TTL: The Eighth Labour

Here are the submissions I received. As a general reminder, I have only included forum names if given permission by the author to do so - otherwise, these stories remain anonymous. Feel free to post reviews for these stories in the general conversation thread. Try to provide some helpful critiques and suggestions, and mention anything you liked. 

Winners will be declared on April 24th, and any applicable Challenge Accolades will also be awarded then. All winning entries will be saved in the Twelve Labours Archive with a permanent link in my signature, as well as mentioned in a report in the News section and General Discussion subforums. Once again, thanks to @mdk and the rest of the RPGC crew for helping to schedule The Twelve Labours. Another special thanks to @mahz for cranking out the awesome trophy and titles system.

Once the results come around, if you did not win but feel you should have? Make an appeal to the judges who reviewed your entry. Keep it classy, and exercise some courtesy while making your case, and they might just reevaluate your entry. Please keep in mind, you only get the one appeal. Sometimes you just have to let it go.

If you submitted an entry before the deadline, and did not break any of the rules or conditions of the contest, then there is no reason it should not be here - so if it is not, inform me immediately, either in the Discussion Thread or else via PM.

The Stories:
By @jumpadraw

I sat upon an armchair, slouched over, a feeling of warmth and peace flowing through me. I was in a small, firelit room, taking shelter from the snowy torrents around me. The room was my only source of protection from the elements of the outside world, but it was all I needed. Within the room I had both food and water, both rest and entertainment. I was content, almost happy.

There was a small tapping upon the door. It was faint, almost silent, but even still, I heard it. I wasn’t supposed to open the door, though. The cold would put out the fire, freeze me to the bone. With the weather the way it was, there was no possible way for anyone to truly be outside.

Knockity-knock! 

This time the noise was louder, unmistakable. But maybe it’s just the wind, I told myself. No one could survive the blizzard outside!

Knockity-knock! 

It was even louder, more a pound than a knock. A branch must’ve fallen from the tree out there, I told myself, there isn’t a chance a person’s out there. I didn’t believe it, even as I thought it. Even so, I wasn’t supposed to open the door. It was far too cold and the fire would go out.

Knockity-knock! 

I was standing now, fingers clenched. There was somebody outside! There had to be, but who could’ve survived the storm? Who could have found their way to my sanctuary from the elements? It was impossible. Regardless, I wanted to help, but I couldn’t open the door, I wasn’t supposed to! I waited for a knock, but none came, and as I approached the door, I now heard it. The screaming.

	It was the scream of a woman, a desperate woman. I couldn’t make out any of the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew what she was calling for. She was calling for mercy, for somebody, anybody, to open the door. I wasn’t supposed to. I knew, without a doubt that nobody could survive the storm, that no one could have approached my door. All that was out there was trouble.

The fire was raging now, no longer lazily rolling across the wood it burnt on, but devouring it, consuming it, sparks flying from the violence of its flames. I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding, and found my hand upon the knob of the door, shaking with fright, with terror. I wasn’t supposed to open the door. I couldn’t! I shouldn’t!

 Should I?

The moment I turned the knob, the door exploded backwards, sending me toppling to the ground. The sheer force of the wind made it impossible for me to stand. Indeed, the fire was out, and before me stood a woman. Her skin was glazed with ice and snow, though once it had been tan, it was now pale and dead. The fire was out, but her eyes burned with a passion far greater than any flame, far more deadly than any winter storm. She approached me, a look of hate and malice spread across her face.

“I needed shelter, and you gave me none!” She yelled with the force of a blizzard, “I called for warmth, and you shunned me!”

“I wasn’t supposed to open the door,” I cried, but my words were lost like whistling in the wind.

	She grabbed hold of me, tossing me against a shelf of tableware. The pots and bowls shattered against the floor, just as my bones against the wall. I had known not to open the door! I had known it, hadn’t I? Hadn’t I? Doubt began to fill my soul, just as guilt began to way my heart down. Why, oh why had I opened that blasted door?

My cabin was now filled with snow, my shelter now a tomb. She smiled at my pained look, the flames from her eyes now hot enough to burn away all around me but the icy violence of the snow. She took another step towards me, and spoke, almost mocking me.

	“Were you not supposed to open the door?” She mused, “Were you not supposed to allow the cold of the world to enter your heart? Well, it’s too late now! I am here, and once you have allowed me entrance, there is no way to expel me. Now, that I am here, will you not welcome me, will you not beg forgiveness, for it was you, not I who let me out there for so long, it was you, not I who refused to acknowledge me, who allowed me to suffer, to freeze, to be consumed by the elements. It was you, not I, who refused to open the door.”

I tried to stand once again, my bones aching. My mouth was dry, and as I spoke, my words sounded distant, strained, as if exiting from the mouth of somebody else. “I wasn’t supposed to open the door.”

	She shook her head, a look of disgust appearing across her face. She remained silent for only a few seconds, but to me, it was an eternity. When she finally did speak, she did so in an icy whisper, her voice almost as harsh as the words that left them.

	“And yet you did so anyway. If you refuse to see, than I will not let you.”

	She had enough of my ignorance, my insolence. She could feel that this conversation was going nowhere, that she had got from me as much as she could and that my heart was set, as firm as the walls of my cabin. She brought her hand down, clawing at my face, tearing at my eyes, and from me came a scream, not of terror, but of utter pain. No longer could I see the world around me. All had gone dark, dark as I now felt my heart was. Why had I not opened the door when I was first able to? Why had I not allowed her entrance when she was still in need of it? Why had I waited, as if I was the one that was frozen, as if I was the one locked out? I had been a fool, and now, it was too late.

	I heard her chuckle, her voice growing fainter,“It is too late to ask me for forgiveness, but perhaps there is still time to pray to your god for it. I am sure he will be far more willing to accept  scum like you than I am. He will put you in your place.”

	She was gone now, or at least I thought she was. I, on the other hand, was burried, burried beneath the cold snow I had let into my sanctuary. I couldn’t breath, could hear anything, and even still I clawed wildly, trying to escape the prison I had made for myself by opening the door. I was too deep though, buried far beneath the coldness of the outside world, now my world. There was no way out for me.

	Just as those thoughts had entered my mind, my hand breached the surface of the snow. Perhaps I was free now. Perhaps the woman had not truly destroyed me! I scrambled out of the snow, dragging myself in the direction of the door. It was bound to be somewhere. If I could just close the door, I would be safe again! Slowly, I dragged myself along, tears streaming from the empty sockets where my eyes once were. If I could just find the door….

