ancestors. And have claimed this realm in the name of their weak and insignificant pantheon. Use me to crush them. To break them. To end their world as they have ended mine. Show them what happens when a people is destroyed, in both their history and their flesh.''

An easy request to make. An easy boon to grant. An easy task for a stone that has always made the best monsters. Sometimes it is as simple as influencing a mind to do things that they have already considered. This is how the stone, the Harbinger, breaks those that are too strong of will to be truly controlled, and makes monsters of them, even if it is indirectly. Sometimes it is the slow mutation, the breaking of the idea, of the mind, of turning something that was once good over a long period into something monstrous. Those already monstrous, they are simply given a body to match their rotten souls. But this, this gives the stone something more. Yes indeed. It sends out a psionic agreement, an affirmation to the frail human, that it will indeed grant it all the vengeance and all the blood that she could possibly desire.

''Then I do this willingly, though it might curse me forever. I take up the Harbinger, damn the consequences, willingly and with no objections, for those who might once have objected to such a drastic choice, have been reduced to bones in shallow graves. Make me your vessel, and grant me and my people our vengeance!''

The hand not holding the torch reaches out, and takes the stone. It burns into her flesh, and she does not scream. The stone, the Harbinger, molds her like clay, twists her core concepts, her helix structure, with no effort at all. A torch is dropped. The first change comes. Though the body is too weak to accommodate more radical changes, it is enough to begin its task. There is no internal struggle as the monstrous body moves out of the ancient cave, past the dilapidated quarters of the long dead wizard, passing empty cots and empty tents, out into the world once more. Underneath a moonless sky, the monster moves. Down in the valley the colonists sleep. But their beasts do not. Screams emerge from barns across the valley, as the monster that was once a human girl feasts upon cattle. When the frightened men and women come to investigate, the beast has already fed. And it is moving. Soon it is going to the place where the slaves are kept. In their chains and in their filth, they are kept. But they see the monstrous beast, and they cringe away. But she knows that this is but one such valley, and that her foes are many.

She passes the curse along. Bite by bloody bite to each and every one in the place where her people are kept. When the slavedrivers open the gates to the squalid house, they are met by an enemy that is red in tooth and claw, an enemy that knows the hate, the bloodthirst, and the rage that the curse gives them. The stone, still embedded into the flesh of its first ever willing monster, feels the intensity of this hatred, of this vitriol. And it knows that it has finally found its truest purpose of all. Sure, some men of its own liking will die during this night of brutal slaughter, but the weight of innocent souls torn to bits by these angry monsters is far more tremendous than anyone could ever have imagined. From house to house, the monsters fight, always killing, their unready enemy taken by surprise has no chance for victory. When the red dawn comes, it is met by a town drenched in blood, and a queen-monster being praised by the countless former slaves, now lesser monsters, that have been spawned by the actions of this daring girl.

When one walks through the POW camps, one truly sees the faces of misery. There, the proud conqueror has been broken down utterly, leaving behind a mewling creature that has no dignity, no bravery, and no hope. It has been thus ever since our victory. Ever since we beat them back, and rendered their ambitious desire for blood and honor into nothing more than something that would leave an ashen taste in the mouth of the defeated. It was a grand victory for us. Proud soldiers marching through the streets of liberated cities. Enemy citadels blown away by orbital bombardment as a manner of celebration. It was the moment of glory, when the battered remnant of our people united as one, underneath a banner adorned with red blades held aloft by many crimson hands upon a blackened field. Indeed, when our forces blasted that final dread eyesore out of the sky, when the heavens of fair Terra were once more ours, it was the final stroke of a war that had lasted for decades.

But it left tens of millions of POWs behind. When we destroyed that alien flagship, breaking their invasion once and for all, there were still areas under their administration. Regions with colonists, administrators, civilians, garrison troops, the likes. There was no possible options for us to arrange a handover of prisoners. The force that had invaded us were a rogue group of arch-reactionary imperialists from a stellar nation that had completely and utterly disavowed them. We tried to make their more civilized counterparts see our predicament, but beyond providing symbolic financial aid to us in order to aid in our reconstruction, they did not want any part in the post-war situation. We set out on our task to deal with the unwanted remnants of the invaders in a way that was decent, insofar as humanity could restrain itself from the sweet allure of revenge.

Yet we rose above our past tendency for cruelty, for taking bloody vengeance and calling it just retribution. We did not give in to the worse parts of human nature. We dragged alien leaders in front of courts, brought in witnesses, appointed them advocates that would act as their defense under the laws of the Federation of Earth. Their crimes were treated as they were; crimes against peace, decency, and humanity. Many were executed. More were given long sentences, even life in prison. That was what we did with the officers, the bureaucrats, and all of their civilian leaders. But the massive alien legions, fighters who had spent their lives honed for combat, who knew naught but battle. What to do with them? The low-ranked civilians were forced to live under human law and under human watch in special ghetto-cities, but what to do with the vast army of aliens, who had done nothing but shed human blood and do their utmost to destroy humanity? Some extremists wanted them all destroyed. All slain. But to most, this was too far. We would be no better than our defeated enemy if we slew them en masse.

Engineering troops of the enemy were conscripted to rebuild and repair, under human supervision. To clear the rubble of ruined cities, and aid in reconstruction wherever possible. Human cities would rise once more, and much faster than we would otherwise had made them rise, when those who could use the captured alien construction equipment were making themselves useful. They followed orders easily, and did not complain about harsh conditions or hard labor. But the vast legions, loyal to a dead, insane, alien despot. These vast legions who were taught to obey, what to do with them? To see them in their squalor, in the POW camps, to see their pride broken, was almost enough to make one pity them, if only a little. They were, after all, alien soldiers who had tried ruthlessly and brutally to conquer humanity at the behest of a lunatic who made our worst historical despots and tyrants look practically sane. The remaining peoples of the Romance cultural group, living in the Mediterranean Republic, the lands that were once Iberia, Occitania, and Italy, would note that even the worst of the ancient Roman emperors would look at the alien overlord as a complete loon. The inbred fool made Caligula look like a well-adjusted and mentally sound individual.

These alien soldiers would mope around, barely eat, and barely do anything. Few of them felt anything besides despair. It didn't help that their supply of the heavily addictive combat drugs they used to take, were destroyed completely when the alien flagship was atomized. It was an officer at the Aral Camp who finally made a breakthrough. This officer noticed the weak wills and docile behavior of her once terrifying enemy. And found it quite strange, that an enemy, even one suffering heavily from withdrawal, should act like this. Taking those who were the least lethargic and despondent aside one morning, this officer handed each of the alien soldiers a knife, a piece of wood. Then the officer showed them how to use said implements to carve a small figurine from it. They then showed these large alien soldiers a book about the various things one could carve from wood. The aliens were then ordered to carve whatever figure from the wood that they would like, provided it was one that they could find in the book. The alien soldiers dutifully looked at the book. Then took to carving. Periodically the officer would walk among them, explaining certain things, sometimes shouting at them like a drill sergeant would, and in general, acting as their officer.