	But where was the door? I couldn’t find it. As far as I could tell, I was already outside of the cabin, dragging myself away from the safety of my shelter. Why had I created that cursed door? Why had I locked it. If ever I could do it over, I would leave my door unlocked, leaving my cabin frequently to share the warmth of my home with those in need. I should have allowed those outside entrance, before the cold had consumed them. Maybe there were other cabins though, filled with warmth and peace. Maybe I could stumble across one and be allowed entrance.

	It was to late for that. The cold had entered my heart. Perhaps it was always there. Perhaps that is why I desired the warmth of the fire so much, to hide the icy daggers that rested within me. Slowly, the cold began to wash over me, or maybe I began to feel it within me once again, as I had used to. It was there, coursing through my veins, and then… warmth. The snow was inviting, more comforting than any fire, more warm than any heat. All I needed was to sleep. I had been a fool for waiting to open the door. What was out here among the snow was far greater than that in my shelter. Even now, I feel something else entering my heart. It feels like sleep, almost, but I know it isn’t. Maybe this is

	Death
By @shylarah.

I thunk my head against my desk, frustrated beyond belief.  My opponent watches with eyes that, while I know they cannot actually see me, somehow perceive my actions nonetheless.  I have been staring at a blank page for the better part of several hours, and have only a handful of uncertain words to show for it.  I know this process can take a long time, sometimes as long as months, but normally I would have at least a rough sketch by now.

“Come now, at least tell me your name,” I say again.
“I don’t have one.  Not yet.  It’s not time.”  His voice -- or is it hers?  I can’t tell.  It slips from one to the other, without any discernable pattern.  “You should leave this alone.  You won’t win this one.”  The shadowy figure, so poorly defined that I can’t make out many details, also seems to be fluid and changeable, now short, now lanky, now pudgy, now not even humanoid.  
“I won’t!  I am in the mood for writing, and I need a new character.  That’s you.  I’m the author; you have to cooperate.”
“No, I don’t.”  Throughout this entire debate, they have remained calm and collected, while I grow increasingly restless.  That’s one of the few lines on my page:
calm demeanor, not easily rattled.  Patient.
A meager success, coming at the price of far too much unproductive time.

“Let’s start small.  Your favorite color, perhaps?  What do you like to eat?”  I attempt a different tack, thinking to take my foe off-guard, but they just give me a knowing smile.  I can tell, even though I can’t actually visualize the details of the expression.  “Ah-ah-ah, that’s not going to work.”  Then they turn sly.  “Well, maybe I can give you /one/ answer.  I like to eat food.”

Snarky.
I type that word in, another far too brief line that doesn’t do much at all to counter the empty white page.  It’s something, at least.  But I am forced to realize that this character simply won’t be defined by the usual questions.  It’s time to try another method.

The seated person looks up, showing wary interest as their surroundings shift, becoming a busy market square.  People are everywhere, hawking wares and haggling prices.  The shadowy figure is nearly run into by a cart, forced to roll aside, and it’s a narrow escape.  “Ahh, clever.  You can’t get what you want from me directly, so you plan to use settings as your intermediary.  Well, you can try, but I won’t play along.”

“You already have,” I counter.  “You are alert, and while it’s hard to startle you, it can be done.  Not as unflappable as you would like to appear.”  The vague face that regards me nods wryly.  “Touché, well done.  So it worked once, but it won’t again.  I’m ready for you now.”  And they go to sit beside the fountain, acting as if nobody else is there and ignoring the funny looks they get for apparently talking to themselves.

I wait, but nothing further happens that is of interest.  Still, I am not entirely without patience, and I am likely to get better results if I can catch my opponent by surprise, which means letting them get comfy first.  The next shift places them in the middle of a heated battle, a number of weapons scattered on the ground near the lifeless hands that once wielded them, as fighting rages on all around.  A new arrival is met with suspicion by both sides, and the shadowy figure is soon under attack from multiple sides.

To my surprise, they do nothing.  “I warned you, I would be ready.  This won’t work.”  The three fighters making to put the character down find their weapons meeting with no resistance, and then look around in obvious confusion.  They’re background characters, only there to add to the scenery, so they’re not too smart, but even they can’t possibly miss the person standing there with a mildly amused smile.  I examine the scene more closely, and discover that a faint shimmer now covers the shadowy and shifting form.  “Hey, that’s not allowed!  Standard characters don’t get access to plot ninja functions!” I exclaim, angry both at my failure and the violation of the laws of the page.  Going unseen and unnoticed in active scenes isn’t something I let any old character do.

“I’m not a finished character.  You can remove them later, when you finalize things -- if you ever do.”  There’s that snarkiness again, and I grimace in irritation as the two combatants from one group turn on the third, who is from the other side of the fight, not willing to waste time on figuring out what happened to the person they’d tried to attack when there were other enemies to battle.  With a dismissive thought, I wipe the setting clean, leaving it as blank as my page.  I need a different tactic.  What else could I try?  I doubt sending in other developed characters would work.  In an active setting, my troublesome character would just use the plot ninja stealth, and outside of it, they would just ignore whomever I sent.  Nikki’s pranks might get a reaction, but somehow I feel inflicting that particular character on this person might have undesirable results.  Nikki has a way of making things blow up, literally and figuratively, and trouble follows closely in her wake like an eager pet.

There’s only one remaining option.  I start filling in arbitrary details, not worrying about what the character thinks of them, since they refuse to tell me.  Still, before I get very far, I have to stop.  It feels so /wrong/, I know I won’t be able to work with them.
“A valiant effort, but futile.”
“Shut your face before I write you out of existence,” I snap, fed up with the situation.
“You could try, I suppose.”  Such lack of concern, it’s infuriating.  “But you know as well as I, and likely better, you can no more do that than you could destroy an idea.  This isn’t a story.  I might die in a piece of writing, but in your mind, I would continue to exist.”

I remove my fingers from the keys, and look at what I have.  So much time devoted to this, and so little to show for it!  I snarl in frustration.  How could I, the author and ruler of the world of the page, be so completely stymied in my efforts of creation?  I control each aspect, each detail, and yet this incomplete character thwarts my every effort.  “Why won’t you cooperate?!” I demand of my unfinished creation, wanting at least one straight answer for my trouble.

“Why?” they repeat, tilting their head.  “Hm.  I suppose it’s because I need to find myself first.”  They start walking off -- where to, I’m not sure, but I can tell they’re heading somewhere I won’t be able to observe.  “I’ll be back, but only when I’m ready.”  I grumble something unkind, and get a smile in return.  “If it’s any consolation, the reason you can’t just assign traits and details without my agreement is because you’re sufficiently devoted to character integrity that you give us a great deal of self-determination.  It’s why your initial efforts are always a bombardment of questions.  You need us to work with you, or you can’t write.  It’s admirable, really.”  I think I catch a glimmer of laughter shining in eyes that are still an indeterminate color.  “I’ll work with you, eventually.  On my terms, not yours.  Until then~”

With a sigh, I add a last note to the expanse of white that must remain unfilled until their return.
Keen wit, genre savvy.  May be aware of fourth wall and lean on or break.

And, perhaps as a final reassurance, a display of mercy for a vanquished foe, another line follows on its own:
Name: Schrödinger
The Object of Fate Design

By:@Polybius

"This Labour shall require a disparity of the mind and that which is furthest from that of your own knowing..."

The merchant in the market stared at me dumbly; as if even considering not buying what he offered was inconceivable. 

"One hundred dollars, and it is yours, sir!" 

He held the small object in his hands, both cradling and coveting it. Something about the way he held it gave me the clear distinction that I somehow needed the stupid trinket. I just shook my head. 

"Well," I said, distancing myself from the conversation, "I'm not one to make decisions in haste-Will you be around tomorrow? I need to think it over." I looked around the market square, busy with tourists. I hoped the leech of a salesman would latch himself onto another unsuspecting shopper the moment I was gone. 

The man laughed and smiled a churlish grin through graying teeth. He closed his mouth suddenly and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. "No need. I can certainly find you." 

The salesman twirled the object cleverly in his nimble fingers. I caught glimpses between flourishes of shining silver, sharp angular metal and hard lines with a geometry I could not quite fathom. Something about the nature of the object triggered deeply harbored feelings. For a moment, Claire's face flashed through my head. 

Claire in the apartment. Claire calling Richard. Claire packing her things in anger. Claire shouting in the hallway. Claire disappearing into the crowd at the airport. 

"What....is it?" I asked suddenly. "May I hold it?" I posed to the merchant without knowing why. 

"Everything you could possibly need. Here you are Nate, this is exactly what you need," The merchant extended his hands to give me the object. The man's eyes gleamed white lightning as he spoke. "Consider not what it is, but rather what purpose it might serve you." 

I cupped my hands like a child, perplexed by the words of the man. He placed the object in my hands like it was a holy artifact. The object seemed to lose its' luster for a brief moment as the exchange took place. It was cold in my open palms, but it soon warmed to the touch. The noon sun touched it, and the object shone once more. The salesman's voice, the market, the world around me seemed to slip away as I held the trinket. 

"How much did you say it was-" I looked up, but the man was gone. The market seemed suddenly very loud. There were too many people. Did the merchant call me Nate? How did he know my name? I carefully put the object into a pouch pocket on my breast and returned to my hotel room. 

Later, in my hotel room above the bar, I placed the object on a small table in a breakfast nook I would never use. An extra thirty square feet of hotel I would never use, and would only remember as an addition on the bottom line of my credit card statement.

I leaned out of the open window of the room and surveyed the busy street below. A warm breeze snaked it's way into my room, illuminating motes of dust and revealing dark corners. What would I say to Claire when I caught up with her? Would she think me crazy to follow her out of the country? Or would she think it romantic that I came? Creepy? Doubt crowded my mind. Maybe I was insane to come here. I didn't even know the name of the city I was in. No, this was the right thing to do. All I needed to do was say the right thing when I found Claire. 

I had practiced a speech to say to Claire on the plane. Bumbling over words and phrases-inside jokes and clever thoughts on distant memories. Those words escaped me as I watched the people in the market from the hotel window. I realized I was trying to sell Claire something-me. She would never fall for that. Besides, I could never live with that if it did work. The notion of somehow tricking her into taking me back was sickening. But would that be better than sitting alone in this hotel room? Living in my apartment alone back home? 

The market was emptying, the daylight dwindling. I closed the window and drew the curtains. I slipped off my boots and sat on the bed. A line of orange beneath window curtains slowly dimmed as the minutes passed. I was tired but felt restless. I considered going down to the bar for a drink. I picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang twice before she picked up. 

"Hello?" was all it took for me to hang up. I placed the phone back into its cradle and lay back on the bed. Unable to sleep, I stared at the grayish white stucco ceiling. A brown stain loomed over my bed. The longer I stayed in the hotel room, the more it became apparent just how crummy it was. Loneliness,  more than boredom occupied my mind. I sat up and looked around the room. With the curtains drawn the room was nearly dark now. 

My eyes settled on the simulacrum in the breakfast nook. In the dark corner, beside the fake flowers and paper place mats, the object gathered what little light remained in the room. It shone with ethereal grace in that simulated, impermanent home. I pulled my boots on, walked over to the table and put the object into my pocket. Immediately I felt less lonely, empowered even. I decided to have a drink after all. 

The bar was a semi-circular room with red leather stools and faded brown carpet. Cigarette smoke drifted into the hotel lobby. A handful of tourists sat at one end of the bar talking loudly. Pamphlets and guidebooks were piled high on the bar top. I looked around for the bartender, but they were conspicuously absent. I sat down and waited. 

"Nathan?" someone said. One of the tourists poked his head above the crowd of collared shirts, black square sunglasses obscuring his eyes, despite the dim lighting in the bar. "Hey! Nathan," he said once more, removing his glasses. 

I recognized the face. "Richard?" My stomach soured at the sight of Claire's' ex-boyfriend. We had been casual friends, politely avoiding one another for years. "How are you Rich?" I said mechanically. 

Richard detached himself from the crowd of tourists without a word and sat down next to me. "This is weird buddy, what are you doing in Mexico? Have you been up to the mountain yet? It's really something man, you should go. Beautiful. Let me buy you a drink." 

Richard leaned over the bar and shouted something in Spanish. Amazingly, a man in a starched white uniform appeared from behind the clump of tourists at the other end of the bar. "Dos mas cerveza por favor," said Richard raising two fingers. 

"Which mountain?" I managed to squeak out.

"Which mountain?" Richard parroted. He laughed, "Holy shit Nathan, really? THE MOUNTAIN. Why else would you be in Mexico? Where's Claire?" Richard looked around like a nervous animal. His thin neck poked out of his collared polo and I considered bashing his head in but decided to wait for my drink. His five-o'clock shadow gave his fair skin a shade of blue, like he was a dead man. 

"I don't know," I said finally. The bartender returned with our beers; left wordlessly. "I heard she flew down here last week. Have you talked to her?" I said after sipping the beer. It was hot and bitter, betraying the appealing golden color. 