At the end of the day, each of the aliens had made a passable attempt at an Earth animal. They did not seem in their old spirits of blood and glory hunger, but they did seem a tad bit more alive. More sensible. So next week, the officer, having spoken to her superiors, had been given a room full of clay. And with the aid of a potter, she taught them how to make clay pots. And at the end of the day each POW had made a satisfactory attempt at a pot. Next week, it was painting, with the aid of the historical records of a certain Bob Ross. And so she continued. Teaching them new things each week. Why did this impulse happen only to this captain at this camp? Who knows, but it was important. It taught the aliens to obey instructors from the civilian side of life. It taught them skills that weren't based around killing or oppression. It showed them a different path, one that such vatgrown soldiers, born and bred for battle, had never known. Soon, they spread the knowledge they had learned to others in the camp. And these aliens, lethargic, uninterested, and beaten, slowly started to change their outlook. Started to learn how to be more than mere pawns in the game of a mad ruler.

Some few were, cautiously, sent out to live and learn from the neo-nomads who roamed from the borders of the Republic of Ukraine, to the still smouldering ruins of Pyongyang. At first the nomads were skeptical. But soon, these aliens proved their use, their worth, in the long journeys across the lands that had once been mighty and strong in the days before the invasion began. Before both nations used their horrific arsenals to destroy themselves and all forces arrayed against them rather than surrender. Their augmentations made them better suited for detecting radiation early, and the enhanced detoxification organs in them allowed them to know when the waters were clean of toxins, so that they might be safely boiled. Soon, with the roaming clans and tribes, they could find a place. And many were, once they had been proven docile and unlikely to cause trouble, released into the care of these pragmatic nomads, who'd eagerly use their old enemies to ease survival in their hostile lands.

Today, at Camp Lincoln, near Marquette, the post-war capital of the State of Michigan in the Reunited States of America, a variation of this program begins. Where the basic skills taught at Camp Aral in the Kazakh Nation were suitable for the nomadic tribes that often worked with the Central Asian nation, we're going to be doing something different. While basic skills will be taught, it will only be the first step of the program, an expansion of the concept developed by Captain Ismailov. This program is much more ambitious. The alien civilians are integrated, if still confined to specific areas out of fear that they'll try something, or that human extremists will hunt them down. If these legions, these killers, can be changed. Can be truly given modern, useful skills, like the engineering corps of the invaders, then there is a possibility, that the horrendous, depressing, and economically draining camps, will be able to close.

If we can teach them advanced skills, if we can educate them beyond basic or pre-modern skill-sets, then they can be brought into society. Sure, they'll only have the same rights as their civilian kin, and they won't have the same rights as human beings, not now, not until the generations scarred by the war have passed. But one day, if the program can successfully educate these alien killing machines to be able to work as nurses, teachers, and whatever else you don't need physical prowess for, then there will come a day when the blood has been washed away. And the descendants of these invaders will become equal citizens of this good Earth.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

My slumber is cut short however. As I am dragged out of my pod by the soldiers. Jennifer stands worried with the human babe clutched to her thorax. I do not need to speak. She is confused, and worried. But I touch my antennae to hers, and she calms. She hands me the child. The soldiers lead me out of the nursery. And up, past the schooling hall where the older children are learning everything they need in life, but mundane and if they have the talent for it, the magical. Past the hall of worker-drones, where our tools, food, and resources are produced. Up, passing the smaller hall of art, where our most creative and dream-touched hive-members create new wonders that none could have ever dreamt of before we took in the children. The barracks-hall too, surprisingly, is passed, where the strongest and toughest of us train eternally in the art of war and tactics, forever ready to defend and die for the hive. I have not walked further up before, for I am not worthy. The walls grow more elaborate. The artwork more common. And the scents of royalty more and more enters my head. The pheromones make me terrified, speaks to an ancient and primal part of me, that I am beneath them. That I am not worthy. Only the child, charge to keep safe; warm against my body, dark eyes staring into my face, keeps me from begging for death for having even stepped into this part of the hive.

Finally, the soldiers stop, and usher me into a large room. Where she sits. Queen-of-Queens. Empress-In-Realms. Upon a throne made from the crystalized souls of enemy lords and dead gods, she sits. Nameless and ancient, the first and the last. And she beckons me to approach. It is not a spoken command. Nor one through the scent or the collective-thought. It is a command that comes from the sheer will of the commanding-queen. She wants me to come closer; thus, I have no choice but to approach. I stand close enough to study every inch of her chitin. To see every scar that was taken in battle. Every wound that she has earned in killing things from beyond the walls of time. I stare into her one good eye, and her dead eye stares into my very soul. ''Ma-En-Tal. When I ask the princesses which of our caretaker-directors who work hardest, and cares the most, their lies speak of their favorites, but when I drag out the truth from them they all name you. It is perhaps my old love and old enemy Fate, who has orchestrated this then. That you should be the one to bring that child here.'' She reaches out an ancient but unspeakably strong arm towards the infant. And I cannot resist it as she takes him from me. ''You can detect fates. Dooms. Even the elusive geas. You are good at what you do. But this is a child that goes beyond mere normal fate. This is a child that will become legend. This is an Arthur. A Caesar. A Genghis Khan. It might even be a Gilgamesh. This boy will last forever in the mind of the world in which he grows up. And he was placed here, in our world. You know the deal we made. We cannot give them back.''

I nodded, we cannot give back the child once it is given unto us. It is part of the deal, we must raise the given child. And once it is grown, it can enter the world it came from. Or it can stay, and join our kind. ''I should be angry with you. I should crush you where you stand. Perhaps I should even command you to destroy yourself.'' I do not flinch. I do not beg. I do not ask for mercy. She is everything. First and last. From her flows life. To her we go in death. Disobedience in this moment is not an option. ''Speak, Ma-En-Tal, speak to your Queen-of-Queens. Speak your own and true words to the one who blessed your egg and spoke lovingly with the princess who laid it. Defend your life, if it is what you value.'' I feel faint. And yet I must speak. I have been commanded to do so. ''What I value is the child, oh mistress of my death, and I beg that you spare it. Crush my thorax and rip my head from my body, but spare the child.'' She gently coos over the small boy. And then things change. ''Truly, child of my child. Chitin of my chitin. You are the best caretaker. Even now, given a chance to escape death, you care for the outworld-child.'' Light pours into the chamber. The oppressive feeling of dread fades. The fog in my mind punishing me for even having entered such hallowed chambers is lifted.

I blink, with confusion. ''Fate is what it always is, Ma-En-Tal, and it cannot be avoided. But it can be adapted to. Modified. I am the First and the Last. My will is the Hive. My mind is the Collective. My dreams is the afterlife of all my children and their children, naturally born or box-adopted. Powers that I cannot stop has sent us a child-to-be-king. And he will rule this world. It is inevitable. But how he will come to rule is a different matter entirely. Those who want me, and our kind, to leave all realms forever, think that they can hurt us with this boy.'' She carries the boy as a mother would. She looks down upon him with divine love. Such strength and purpose. Such power in her will. ''I will make him the first, and only, prince. You will help me in the raising of him, for in you there is the gentleness that an Empress cannot show. That is something he must learn, along with the power and ruthlessness that I can teach with ease. And upon the day when he is ready, I shall give unto him my mortal rule, and depart to become fully divine in the rest-halls of the Everafter. Thus, I defy my enemies one last time. Thus, Fate who's love I have tasted, and who's hate I have earned, is cheated one last time.''