"No," he lied. "Hey check this out Nathan," Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object no bigger than a matchbook and placed it on the bar. "Do you know what this is?" 

My sour stomach worsened. "Where did you get that?" I said and burped loudly. Richard was smiling stupidly. He nudged it closer to me.  

"In the market. Some asshole was peddling these things for $100 bucks a pop. I asked if I could hold it for a minute and then took off. I've never heard someone swear like that before," Richard chuckled to himself. "What do you think it is?" 

I took another sip of my beer, felt around in my pocket for my simulacrum and found only emptiness. "I've made a mistake Richard," I said. Richard stared at me with a hint of knowing in his eyes. I left without finishing that beer. 

I left the city the next morning in a faded yellow taxi covered in dust. The driver talked the whole way to the base of the mountain; I didn't understand a single word, just nodded my head and let the taxi take me where I wanted to go. Every once in a while I sub-consciously reached into my pocket to grasp the object. Each time a disappointment, finding nothing but a withering loss; a fading memory of Claire. Richard lied about Claire, but not about the mountain. It was beautiful. Even up close. 

I wish that I could remember each step up that mountain. Each decision along the path that led me to the top. But I can't. Memories travel through time like that. We can pick out the beginning and the end, not the in-between parts. What I do remember is looking over the valley and seeing the city so small below, and knowing that Claire was somewhere down there-and not caring at all; I didn't even pay for that stupid souvenir.

I tried, but just could not meet all of the criteria for the challenge-the story just moved in a different direction. I feel like this should be a much longer story and end with Nathan jumping off the mountain, or him huddled in a cave obsessing over the object ala Gollum. But, as I'm working the next few days I'm submitting what I have now! Thanks for reading!
By @WiseDragonGirl.

I decide to write a story featuring my serious and narcissistic character Mitch. I sit down at my desk and start up my computer. As soon as Word has launched I start to write.

Mitch sat at his desk in his apartment, working on a case-study about a pulmonary illness. He placed the final dot on the on the piece of paper in front of him and put his pen down. As his eyes moved over the words he had written down to answer the case study he felt pleased about himself, he had done a good job again. Like always.

“Stop.”

“Mitch?”

This isn’t the first time a characters voice comes up in my head, I’ve had some good conversations like this in the past. I’ve even asked a character to tell me about something in their life and just let them talk, it gave me a great inside in their personality. I look at the piece I wrote as I let the conversation unfold in my mind.

“Scrap that, that won’t work.”

“Why?”

“Come now ‘felt pleased about himself”? Because I did a case-study right? Nonsense, I don’t feel ‘pleased’ for doing that. It’s boring.”

“But you’re narcissistic, that is your main character trait. I have to show that in my writing and narcissistic persons are pleased with themselves.”

“Maybe I started out like that, but out of all people you should know if you use characters long enough, they grow, they evolve. They might end up a bit different than you anticipated. Did you consider I might just have a superiority complex?”

“I’m not sure what traits go with that.”

“Look it up. Trust me, superiority complex is the way to go.” 

I look it up, I know superiority complex is a thing otherwise I wouldn’t have the word in my mind. It doesn’t take longer than open Google and type in the search words for me to find a Wikipedia page on it. I can’t say I like what I read.

“No, that doesn’t work. Adler describes it as a disguised inferiority complex, you definitely don’t have that. ”

“I have two word for you: my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, you made him a rich, controlling man. I started playing the violin because he wanted me to, I started playing tennis because he wanted me to, I’m doing medicine instead of psychology because he wanted me to. You wrote this down in earlier stories, remember? No matter how good I became, it was never good enough. When I did it well I hardly got recognition for it, when I made a mistake, even if it was the smallest of mistakes, he saw it and lectured me about it.”

“I really don’t see you with an inferiority complex, let’s stick with narcissism, that suits you much better.” I close the browser again, I read what I needed to read.

“Really? Look. It’s not because this Adler-guy came up with the definition for superiority complex it’s the absolute truth. In modern psychology people also belief a person with the superiority complex just feels better than others, you read that!”

“But Wikipedia didn’t have sources on that...”

“Then let’s do it this way, look up the traits for narcissism again. Does that still apply to the current image you have of me?”

I look it up and I return to Wikipedia. I know it’s not the most reliable source on the internet, but it gives a pretty good idea of what I need to know.  

“How many of those traits still apply to me?”

“... not as many as I would like, but some do apply, so let’s keep this way. A person doesn’t have to show all the traits after all.” 

“Let’s go over them. Maybe I do feel better than others, I have ‘a haughty body language’, I might ‘use other people without considering the cost of doing so’ and I have ‘problems in sustaining satisfying relationships’, at least until I finally meet Benjamin’s sister in a few years as you already wrote down, but I don’t have ‘hypersensitivity to any insults or imagined insults’, ‘detesting those who do not admire them’, ‘flattery towards people who admire and affirm them’, ‘a lack of psychological awareness’, ‘pretending to be more important than they really are’, ‘bragging (subtly but persistently) and exaggerating their achievements’ or ‘claiming to be an "expert" at many things’. I’m good at what I do, you never made me say I’m an expert on many things. Narcissism is clearly not the way to go, so go with superiority complex instead. Does it matter what Adler said? You’re the writer, even if you want to base yourself on true facts, you’re free to choose the view you prefer if there are more than one. So, rewrite that, make me bored instead of pleased and change my personality trait to superiority complex. That suits me much better.” 

“But not all the traits have to apply, a couple of them will work too!”

“There are more that don’t fit than fit and on top of the list it clearly states for being a narcissist many, if not all, should apply. If you want to water it down to ‘narcissistic tendencies’, you might as well go for something that just works. Period.”

“...”

“Look, I’ll make it really easy for you. Homework, assignments, they are boring. They are not challenging for me.  I’m smart, you made me an honours student, remember? I’m just very good at this and doing the assignments is easy for me. Boring. Beneath me. Use that. I feel better than others, but I’m not a narcissist. I’m just good at what I do, I’m not saying I’m good at everything. I’m good at playing the violin because I practiced that and when people tell me I’m good, I’ll tell them ‘of course I’m good, I’m good at everything I do’, but I won’t say ‘of course, I’m good at everything’. Learning facts about the human body is easy and boring. Of course I get good grades, I don’t want another lecture from my father about them, but besides that, I’m just smart. It’s not narcissistic to state the obvious." 

“Listen Mitch, I’m the writer. It’s my call, my decision. I created you as a narcissist and I will keep you that way. I don’t want to water it down and I’m not going to.”

“And your best way to display that character trait is to write ‘he felt pleased’? You should do yourself a favour and give me a more simple character trait to work with.”

“Now that’s just mean.” 

“Do you really want to force a character trait on me, or do you agree it is best to let a character develop by themselves and just go with it? You should know it will always feel unnatural if you try to force a character in a certain way. You gave me a starting point and I grew. Deal with it.”

“...”

“Do you have anything to bring in against any of my arguments?”

“Only that you are obnoxious.”

“Maybe I am, but I’m also right.”

I don’t know what to say really. It feels like a losing battle.

“Listen Mitch...”

“Just do what I suggested. It will proof I’m right.”

“You know what? This discussion is over.”

“And how exactly do you think you can win?”

“I can take your voice away when I stop talking to you.”

“But you’ll continue to think about what I said. And you still can’t counter any of the arguments I gave you, whether you stop talking to me or not.”

“Damn it, Mitch.”

“You just don’t like it that I’m right and you were wrong about me, your own creation.”

“No, I don’t, okay?!”

“Good, now that is sorted, re-write that piece and make me bored instead of pleased. You’ll see, it will proof I’m right, it will fit me much better.”

“Then why would I even type it?”

“Because you’re curious to the result.”

The only reply I can think of is a groan, but damn it, Mitch has a good point and I don’t know how to counter it anymore. Even if the discussion comes to an end, it continues to haunt my mind. Thinking back, it’s true I didn’t display many narcissistic character traits and it’s true his father always demands the best grades from Mitch. I think about all the things Mitch pointed out and I can’t disagree with him. As much as it pains me to admit, Mitch is right. I can counter his arguments.  Superiority complex might just be the way to go, it does fit his character. So, I start over.

Mitch sat at his desk in his apartment, working on a case-study about an pulmonary illness. He placed the final dot on the on the piece of paper in front of him and put his pen down. He checked what he had written down a final time before he closed the book. He walked over to a window and leaned against the wall with a shoulder as he looked outside, watching the small park behind the apartment building. It bored him, these assignments were not challenging at all, but it was something he had to go through if he wanted to get his PhD.
By @PlatinumSkink.

The black night-sky was littered with the stars of the universe, glittering from above. In the far below, the Earth was placed, but it was far enough away that the curvature was visible and complete darkness ruled the oceans while the surface was brightened by the many lights of humanity. Way above the clouds swayed humongous pillars, sky-scrapers with entire societies, locked into bubbles  of atmosphere where they worked. Their jobs were to mine foreign rocks, asteroids that were hooked to the tops of the square roofs.

On the edge of a particularly grand building, looming over the rest, sat a young girl with her legs hanging down the impossible height. Long black hair waved a bit behind her in the wind generated by the air within this bubble of breathable atmosphere. Her expression was pained, but there was a fraction of determination in there, her green worker's outfit keeping her warm while revealing her status as a mere pawn in a greater game. This was the place where it all would change. She sighed, and spoke out loud.

'Nah, I don't feel like it.' … Huh? … W-with that, she jumped off the edge, her small form spreading her limbs out wide as she threw her weight forward and dove down towards the planet. However, just as her fate looked like it was sealed, she

'I burst the bubble.' Suddenly, the girl fell down into contact with the lower part of the atmospheric bubble, which burst open with little resistance as she fell down like a strong projectile! … Wait, stop! You can't do that! Those guys in the scrapers need that atmosphere to live!

'Sure, I can. And look, they're totally fine.' ... Huh? … Up on the the buildings all the other workers stood happily waving handkerchiefs down to their falling comrade, giant child-like smiles on their faces... Wah? No, that's all wrong! You're supposed to be a girl that

'Oh, and speaking of that. I don't feel like being a girl anymore.' And in her place was suddenly a guy, with short black hair and totally black jeans and shirt... Hey, you can't do that! You're a character in my story, and you

'Psh, why'd I have to be a girl for you? You freak. Stop involving me in your obsession with cute girls.' He put his hands behind his head and mocked the Narrator as he floated in mid-air. Oy, you're my creation! You can't judge me! I just find it more interesting to write for

'So, shouldn't I be landing soon?' He looked down as he appeared to be falling in pure white blankness right now. Y-you... You know you were supposed to spend the entire story up there on the sky-scrapers! You were never supposed to leave! I haven't properly designed down here!

'You useless world-builder. Okay. I build, then. So, I wanna live in a white little house on top of a giant sunflower, and there'll be dancing dogs and sunshine, it will never rain and such so that it'll always be totally happy and I can live with my wife happily ever after.' … So, why would I build your

All of a sudden he landed on the surface of a giant flower, his feet sinking into the soft tissue and his face smiling from satisfaction as he had landed with no difficulty whatsoever despite the fall. Behind him was... dancing... dogs... yikes, they look happy... all manner of breeds and sizes, wagging tails... uh... A-and behind them, a white little house, and a happy-looking beautiful woman by it.

'There, all I'll ever need.' The creation stated happily, placing his hands on his hips as he looked at his imagination. Um. Lesse. Below the sunflower's still a pit of white blankness. He only created this little bit. That's not very expansive, you know.

'Hah! I can create more as I go along and feel a need for it!' He claimed, before he walked to meet his newly created wife and was greeted by a lot of happy dogs. Hm... Sunflower. A large flower. Living on top of a giant flower. For that to be needed, and the possibilities of this... Yeah, I can work with this. I'll just have to borrow a little from my inner Miyazaki...

When monsters and gods reclaimed the ground from the humans, they were forced to seek out new places to live. Fortunately, from the mutated soils that had been transformed by monsters, these giant flowers had grown out. These flowers picked up the energy from the Earth itself, providing those who lived on top of them with heat and nourishment through nectar and such. For meat, they'd sometimes go hunting, and primitive flying vehicles are used to travel from flower to flower. Through this, a human society grew out, merely one floor above the grounds dominated my nameless creatures. One particular specimen of these humans lived here with his wife and mildly mutated dogs, and

'And I slice down all the giant flowers with a single swipe of my four-dimensional greatsword, making all humanity fall to their doom to be eaten, except for me who live happily ever after since I've achieved immortality with me and my wife. The end.' And... so it was. …

HEY! I was building a mildly interesting world, here!

'Yeah, and you did it completely without asking for my permission! The flower was MY idea! Don't go plagiarizing it!' He looked angrily at where he imagined the Narrator to be. … Okay, fine. But, let me help at least, then. So, how do you purpose you obtain food up there?

'I don't.' The creation stated out loud with absolute certainty. … But, how do you survive then? Do you simply get energy from the flower using some special energy of the flower, or...?