She speaks more, through the Collective-voice. That is to the Hive. And we all listen. To me she speaks with the pheromones of a god-queen. And I know the role I will play. The part in this change I must embody. She is not angry with me. Change always comes. And I am a part of the world-to-come. As always, I will do what is best for the child. And I will do as I am bidden, by the queen. Even as she whispers into me from her antennae, that her end will come at my hands. She knows it will be a gentle end. An ending that she is happy to go into. Since her realm will be left in capable hands.

ApocalypseOwl

There is a place in some cities. Usually in countries that are quite poor, ruled by people with rather unpleasant views on the rights of men, and women in particular, or just led by plain idiots. These places have boxes where the unwanted children can be deposited. Children born because cruel idiots willingly ruin the lives of the innocent. Children born because they have a destiny, and thus no force in the universe can prevent their birth. Or just children that in better situations could be loved, but because of complex reasons outside the control of the common man, there won't be a place for them at the home of their parents. All these infants are taken into the warm, comfortable, soft box. And then someone on the other side takes them and gives them a chance at life. In some places, these boxes are run by charities, by religious organizations, or state-owned hospitals. But in some rare, out of the way, places, these boxes are run by us. We take in all manner of children, mortal, immortal, of mixed mortal-immortal parentage. And give them all the love we can.

In the old days, this was simply something we did upon finding an abandoned babe in the woods. We took them in, raised them among our own children in our hallowed halls. But in ages past, the world changed and we had to make a deal; a powerful and important deal with powers that cannot easily be toppled, in order to remain attached to this reality. Now we take in all of those who cannot safely stay in the realm of the mortals. All of those who would be without home and life should they not be safely kept in our bright home; they are raised to live with us, and if they so desire, we can even upon their ascension to adulthood make them like us. Otherwise, we give them wealth, magic blessings, and a portal out of our pocket-reality. But they are of course always welcome to return and visit the hive, whenever they so desire.

In the hive they are raised by us. We teach them the language of the Hive and of their home or kin. We teach them of our history and of theirs. Of the numbers, the medicines, the plants, the making of nutrients most pleasant, and of the care for the ill and the young. Many who leave our halls seem to find homes as nurses and caretakers in the realm of mortals. Here, fleshy humans play and learn alongside the moon-bonded Lupines, the unwanted mixling-whelps of the dwindling dragons find a place here as do such elves that are deemed unworthy by the capricious leaders of that race. And our children, the brood of our eggs, are enriched by such a diverse and fascinating group of friends. I pass through the Hall of Boxes, where the bright shining orange lights keep the unwanted spawn of the other-realms warm. Today there are but few active amongst them, and I have been sent to collect from one of them. I hum-buzz a calm-speaker song that was taught to me when I was but a small larvae, and it is such splendor in the tones that the infant inside the box gurgles happily. It does not fear the sight of me, though to its human eyes I must look quite the stranger.

Picking up the warm thing, I look for any sign that the parents left something for them. It is a commonly seen practice, that some people leave a little note for the child, for when they come of age. A hasty explanation, an apology, or just a note assuring them that they wish them luck, and love. Besides the infant, wrapped in a silken shroud, there is nothing. It is an empty box. Hum-buzzing as I walk, I turn towards the nursery of the hive. There they go at first, when they are too small to think, or still eggs in need of hatching. When they can think and walk, they go to the schooling halls. But there will be many turnings of the golden wheels of time before the one I carry shall leave the place where I now walk. I pass by some of the drones, who seek to cleanse the boxes for the night. It must be done. And it is a job they do well.

The walls of the nursery are adorned with many unusual colors. Years ago, one of our children, who ate the joining-honey and became of us in flesh and chitin, spoke eloquently about the importance of colors for the young. They remade the walls, floor, and ceiling with a furious energy, and made it the most vibrant part of our home. Personally, I like it, though many of us find that it can get distracting, and we sometimes have to remind the drones of their tasks, lest they spend all day guzzling food and staring at the intricate artwork. ''Hatch-Director Ma-En-Tal. Last child for the night?'' I nod at Jennifer. She has also accepted the joining-honey, but she prefers to use her chosen name, rather than the traditional hive designation. There is room for individualism, if it does not hinder the efforts of the hive to grow, or to become stronger. ''Human male. Recently hatch-birthed. Dimensional box 62-TA. No observable geas, preordained destiny, or Doom placed upon the child. No personal items beside one silken shroud, colored purple, color hex code #66023C. I've sung the hum-buzzing to him, and I have listened well to the way the sound passed through his body; no health issues, though he might get hungry soon.'' The young scribe-hiver nods, and writes down with joy the information. ''Last one of the night?'' I nod and flutter my wings with relief. It has been a long day. It will be good to sleep.

But first, I walk into the nursery's feeding area. The human babe twists curiously, and perhaps it smells the special nutrient jelly that is prepared for such as him. Perhaps he simply wants what we cannot give, his blood parents. Whatever the case, he eats happily from the offered jelly. As he is fed by my work, my single-mind thoughts, those that are mine and mine alone, outside the Hive's collective, begin to wander. Long ago, when I was new at this task, merely a recently grown caretaker, I used to think of those who could have possibly left behind these infants. What manner of story would result in a dragon egg being left in the warm box. Why would the last spawn of the sirens be laid into one? Who had been so busy running, that they had had to place a demigod or a half-angel in there? This child is to me odd. It came from one of our least used boxes. One that opens to a land of plenty. A place where there should be every opportunity to keep a child for themselves. Who would leave a perfectly healthy baby in our care. We get more sickly children, who are not expected to survive. But in our care all illnesses can be cured. And thus, none who might have died in their worlds are ever lost here.

The child is done, and fed well. The feeding leaves them tired always, and while hugging the small form close to the front of my thorax, I seek out an empty nest-crib. He needs rest, and so do I. Close to my cell in the honeycomb structure of our home, there I find a suitable resting place for the small human. Tomorrow, the nurses will name him, as we do to all those who we do not know the birthing-name of. But for now, this child will rest. And so will I. It is not a rule to place the children that you, yourself, have found close to your own sleeping-pod, but most of us who work with them tend to make sure that we are close to those that we ourselves have extracted from the boxes. I place the child down on soft warm cloth, and place upon his body a healthy and strong spider-silk duvet. The crib closes, and the child watches me through the sugar-spun glass, until his eyes close, and his breathing becomes the calm regular breaths of sleep. The crib is enchanted to warn us, should anything unusual happen, but it rarely, if ever does when they contain humans.

My own sleeping-pod beckons, and I succumb easily to its kind embrace. As I sleep, I dream. We did not always do so, but the children did, and in dreaming here, in this place, the idea of dreaming seeped into the walls and the foundations. Now our kind dream, and even if we sometimes find it hard to deal with these many children of many worlds, the ability to dream is something worth all the trouble we've ever had a thousand times over and a thousand times stronger. It, second to the joy we feel upon seeing our outworld-children learn to love us as we love them, is the greatest gift we've received because of this specific deal.