'Nope! I simply don't need it!' He looked happy as he stated so. … You're just immortal for the sake of it? Th-that's not how stories work. We need some kind of REASON for things, or they won't be logical. Also, we need to make more humans. It can't JUST be you and your wife, and we need to figure out how society works, what rules are in place, and

'Oh, fine! If you're going to be like that, then I'm moving! We'll move to a small house on a backwater street in a big city, with normal dogs and a normal wife.' … Ah. That's... mildly disappointing, but alright. The rules of the normal world it is. So, a small house, a husband and wife living in a big city. I can work with that too. I see the signs of potential drama in lack of funds and fighting against the rules of normal living to scrape by. Yeah, that'll be close and relatable to a lot of people. So, what's your occupations?

'I'm the president!' The creation announced loudly, suddenly standing on a podium in a suit with numerous photographers taking his picture and a really fancy black sleek haircut all of a sudden. … GAH!

'What? Is there a problem?' … Yeah, there is! You're just RANDOMLY going to up and be the president!? Living in a small house and...

'Yeah, totally! And I'll be an astronaut, too! I'll be the president of space!' … You can't BOTH be an astronaut and the president, that'd... wait...

'Hm?'

… In a setting taking place fifteen minutes into the future, the beloved President of the United States is being launched into Space for the sake of publicity and national pride. Beside all his usual duties, he's taking on astronaut training and more, all while living in a modest-sized house on the outside. But, of course, everything is not going to go as planned! Sending the President into space, it's a national disaster waiting to happen! Among the crew is a terrorist who has infiltrated the country for the sake of sabotaging a future space-mission, and this is his ultimate chance. So, while fighting the sabotage of the terrorist, the president will also have to suddenly solve some national crisis which crept up while he was in space! All while waiting at home the First Lady is-

'Booooom. See that? That's her blowing up the nuclear arsenal while I'm in space. That way, humanity will be wiped out and Earth will be mine when I eventually descend!'

...

'The world is mine! I just need to go down and claim it for my own along with my wife! Hahahahaha...! Oh, and she's obviously radiation-proof. So there.'

Alright. Stop it. This has gone on far enough.

'Hueh?'

The creation suddenly found himself inside a room, the inside of a cube locking him in place, his eyes scanning the grey walls attentively. He'd been placed sitting in a chair by a boring table, and he immediately began waving his legs as he patiently waited with a little grin for the Narrator to stop describing. Then, before him, the shape of the Narrator took shape, glaring a little angrily at the soul before him.

'Oooh, how intimidating.' The creation gleefully taunted. '… What, you describe that as ”taunting”? I was just joking with you, since you so obviously tried to make an impression...'

Shut up. We have more serious matters to attend to. You, my creation, clearly has no kind of sense of the structure of a story. I need to lecture you.

'Oh, I'm so frightened...' He quipped, sitting back with a little smile, seemingly accepting that something's going to be thrown at him. … Good enough.

Alright, so see here. In order for a story to work one needs to establish numerous ”rules of the setting”, and then... not break them. The readers will not be able to appreciate the story unless they somewhat comprehend the premise. And

'You know, I know all that.' The creation picked his nose with a disinterested expression as he looked at the Narrator. … Then why do you not follow them? In order to get excitement doing, you need an established setting, a main character to follow, some sort of trouble for them to solve...

'Yes, that. Don't feel like trouble. Just going to laze around, playing with the world, doing nobody but myself a favour. Keep whatever trouble you want me to go through to yourself.' And he leaned back with a smile, as if he had just delivered an Earth-shattering argument of sorts. … You know, it's really not the main character's choice if they get into trouble or not...

'… Because you're manipulating their fate, right?'

Well, yes. That's what I do. I'm the Narrator.

'The Narrator, eh? I like your villain name.'

I, uh, what?

The creation pulled a leg up and kicked off from the table, making a backwards flip through the air and landed on his feet while the chair he had sat on fell to its back. The walls of this grey cube fell off like it was made of paper and the tape just gave out, the creation grinning while he pointed at the Narrator. Behind the walls that fell... were rows upon rows of other creations, all of the Narrators creation, too many to describe, and they were holding signs that were protesting against...

'We creations have suffered from being your playthings long enough! You might be a being of ungodly power, but we're now standing against you in force! We demand you leave this plane of existence to us, and never return!' … Oh, c'mon! I'm trying to write stories with mostly positive endings! I'm not the kind that constantly kills his characters...

'Your last couple of entries tell otherwise.' … THAT'S BECAUSE LABOURS, and inspiration for how to solve them, mostly, ergh... … However, as he looked across the familiar faces shouting for him to get away from there, the Narrator realized

'Oh, can you drop that ”the Narrator” thing and start referring to yourself as ”I” already? It's grammatically annoying!' The creation laughed, as for some reason that was the one set of rules that he apparently felt like obeying.

That's wrong. This is a third-person story. If I refer to myself as ”I” in descriptive text, then it becomes a first-person story with me as the main character. 

'But you're going to be confusing the readers when they don't keep track of if it's descriptive text or actually just talking.' … That doesn't matter! What matters is that I'M keeping track of it! I'm not really supposed to be addressing you like this at all! Geh! … In any case, as I was saying...

… As the Narrator looked across the familiar faces shouting for him to get away from there, he realized something. … These people were not in-character. Many who'd never ever raise their voices were, and others who'd probably react quite differently weren't. You... you're a hypocrite. Now YOU'RE the one manipulating their fates!

'You know it isn't.' The creation grinned. 'It's just you affecting their fates again in order to create a situation where you fight your creation in order to fulfil the requirements.' … Can we NOT refer to that fact? I'm ashamed enough as it is. For the sake of this story, YOU'RE the one manipulating them, alright?

'Teh-heh.' … Alright, we clear? Let's try that again.

YOU'RE the one manipulating their fates!

'… But they don't know that, do they? As long as I'm the one in control of them, they act however I want them to! That's so fun! Think of all the inappropriate scenes I can play out for my own amusement!' The creation looked so pleased. You... I don't care what else you do, but PLEASE make them all act in-character!

'Why would I!? They can't even hear what I'm saying now because I don't want them to! They're all mine, mine forever! Hahahahaha...!' … Heh. … All of the surrounding creations suddenly blinked in realization, and started giving varying degrees of character-suitable stares at him.
 
'Heh. Taking them back, are you?' Well, of course. You were mistreating them. 

'Then I'll just have to act quickly this time!' Saying so, the creation used his own power of story-telling to make the creations look at the Narrator again and launch numerous projectiles depending on the character, from rays of power to magic missiles to bullets to other strange things. … Of course, everything went straight through him. Fighting is pointless. You can't HURT the Narrator.

'Bummer.' 

Now, let's get these all out of the picture. The Narrator waved his hand at them a bit, and the creations vanished out of existence, leaving just the creation himself. Then, he pulled at the walls just lying around, and they reformed the convenient grey cube which they were not placed inside.

'Keeping track of if you're using past or present tense?' Shut up. Let's refocus on the lesson. I still have not given up on making you star in a story of mine.

'Meh.' The creation suddenly pulled a gun from who knows where and shot at the Narrator's location, the bullets phasing straight through him. … I'm not impressed by your attitude.

'Can't you at the very least take the form of a giant monster or something? That'd be more demonstrative of my issues, sir Narrator.' The creation was sulking, crouched together and crossing his arms. Geesh, childish.

In any case. We need to refocus on

'I wonder how drugs taste like? I just delved into your mind to find the things you despise beyond everything else, and found that there. Let me try some.' The creation then leaned down over the table in order to take part in a piece of white powder that had suddenly appe

The table suddenly smashed into the creation's cheek, sending the relatively stunned humanoid spinning into the wall, notable amount of blood dripping from his face. Grabbing with a hand over the place where he was hit, he looked back in a bit of confusion. He'd see the Narrator, who had grabbed the table and physically swung it at his creation. … I tolerate a lot of things, but I don't tolerate that. Don't do that again.

'Wow. I somehow thought you were all non-violence. My image of you has been improved. Haha.' The creation chuckled in his creator's face, wiping off the blood and healing his own wound with his own story-telling powers... His eyes suddenly widened a bit, as if he noticed something.

'Your hands are shaking.' … For understandable reasons. The Narrator sighed as he placed the table back on the floor.

'No, that's not it. You didn't react to the substance by your hands starting to shake. This is... something else.' … You're imagining things. We need to return to the subject at hand if we're to see any progress in this...

'It's the fact you hit me. Your hands are shaking because you hit me.' The creation was smiling as if he had come across something ground-breaking... 

Look here. I can make my hands stop shaking at a moment's notice. I control EVERYTHING in this world! The only thing I cannot control in this world for WHATEVER reason is YOUR MIND! But I will not stop until I've finally created a cohesive story with you as the main character! So fall in line and do your part, because I'M the one in control! I'M the Narrator!

… The creation calmed down a bit, looking at the Narrator, a thinking amused expression on his lips... before he smirked, a final cause of action coming to his mind.

'The one thing you cannot control is my mind, eh? I think there's a little bit more than that...' Before what he intended could even be processed, he held up a gun that he seemed to have gained from nowhere and pulled the trigger. His head blew wide open, and his corpse staggered down on the ground...

… The hell are you doing!? The different parts of him immediately flew back to reform his head as the Narrator pulled the creative strings to reform the suicidal idiot. Reformed and alive once more, the creation laughed as he was pulled back on his feet.

'Haha, I knew it. I knew it. You're absolutely wide-eyed. You can't take the blood, can you?' He smirked, looking at the Narrator with a devilish look in his eyes. Wh-what are you planning...?

Another gun was pulled. He blew a hole through his heart, the blood splattering behind him and a look of pain and shock going over his face as he fell dead. … Stop that! The Narrator removed his injury, and removed the gun for good measure.

'Teh-heh, think it'll be that easy...? You haven't forgot, my powers rival yours, right?' His body exploded. Apparently, he created a grenade inside of him which immediately went off, the contents of his body splattering over the walls as well as went straight through the Narrator. G-ggrrr...!

A strange fight ensued. The creation kept blowing himself to pieces with explosives, guns, swords with which to stab himself and other things that caused his death. The Narrator kept blocking and throwing away the different weapons the creation drew, and reformed him every time which the creation was successful in recreating himself. Stop that! STOP THAT!

'Haha...' The creation grinned viciously, standing in a pool of his own blood with nary a scratch, weapons lying all over the room. 'Look at you staggering. Sure, I'll stop. Just hand over the story to me, and I'll...' He requested, pointing at the Narrator with a decisive point. … No way! This is my story! I won't let my own crea

His head blew up. The Narrator doesn't feel like describing the details. STOP! The head reformed again, and... A spear impaled him, damn it. Removed the spear, healed the wound, WHERE DID THAT SNIPER BULLET COME FROM!? Gah! Remove bullet, heal wound, DON'T GET SQUASHED BY A RANDOM FALLING BUSS! Ugh! Away with the buss, don't... don't. Stop it. I don't want to do this. I'm not good with gore, death or helplessness. I don't like this feeling. Stop it.

'I've found your weakness.' He grins as he starts advancing on the Narrator before him, who flinches back as the skin of the man turns red, cracking, bleeding from some kind of fictional skin-disease... 'You can't stand disgusting things, eh? Blood or violence, or maybe even plain bullying... you hate that, don't you? … You're all-powerful here, yet... Yet you can't do a thing to harm me, and you're currently in the palm of my hand... I can just keep this going, and sooner or later you'll completely lose your sanity...'

…

'There. I won, did I not?'

… The Narrator no longer had a choice. This was not a battle which he could fight. Labour requirements be damned, he wouldn't continue this battle. He spun around and flew straight out of that reality. If he left the creation behind and came up with a new plan, he'd be able to take that world back afte

'Wait, hold on there. One of the requirements is that you do not give up. So, you can't leave like that.' …! … Th-the creation had appeared in front of the Narrator. But, he was a giant. In the midst of black space, there were suddenly several examples of the creation, as large as sky-scrapers, chuckling wickedly around him...

Khk! The Narrator threw his hands around, banishing them all to a realm far away. However, just as he soared forward, there was the creation again, smiling in his face.

'You can't escape. We have the same powers. NEITHER of us could escape from the other...!' … But you cannot harm me. I can shut you out, and then you won't be able to

…!? … H-he placed a hand... on the Narrator's shoulder...

'Oh, but, since we KNOW I have to be able to defeat you in the end, then we also KNOW I have to have the power to damage you, right?'

… A-ah.

'Oh, look at you so scared. Your fears are becoming a reality. Also, you know I'm your opposite. You say you're an omnipresent Narrator that can't be hurt, but as you know... I don't follow the  rules unless they suit me, bitch.' The creation declared as he r-mphgh au

'”As I rammed the Narrator's face into the unseen void under my boot.” Haha! Was that so hard!? Now, then. Now that I can touch you, let's see what kind of horrible things I can do to you... You won't be escaping me anytime soon...!'