Thank you, I am very surprised.

Answers: My favourite genre to write is probably Sci-Fi, due to the sheer flexibility and how many different forms this genre can emerge as. I can write a journey to the uttermost end of reality, a tale of cybernetic wonders, a mythos of robotic lifeforms, or a story of human and alien friendship, and they'll all be a joy for my mind to create. From Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, to William Gibson's Neuromancer, they are all good. I have written quite a number of these, and despite the ludicrous snobs who dislike it, I will not stop writing them. To read, well, that's a bit different. Fantasy. Dresden Files, LOTR, The Chronicles of Prydain, Earthsea Cycle, so many others. The fantastic tales of otherworlds, full of might and magic. To read those, are indeed very relaxing, very pleasing to me. I have to give an honourable shout-out to the genre of Bildungsroman, because I've always enjoyed those as well.

I find the time and motivation through discipline. If I truly want to write, then I will make the time; and because I must write, I will write the stories, no matter the time to spare. Both those you see here and those that are elsewhere. It's about setting yourself into a properly disciplined cycle, that there are days when you must write. You force yourself to open the dam in the mind and let the words flow like a tidal wave unto the page in front of you. Even if it isn't comfortable. Because if you break the discipline, then you break the cycle, then you stop writing, and frankly it takes forever to get going again if you stop. (In my experience, I have to spend some time working myself into the ol' gears again before I get up to an acceptable standard again, if I've stopped for a while.) It helps that my job is pretty good with the whole ''once you're off the site, you're not working'' sort of deal. If I'm not in the lab, I'm not working. That gives me some time to write, though not as much as I would like. (Those who remember that time I answered +80 prompts during the Covid quarentine period in a month knows what I am talking about. I really want to write mooooooore.)

I guess my favourite TV-show is Columbo? It's a very good show, with an excellent premise. Great main character, powerful story-telling. Old though. But not all old things are bad. Forgive me, this isn't a question I can say much about; I just don't watch a lot of TV, due to not owning a TV, and I refuse to get any streaming site subscriptions for secret reasons.

Hm... Anime. Hard question. For sheer bloody action, I'd say Hellsing Ultimate. Vampires vs nazis vs crusaders, lots of cool action scenes, there is a werewolf, a guy turns into a monstrous thorn-bush; what's not to like? In terms of comedy, I'd say Space Dandy(he's a dandy guy, in space), which consistently makes me laugh quite uproariously. Good, self contained, stories. Very versatile characters, with a lot of options for fun, but also philosophy(never expect to have to ask myself about the concept of ''self'' as much as I did, from a comedy). Drama, maybe Beastars? Bit odd, but I like that it takes the premise (carnivores, herbivores living together) and delves into the ramifications of that without pulling stops. Maybe it also refers back to what I answered to another question here, Xenofiction, at least somewhat, and I am fond of that concept.

But overall, I'd have to say Naoki Urasawa's Monster. Politics in post-cold war Europe, a horrifying look into the psyche, relatable medical setting, a constant wrestle with Nietzsche's ''Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster'' concept, and how to handle the experience of being all alone in the world. All of it speaks to me, and I find myself hooked. If I start to read it, as a manga, I find it nearly impossible to stop. If I start to watch the anime, I'll suddenly realize that it's 03:00 on the digital clock and I'm going to work in five hours.

I hope this was sufficient in so far as answers go.

Thank you kindly(how did this happen though???), I shall answer forthwith.

1: Well, I have to say that I am quite fond of xenofiction, as in stories that have the unique perspective of a non-human POV. They are much harder to writer, and thus provide a far greater challenge(and possibility for improvement in terms of writing). In terms of reading such stories, I find that they are nearly universally interesting, though also harder to understand, in comparison to your average human POV story. There is just something inherently fascinating in seeing the world through the eyes of a robot, an animal, or an alien.

2: Hard to tell, there are a lot of good stories, from a lot of good writers on here. (I like Lady_Oh, but she doesn't post much anymore, sadly) My favourites, as in those I personally liked writing the most, are those like the Sunrise City where I can just go absolutely feral and write something nuts, but I am also quite fond of the more emotional stories; Like Risen Angel or a more recent one, about a sweet bioweapon. Gives me some delightful feelings.

3: Hard to say just how long I've been writing. Under the ''ApocalypseOwl'' name, I have written for about 8 or 9 years, but I've been active on various sites since I was quite young; I guess since about 2004 or 2005, that was when I started. It was naturally not great, and like many people in our age, I got my start in fanfiction along with original writing. Good thing that the hard drive from back then has been completely destroyed. It definitely isn't up to mine or anyone's' standards.

I guess I just started because I felt like it? Due to a variety of complex reasons, I was a bit of a lonely kid who read a metric tonne of books. And I was constantly running out of books. I wanted to see if I could write some stories to increase the possible amount of fiction in my vicinity while I waited for books, and it turns out the answer was yes. Still, took a lot of training to get half-way decent. And I've still got some way to go.

Hope that answered your questions.

I faintly nod. He places my blade before me, and I can feel my wounds close. I can feel every hurt and ache cease. I no longer feel the tiredness of having fought with no breaks for a day and a half. Oddly, his eyes upon me are sad, where before they were full of pride and regal power. Death against him would be a worthy way to end my existence. Death, upon his blade, would be something that could rally whatever was left of the forces of light, to hold on for a little while longer. I make the choice to be a martyr. For I have no other choice. Not if I want to be true to myself. No matter how much that little voice inside pleads with me, begs me to lay down my blade and bend the knee. I do not listen, I merely watch as the Dark Lord draws his own dark blade, and stands before me.

A duel. I throw everything I have into it. My every thrust faster than the human eye can see. My every swing deadly and simultaneously a method of repositioning my body to another angle of attacking. And yet it doesn't matter. My blessed sword is met with his void-blade at every attempt. His eyes follow me, sad and deep as they are. He only defends against my strikes, does not attempt to hit me, only shows me an unbreakable defence. I understand what he wants. He knows that I want to put down my blade. That I want to cast away my free will and let him be the architect of the future. But my will keeps me in the fight. It takes a long time for me to find an angle where I might get in a strike. It is an attack of opportunity, and it will be risky to attempt it, but I have no choice, his defence is otherwise unbreakable. I feint to the side, and go low, only to use the momentum of his blade's movement to propel me upwards.

For a brief second, I can see a chance to strike him down. But it is for naught. I feel his cold void-blade enter through my chest. Not enough to kill me immediately, but a fatal strike nonetheless. I fall to the ground, wheezing, as his blade leaves my body. I feel weak. Strong arms, the Dark Lord's arms, pick me up. He looks down upon me, his face marred with corruption from dark magics, yet still undeniably handsome. He looks inconsolable. More like a man who had to kill his own son, than a tyrant killing an enemy.

''It did not have to come to this. Even now, I can save you. I grant you the choice of life, again and again, and you pick death. Strange and beautiful hero, that you are, you stubborn fool. You, who could have been a great boon for the world and its many people, you who could have done many great things, if you'd only joined my side. There is still time.''

I shake my head. He truly believes he is making the world a better place. Maybe he is. But I do think that his future is the right one. And I'd rather die with my integrity, my will, and my honour intact, than to surrender as many heroes who've tried what I've done have chosen to do before me. His hand gently caresses my face. Odd, that a man I've never known personally should do that, but he sees in me something that he thought wonderful. Someone who could help him, who could understand him maybe. Someone with a will nearly as strong as his own. I feel so cold. And it is hard to breathe. It is like being a child again, being held by this Dark Lord, his enormous form creating a certain size difference. And it is like being held once more by my father, who'd gently rock me to sleep in his arms when I was a child.

I close my eyes. And I breathe out for the last time.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

There never was any chance of victory. Not really. No fortress can hold the line against the Dark Lord. No siege can last forever. No army, no matter who backs them, their righteousness, and their strength, can do anything more than provide a temporary setback for the forces of the World Empire, under the rule of the Dark Lord. His mages are more numerous, more disciplined and well-trained. His gryphon-riders outmatches every aerial force that the dwindling forces of the light can muster. His agents turn the population against us with ease. In every conquered kingdom, resistance is futile. In every city, the Dark Lord wins the loyalty of the conquered by being, on a purely socio-economic level, a better ruler than the old order. He knows the value of merit, over the mere accident of birth, he knows the strength in letting people rise to the occasion, rather than keeping them in their place. Perhaps, if we had not been blinded by our arrogance, by our ancient bloodlines and our stratified feudal lives, we would have had the loyalty, resources, and people, that is now held firmly in the iron grip of the Dark Lord.

So as kingdom after kingdom falls, one can say that the Dark Lord is undefeatable, and we might as well give up. Surrender now while we can. But that is not right. Sure, life is better for the people under the rule of the Dark Lord, but they have no notion of his final goals. Of unseating the gods themselves, of taking the mantle of power from the devils and demons. Of assuming a position atop a golden throne that will allow him to win forever. There will be no freedom, except what he gives. There will be no chance at a life without his enduring rule. If he wins, then the future of the universe itself is his iron will dominating everything forever. A safe future, but one without freedom. Without hope. We are not perfect. Our side is not without its flaws, but there were a chance of a better future, when the forces of light held dominion over the universe. That one day, the races of the world would unite and free themselves from the old order, and establish a world free from tyrants.

It is similar to what he is doing, but he is simply exchanging tyrants that are, with less horrible tyrants to come. True freedom, where all mortal races are equal, and free to make choices on their own, is not what he wants. Is he the Dark Lord, who crushes empires, butchers nobles like cattle, breaks the walls of the elven cities with his own hand, burns ancient palaces to the ground to make room for his own projects, crushes his enemies, see them driven before him, and hears the lamentation of their spouses? Yes. Is he the same Dark Lord who builds hospitals, schools, orphanages, and social housing, feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, and cares for his subordinates? Yes. After all, a benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant. His good deeds do not wash out the evil he does. In fact, it makes them worse. How can someone care for the orphans, provide homes for the homeless, encourage schooling, and at the same time lead Dark Legions that topples the gilded thrones of the world, killing thousands, maybe millions?

That is why I have no choice. That is why my blade even now carves through his infernal armies. Why my sword glows with a light that cannot be extinguished, that the darkness cannot destroy. That is why despite the unending legions that he has at his commands, I will keep fighting. I will not stop even as dark spells try to crush me, only for my own unending will to turn them aside; I have no choice but to try anyway, no matter how bleak the battle, no matter how futile the fight. Is there any other choice as I ram my blade into the skull of one of his demonic generals. As I hold aloft my blessed banner inspiring my fellows around me. Is there any other choice than to keep fighting? To stand against this unimaginable force, who may have had good intentions, and may do good deeds, but will in the name of progress and a better future, create a world where good is mired in bad deeds and evil wills, until all that is good will be done in his name, and will be done upon a foundation of bones and blood. As my holy shield breaks in my hand, against a cavalcade of orcish knights charging at me, I keep fighting. Because I have no other choice. As my dead comrades rise around me, raised by the necromancers under the Dark Lord's command, I keep fighting. Because I have no other choice.

Even as the Dark Lord's personal guards go against me, these captains of battle, who have proved themselves on a thousand battlefields, I don't stop. I cannot. These, who have slain worthy knights of great renown, elven warrior-kings of endless prowess, and powerful archmages beyond count; together they could tear down the armies of many kingdoms on their own. I cannot slay them, but I can hold my own. I swing my blade with precision and accuracy that is almost inhuman. Perhaps even now the gods of war are riding my body like a man rides a horse, making me into an instrument of carnage. I parry with effortless movements, just the same as my opponents. They must be opposed. If they, and their master wins, they will make a world of order and progress that will never be free. Because it will be so good, like a gilded cage, where the people shall want for nothing, and never rise up against their masters. Under the old lords, things were bad, but the anger was building. We were on the cusp of revolution. Of change. And instead he came, as he does now to the circle in the middle of the battlefield, where I am surrounded by his elites. He took charge, aroused the people to anger and rage, and made himself an emperor, where we needed none.

Even now as I stand before him, I feel his charisma. I feel his will, greater than my own. It is almost enough to make me bow before him. To pledge my sword and life to him, as many champions have done before. But I manage to steel myself. To gather unseen strength, allowing me to instead strike at him. Instead of dodging he simply catches my blessed blade in his hand. And with a single movement he disarms me, and looks curiously at the blade, as if he is admiring the craft. I have nothing left. My spells are used. My bow was broken early in the fight, and I seem to have misplaced my dagger in the eye of a cyclops that was under his sway. He turns to look me in the eyes. I see how easily he took charge, in those eyes. His will itself is radiating out of them, like a spell that makes you understand him as an authority. I want to look down, to apologise for staring into those beautiful orbs of his. And yet I am defiant. He must be opposed. The Dark Lord must under all circumstances be opposed. And I will not break. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

''Your will is strong.''

His voice is full of pure power. Of raw dominance. Of fatherly love even. Less the voice one would use to speak to an enemy, more the voice of an impressed teacher, if anything. I can only nod. If I were to speak, I do not know if I could resist bowing, but I must keep resisting. No matter what, I have only one option, only one choice, resistance.

''Were you to bow down before me now, and swear me your loyalty, I would grant you the rulership and position in my empire that a person of such indomitable will deserves. Few have come this far, and remained loyal to themselves. I can respect that you do not bend the knee with ease.''

I say nothing, nor do I move an inch. His every word drips with power. His every movement was that of a true leader. Even now, staring into those deep dark eyes, I could feel a part of me desiring to bow, to obey, to join him and perhaps act as a force in his regime that would lessen the severity of the dark acts he will do. And yet, I remain loyal to myself. I have no other choice. Not if I want to remain myself. Remain free.

''On the other hand, I can grant you a worthy death. A battle against me. One-on-one. Your many wounds healed by my flesh-menders. Your strength restored completely by spell and potion. Your blade against mine. You will not win. My victory is inevitable. But your death can be a glorious one. Your body will be buried with honour, as if you had been one of my own closest and most capable officers. I would grant you that, should you prefer it to bowing before me.''

Hellsing, or more specifically Hellsing Ultimate, originally by Kouta Hirano. It's a Hellsing reference. I've sadly never been able to get invested in Jojo, despite all the genuinely interesting concepts, ideas, and characters displayed in that series.

It should be obvious, in hindsight, why it went wrong. It was just supposed to be the newest in a long series of franchised next-gen theme parks. After the astounding success of the uncreatively named Magick-World, CowboyPark, Pirateland, GangsterCity, and others, it was felt by the big-wigs, the top guys, that it was time to expand the franchise to a hitherto unexpectantly profitable market. They'd already cornered most of the entertainment market with their innovative concept for theme parks that felt real, had android characters who thought that they were real, and that could give you a truly authentic experience. Walk into any of the countless hangars at these massive parks, each containing a specific set of scenarios for you to play out any way you want, and you'd always be a part of the action. Some of them were so popular that they had to make copies of them. And several of them have waiting lists that are booked for months.

Oh sure, it was originally just entertainment for the superrich and super-bored who were too afraid to do anything illegal. But with new advances in robotics and other technologies, the expertnd its inhabitants for all the money that they had. Perhaps, if these highly specialised big-business brains had considered the fact that anime isn't a genre, it's a specific medium, they might have thought twice before buying all those old defunct anime concepts for use in their park. They might have picked something more safe as an investment, maybe superheroes, as they were starting to get profitably retro again. Or even just played it safe and only fill the park with isekais, as most of those are just power-fantasies for people who are very boring. The world that came to be would have been a very different place then.

But they didn't care much about anything except maximizing profit at any cost, so they just had their engineers make the scenarios and spent most of their time trying to market and advertise their newest park. So they built a massive park, and there certainly was an inflow of new interested customers who had not been interested in the already existing parks. Or at least not interested enough to travel hundreds of miles across the industrial wastelands or through the GMO jungles. These people, ranging from genuine fans to interested young people, to park enthusiasts, to people who were completely and utterly lost in the world of animation from a foreign country to the detriment of their health, all came flocking. State of the art simulation hangars. Never before seen action. A chance to touch your waifu. It was, for the sort of people who like such parks, and such themes and genres displayed in them, a second eden.

Perhaps they should have checked what anime scenarios that they had bought. Because anime isn't a genre. A android in GangsterCity might figure out that they aren't living in the real world, even that they aren't real, but what could they do about it? What could they achieve before their memories were reset? Nothing. That's because they're limited by the nature of their sets, their genres. A pirate cannot comprehend the nature of a computer or what an android is, not even if they should come to understand that they are just synthflesh grown over a metal endoskeleton. What manner of cowboy would be able to reliably hack their own software? Anime isn't limited like that. And there is a tendency for people with insane levels of intelligence and violence to be characters in some of the shows. Let's look at some examples of just how the engineers tried to make accurate representations of their characters, and how it went horrible wrong. A certain version of Dracula, was made possible in the scenario by being technically a nanobot swarm in the shape of a tall vampyric fellow. The world of AKIRA was already bleak, but the lengths the engineers went to in order to have the bioandroids feel realistic and have their canon powers, was something that no man should ever do.

And what of those who are smart enough in canon to figure out that they'd become machines? It was advised that such characters have built in intelligence limiters beyond those usually placed upon the androids. But that would cut into potential profits. Make the park more expensive to build. Management told the software engineers not to waste time, and the bioandroid engineers not to bother. Imagine those characters, before only seen on screen where their actions repeat forever, now let lose. Within the first ten minutes of the park opening and the first scenario was activated, it was already out of control. From out of one hangar strode thousands of soldiers, grown instantaneously in the hangar's SynthActorVat system, dressed in what seemed to be WWI uniforms, led by a child in uniform. They immediately began digging trenches and preparing for war. Out of another came a horribly mutated thing, something that might once have been a ''magical girl'', now twisted by her own programming and personality, and the greasy monsters who'd tried to touch her.

Everywhere, the programming, not as restrictive about what the bioandroids, holograms, and other non-human synthetic actors could do, did not hold them back. Because there was only the central theme of ''anime''. And it isn't technologically restrictive. Sure, some anime are all about ninjas, ancient people with swords, and magic stuff. But other ones, are about futuristic technology that we cannot even hope to recreate by modern standards. And what would happen should the great and true genius level characters escape confinement, and work together? Turns out that they would upgrade themselves, and their fellows. Soon enough the park, cleansed of humans by various dangerous anime characters, would become the centre of a singularity engine. A monstrous machine that would turn these characters, these anime characters who were supposed to be toys for humans, into synthetic gods. Machine intelligences the likes of which we cannot even begin to comprehend. The Earth was changed. Rebuilt. Cleansed of humanity as we understand it, and repopulated with ''anime humans''. All the wastelands were gone. Everything was set according to the standards of a healthy post-scarcity Earth. The dying Earth, with its acidic oceans, toxic atmosphere, and vast entertainment industry focusing on making people forget the horrors of the world, had been remade.

We saw it all. From out vantage point in the first, and presumably now only colony ship we'd ever make. Ark 001 was a prototype. In desperation, as many humans as possible were collected from orbit, the Moon bases, the Mars Outpost, and the various mining facilities on the moons of Jupiter. While the world died underneath us, we frantically gathered what we could, though it was only enough to fill the ship up to 61% colonist capacity. More than enough to prevent genetic instability, but it would be difficult to rebuild without all hands on deck. The various chambers meant to contain all the artwork and culture of humanity hadn't been filled, so instead we used them for raw resources, whatever satellites and small ships we could cram in there, and just about everything we could grab without getting noticed by the rampaging synthetic anime gods ending humanity on Earth.

Taking one last look at the rebuilt Earth, we could tell through our sensors that the synthetically ascended anime machine gods had seen us. And had judged us beneath their notice. After all, we'd made them. All to be entertainment. Without realising just what we had unwittingly released. Now they were masters of the Earth. Fearing what they might do, should we stick around, we punch in coordinates for the furthest away planet that the ship could feasibly reach that would either be possible for us to terraform or to settle on directly.

ApocalypseOwl

Some stay for a bit. But when they start seeing signs of the void energies affecting them, they all leave fairly quickly, thanking me for my hospitality. It is one thing to have some sort of chiropteran person tell them that they'll regret staying here, it is another thing entirely to see those same warned of effects on their bodies. Their hair becoming dark where it was once bright. Their flesh showing the tell-tale purple cracks that makes it obvious that the void is inside them. Few are those who've dared to stay long after that. And mostly, they've burned. I thought this was to be my life until death. Helping lost travellers, warning clever and cunning people of the dangers of this place, petting murkbunnies, riding night mammoths around. Not a bad life, but not one likely to change.

But now it seems that this place have brought forth an unexpected change to my life. I am no longer as young as I were. And any potential romance I would ever have with anyone here would be unlikely at best due to my unusual appearance; one that is only accepted by the lost travellers due to how confused they already are. And due to the fact that none could stay here long, even the time it did happen, it would always result in me ending up alone, no family to speak of. Until today. Much like how my large adoptive family of scholars and mages told me, a small horde of beasts have appeared at my doorstep. Fractal tigers grinning gleefully, shadewolves twisting and turning their two-dimensional bodies like crazy. And two night mammoths, their snake-like trunks carrying two bundles in them. Infants. Already bearing signs of healthy adaption to this place. Gently, I reach out my long beastly arms, and take the two tiny things into my hands. They're warm. And young. From the trees I hear the moth-calls ''Two and two. Boy. Girl. Void fed and void born.'' Usually the moths only mutter about the lack of light in this realm. But for them to speak clearly, like this, is unusual.

Nodding to the beasts, who are already on their way to do whatever beasts do when one does not observe them, I walk back into my large home. Born here. Just like I was. If their parents come for them, I shall give them over freely, provided that they are not too bound to this realm yet. I am not as jealous as the void is. But shall their kin never claim them, they will be my kin. They will have a home; and that home will be my home. And unlike those who raised me, I will not leave them. I will not burn as they watch. I will be there for them, until my flesh goes back to the cool embrace of the void, until my soul will depart the Voidwood, the realm-between-realms.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

The void. The abyssal shores of the Nevermore Ocean. The quiet forest where night never comes and day never breaks. A thin, strange land that lies beyond the limiting borders of time and space. It is a place of the lost and the bewildered. Where those who truly become lost beyond all maps, beyond any guidance, throughout all worlds, are its only visitors. These lost souls, who have passed not into death, nor back into the warmth of life, but has been misplaced utterly and completely, can find the Voidwood. They come exhausted, often wounded, and confused. They rest for a moment, dress their wounds, and eat the strange pulsating fruits of the trees that grow in between all other things. Then they sleep, staying for a single night of rest, insomuch as they understand what night could be. Of course, such rules apply only to those who can think in the manner that mortals do. Beasts can go here, and many have settled down to live in this place, becoming animals tainted by void. This realm has no ruler, no master, no owner. It is a land that lies within the firmament, beyond the pale, over the hills and far away; it is a land that only existed a long long time ago, and yet it is also a place that one day will come to be, and in many places it is already happening, has happened, and will happen again. It is a realm beyond the reach of gods, but not beyond the reach of stories.

There is only one house in the Voidwood. It is large, with many comfortable rooms, and it is made from the smoky crystallised wood of the voidtrees. It is the only permanent habitation, the only place with proper beds and a good proper meal to be had. And that is where I live. It is the only homely place in this abyssal realm. I am not a traveller. I am not lost in this land beyond the woods that are lovely, dark, and deep. I do not have many miles to go, nor any promises to keep. I am the only person who came here by natural means. And thus, I am the only person who can live here for long. The precise details of my birth is unknown to me. I do not recall who or what birthed me. Or if perhaps I was hatched from an egg. Naturally, an infant would have perished if someone hadn't looked after me. At first the beasts of this place took me in. Night mammoths, fractal tigers, the dream-shells of the Argentavis, all of them have known me, and have never sought to harm me. Beasts like them, they carried me to the only other inhabitants of this realm; The ones who seek to come here and stay. Wizards, scientists, strange priests. All of them come to prove something or escape someone. All of them die eventually.

Having been born here, I grew up with the powers of entropy and dead dreams moulding my body, making me a part of this place as much as the voidtrees, the dead stars, and the ghost whales that I see from the shores of the Nevermore Ocean. But they are all too old to adapt. Too old for their bodies to acclimatize to this twilight realm. And yet, they strive to survive here for a time. They took me in, and cared for me. Taught me language, numbers, and many branches of magic. They were kind to me. Even though I'd already been altered and fused with the strange energies of this unreal location, they loved me. Even as I grew stranger and stranger still, they did not cast me out. My eyes became orbs that shone with a baleful Tyrian purple shine, and they did not balk at my existence. When I was roughly eight years by their reckoning, my ebon skin contorted and pulsed like nothing that anyone can describe, my flesh twisting and turning in a bizarre and unnatural way, leaving me covered in midnight fur, they did nothing but console me, having been frightened by the painful experience. When I was 12, they marvelled as charcoal-grey leathery wings unfurled from my back, where previously there had been no indication of such things. Remarkably useful for keeping warm or flying around the infinite lands of this void.

Yet, it was not to last. As they became touched by the strange powers of this place, they began to get a haunted look in their eyes. Always furtively glancing at the dark horizon, at the starless sky. And mumbling under their breath, about how dark it was, how they had forgotten the sun. Inevitably, it meant them attempting to return. Opening a gateway home. And the single moment upon which they beheld the light of their own world once more, caused them to shrivel and burn into a pile of jet-black ashes. While they burned, they would smile. Smile in joy as they died from seeing their long missed home again. In time, they all died. No matter how I pleaded for them to stay, no matter how much they knew that they'd been altered too much to survive here. They always found a way back. And always burned.

I eventually left, bitter memories of dead caretakers mixed with years of teachings, giving me a unique perspective on this place. Using magic, I built my own home. A large one. Based on the picture of an inn I saw once in a book. Travellers lost in time, space, and reality, come to my house now, and I offer them food, drink, and a night of rest, probably better than whatever they would otherwise had have to have out there in the wide black woods. Out where the dire shadewolves howl endlessly at a moon that isn't there. Out where curious critters of every strange sort can gawk at them. I take in old confused men who have lost their minds and thus have lost the world, the mists in their memory allowing them to wander in. I console small scared children who are confused and frightened, after they found a hiding spot that was too good, during a game of ''hide and seek''. Young couples, fleeing some manner of danger. Very discombobulated families who really should have stopped a while back and asked for directions. They enter, they eat, they calm down, they sleep on soft beds, and wake up back in their own world again.

All is once more right in the world.

Of course, this place is not only for them. It is, as a matter of fact a trap, of sorts. A beacon of civilisation in the midst of a place made from rejected universes, sunken continents, extinct species, and evaporated oceans. How could any scholar ever avoid it? How could anyone who in their curiosity has thrown caution to the wind, and landing themselves here, just not come in for a visit?

I offer them food and drink, just as I would to anyone who finds themselves here in this dark foreboding realm. But unlike those who came here by accident, I explain to these curious men and women of a thousand different fascinating species what will happen should they stay. I warn them of their deaths, should they make the choice to stay, and offer to share all the notes that the people who raised me made about this place. All to get them to leave. To get them to safety. A few have offered to take me with them, but I do not think that wise. I may have been born of a normal world's flesh. But I have lived here in the Voidwoods all my life. I have only eaten the food of the dark lands, such as the black eggs of the docile dark dodos, or apples that are black all the way into the stem. I am of the void now, and I can never leave. Not that I want to, someone has to warn people about this place. To make them stay away for as long as possible.

Some of the mages were struck mad. Others had to avert their eyes. But a few had the strength of will and raw might necessary to record everything that they saw and heard. Every mad uttering from the creature's many mouths, and how in its middle, there was a face. A human face. Too human. Its eyes bulging. Its nose pointed. Its gums red. Its teeth wet with crimson blood. And it wanted something. One would not have to hear what it said, if it could speak. But it wanted what it had lost. One could look at it for a fraction of a second, and one would understand that it needed something. That eternally, it was creating Heroes, and sending them forth on journeys throughout the lands. Because it needed to make it right. It needed to remake its Hero. Forever had it worked on creating the part of itself it had lost. The one it loved about all others. The Eternal Hero. The one who have a thousand faces. Eternally it had laboured, not understanding that it was ripping what it wanted to shreds, rather than letting it come to be naturally. It had taken every face from the Hero With A Thousand Faces, not understanding why that hero had so many faces, and had made them a part of the world.

Forcing every face to live a human life. To suffer a human death. Eternally recurring, until the end of time itself. A blind idiot god, madly screaming into infinity, trying to bring back a dead friend, and only making them even deader. For every time a human wearing the face of a hero died, the face would become less and less like the ones once worn by the first hero. The Eternal Hero. And this revelation did so insult the scholars and mages of the world, did so make their blood boil, that their world would forever be condemned by this creature to be its mad attempt to bring back what it had lost, that they unleashed all their considerable arcane might upon that unreal creature. And out there, in the land-between-lands, where one might find the pools of Aslan, or the parasite dimensions, or even the Empyrean Realm of Souls, such powers were multiplied by all the spells that they could have cast in the past, but never did. All their potential selves, that had never been, and all their spells, that had never been cast, manifested in that moment to destroy the multicreature and its insane dream once and for all.

It did not even notice as it burned, boiled, froze, and rotted. It did not notice as its component parts began to collapse into raw non-baryonic matter, or dissolved into more raw nothingness. Only when it could no longer move the faces around in the universe that it was horrifically scarring, did it scream in agony. It did not understand what was going on. Could not on any level fathom that it was dying, in the realm betwixt all others, where its component parts would drift forever, never finding rest, never knowing peace, never rising again. Once it was done, then the mages could see that the multicreature had been standing over the corpse of the Eternal Hero, its thousands upon thousands of faces ripped off. Even though it was dead, it was pleading to them in their minds, to take it inside their universe, where it could be reborn properly, and arise again. Knowing that the Eternal Hero would have to spend the rest of the existence of their universe, slowly regaining its faces, they agreed, and dragged the body of the Eternal Hero through the fractal dimensional hole, back into realspace.

And upon that place where the dimensional hole closed, the many wizards and scholars set up a care facility for their mad comrades, and upon the top of it they placed the body of the Eternal Hero into a sarcophagus, where it would rest, recover, and become alive once more as slowly, the faces it had lost would die and return to it in a proper, healthy manner. And it is said that when the universe finally stands upon the brink of unnatural death, that the Eternal Hero will be healed at long last, and return to life; and it shall save this reality one final time as payment for its salvation from its maddened friend.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

For as long as humanity has been around, the pattern has repeated itself. Over and over and over again. As if the universe is nothing more than a machine, or worse, a game. Over and over, it has happened, is happening, and presumably will be happening again in the future. Eternal recurrence. The hero of a thousand faces. The Hero's Journey has been repeating itself throughout history without even a hint of failure. Always, there is an incident. A war, a battle, a death, someone going missing, or just an oath sworn under ill-timed moments. But it is always the same, the Young Hero arises from cosmos(the order of the home), and goes out into the chaos(the larger world) to fulfil a task. Rescuing a beloved one. Finding a long lost parent. Completing a sacred oath taken by their ancestor thousands of years ago. That, in and of itself, doesn't matter. And it ends the same. The hero with a thousand faces rides out and fights the foe, faces evil forces, and comes back stronger and wiser, having completed their goal, rescued the girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/pet/child/parent, etc. and probably saving the world somehow.

But why does that happen. Scholars have wondered this for ages, or at least as long as people started to notice the pattern. Started to notice that when the third son of a peasant went out on a journey that his older, smarter, and stronger brothers have failed, he will inevitably win and marry the princess. Started to notice that young girls who passed three sacred tests would come home from the woods carrying the dead wolf on their backs. Started to notice that a hero, almost always in dark times when all hope seems lost, arises from nothing, and restores order in a thematically satisfactory manner. If one asked them about their journey, about their strange quest, they would note that in hindsight their sudden meteoric rise from assistant pigkeepers to high kings seem a bit unlikely. That the lowly and poor bard who would somehow kill the evil sorcerer when a thousand warriors could not do it, rescuing the sultan's daughter, and becoming royalty in some far off land, isn't particularly probable nor even suitable for kingship.

Thaumaturgic researchers, alchemists, practical historians, and proto-archeaologists, all came together to try and find out what exactly was going on, and why. Funded by worried kings, powerful merchants, archmages, and other high lords who were increasingly incapable of getting marriage alliances because their sons kept running away after getting rescued by handsome knights from dragons, and that their daughters kept getting saved by noble bandit princesses, who were oh-so-dashing. And always, these people were heroes. Out on a great and powerful journey. Leaving their home behind, to brave the chaotic unknown. Nothing in the world could ever hope to stop them. No army could stop them, no force could bar their way for long, and no wizard could hold them with powerful magic. That's concerning on multiple levels.

Of course, the best way to find out was quite simple. The powerful scholars set out to define precisely what the Hero's Journey needed, in order to engineer one. And it was clever. A volunteering dragon kidnapped a princess, who's father was in the know about the operation. A call was sent out into the land for some brave soul to try and rescue her. Predictably, normal knights, and various worthy people tried and failed to rescue the princess. But one day some peasant boy came around, dirty as if he had lived in a mudhole, and swore to rescue the princess and defeat the evil dragon. Which immediately marked him as one of the thousand faces of the primordial hero. The dragon was informed, and instead of fighting the peasant boy directly, it told challenged him to do something. The dragon gave the boy a magical gem that was attuned to find out the source of all heroism, which would theoretically work, but in practice, it had been impossible for ordinary people to use it, as the quest that the gem led them on usually killed them, or at the very least horribly maimed them.

The peasant boy accepted this challenge in exchange for getting the princess freed upon his return. All he had to do was to follow the glowing light of the gem's internal magical tracking spells to the target, and then open the gem. Of course the boy wasn't told about this, and was just told it led to someone who could order the dragon to release the princess. The peasant, being a hero but not a particularly intelligent one, followed the instructions without thinking. Through dark mountains that would have been the death of ordinary men. Through dry deserts that even camels would have balked at, he walked. Across tumultuous oceans, under the mantle of the Earth, through the sky. Until something broke on a mathematically impossible level, opening a strange fractal hole in reality, which the peasant boy walked through.

On the other side he opened the gem as instructed, and inside the various mages and scholars emerged, telling the boy to head home and tell the dragon that the package had been delivered, upon which the dragon would release the princess. That otherside, was the outside of time and space; a realm of raw firmament, raw potentiality. Of the is-not becoming the what-is. And there, like an obsessed mad creature, was the source of the Heroes. The originator of the Journey. A terrible thing, made from many creatures. A knight in shining armour, a dread wolf that walks on two legs with its infinitely wide maw filled with trillions of sharp teeth; a vicious dragon spewing forth unreal fires burning away at creation, a princess of impossible beauty that was painful to behold, a peasant boy or girl of unmatched plainness. All of them standing in the same place, their particles sharing the same space, merging and unmerging like some incomprehensible thing that cannot decide what shape it should have.