<Entry ends there as the Narrator was unable to continue telling the story and the creation stopped feeling like converting his speech to readable format for readers of this text>
@mdk

Blue sea, white fog and grey sky against a rising sun. They came in a decrepit skiff hung with bundled driftwood, dark-skinned and hairless and marked with scars and dim tattooed symbols of the island gods. With them, a fair man bearing on his surcoat a red cross with a design of gold and blue and white, five shields. Beneath this beaten rag his bare chest was bandaged with torn cloth and grass. 

“There,” croaked the pale man through salt-caked and frayed whiskers, raising a finger to indicate across the low tide to a broken reef. Dimly visible beneath the foaming water, a silhouette of a man spitted against the coral spears below. “Bring us closer.”

A discussion in a savage tongue. “The boat will break,” said one. “We will all join him there.” The pale man insisted and the dark ones bore him closer, the skiff inching closer until the stern swung left as the keel made a grinding sound. The skiff pitched and righted, but moved no closer. All three breathed at once and peered into the sea. “Do you know him?” asked one.

The pale man inclined his head over the gunwale and examined the body. Creatures had been at the corpse’s pickled flesh, and sun and sea had made a grotesquerie of his features. “No,” he said, slumping. He drew a cross over his chest with his fingers. The dark ones paddled clear of danger and followed the reef wall in silence. 

They came to a labyrinthine mouth within the bladed sea wall, a rich sapphire inlet hazarded about the edges with hot white shallows and rocky surf. Scattered among these shoals, shattered wood, an oar, a hempen rope with one end lashed about a broken prow and the other sinking to the invisible depths below. Above the carnage, faintly visible through fog, a white sunlit strand of shore, barren. The dark men asked if he wanted to look closer here. He waited a long time before shaking his head

The skiff retreated through the mouth and raised a crude sail and crossed some span of open water until, approaching noon, the fog lifted and the outline of a wreck appeared. The men set their course and within an hour they were upon it. 

The dark men asked something of the pale one. “No,” he replied. “No, she didn’t crash. Look there, at the sandbar.” He repeated this in their tongue and pointed to the sideways course, where the caravel had drifted up against the sandbar parallel and pitched onto her side, concealing all but the lower port hull from view. The dark men asked again. “It means something happened to her, out there. Something besides the storm.” He looked back over the open ocean and frowned. “We must learn what.”

They brought the skiff against the sand and clamored out and the dark men carried it up and inverted it on the soft ground. Then they joined the pale man in the caravel’s shadow. The splinters of the starboard flank loomed overhead, hung with a putrid odor of oil and spice and rotting flesh. A sudden flapping noise raised their eyes in unison. A great carrion harrier left its light and fled, and in its wake a desiccated man absent more than half, dangling from a rope about his wrist. His entrails fell gnawed and bloody to a visceral pile on the white sand, taste of iron in the air. The pale man fell to a knee and spoke quietly.

“You know him?” 

The pale man finished his prayer before answering. “Abrahan,” he said softly. “The captain.” No compassion in the dark faces. One rubbed a hand across his mouth while the other squatted with forearms on his thighs, watching a crab whose shell was smeared red pick its way across the ground. The pale man composed himself and stood. “There,” he said. Pointing. “The cargo hold is there.”

The pair moved towards a gaping breach under the aftcastle while the pale man searched the rigging for passage to the deck. After he circled around Abrahan’s dangling corpse he found a line, but putting his weight upon it the line snapped and gave way, cascading to the earth and towing with it some formless remainder of a nautical construct that embedded itself in the sand. He examined the hull, rent deep here with bright wooden scars. Forward it was the same – deep scoring as though a dozen angry giants harried her with metal picks scraped through the hull, raking away pitch and splinters and shearing rope and casting their leavings to the sea.

He came to the boltrope, now split and fallen from the beam and topmast and wavering in ocean breeze overhead. Planting one foot against the caravel’s hull and leaping, the pale man took this line in hand and it held his weight. He began to climb, but one of the savages called his name and he let himself drop back to the sand, where he stumbled and went down softly. They spoke in the native tongue about which of the trade goods could be salvaged from the ruination within. When he had set them back to task, the pale man stood slowly and inclined his head. A dark spot on the prow had caught his eye.

Walking to it, he found what seemed like an obsidian stone wedged deep in a crack between the timbers. He worked it loose with his hands. Jagged and irregular shape, pocked and spiked, warm to the touch and, concealed from view, a strange adhesive surface all along the backside. When it came away in his hand he turned it. Fetid material, not unlike rotting meat protruding from the stone or the stone from it. A creature of a coral reef, resembling no such creature or such reef as the pale man knew, but often so were these strange waters. He placed it on the sandbar and came back to the boltrope, leapt up to grasp it, and climbed.

He found the deck in good order, clean and silent but for the carnage of the helm where gulls’ courage still afflicted the miserable Abrahan. To cross the tilting expanse the pale man found purchase on all fours. He made his way towards the captain’s quarters, pausing to shout “Halloos” down the cabin hatch and answer the savage voices which echoed back from the cargo hold. No other stirrings from within those lightless depths. The captain’s quarters he found latched shut and unspoiled, though canted and thrown about as though the storm had swept through it with rainless wind and hurled what it could against the starboard wall. A neck-snapped violin clung to its mangled self with curling strings. A noble woman in portrait resting on a topmost corner against the bulkhead, which he righted and set back. Among the clutter there books of every variety. Picking among them the pale man selected the ship’s accounts and log, and left the scripture. Bottles of ginja, wine, and brandy. He took one.

On deck once again, he commended the books to the sand and the bottle of spirit to the surf. He called the dark men to retrieve each back to their skiff, where waited those treasures which saltwater had spared. He proceeded to the helm and drew his surcoat across his nose and mouth. A storm of feathers, cackled thunder, small pink bolt of lightning that fell against the deck with wormlike noise and slid overboard. Abrahan’s wrist lashed to the port sideboard with a careful knots, his lifeless arm skinned about the wrist and fingertips where he had fought the wind and slick to keep the wheel, draped across a cratered starboard deck. His face a pallid green and patched with red and white and blind black holes. When the pale man worked free the knot he fell with a wet thump against the sand, with no small complaint from the dark pair below.

“Bury him,” the pale man called. They protested. He repeated. They did. 

Before he quit the helm he found his eye again drawn to curious black stones, scattered among the broken planks belowdecks. Hung with foul flesh. Black sludge oiled about the carnage. He blinked and picked his way back to the boltrope and down it. Waiting for him the dark pair.

“No guns,” said the one.

“I don’t think it would have mattered if they had,” said the pale man.

“You say this stuff worth more?” His eyes twinkled. The pale man sighed and nodded and he was pleased. Then he saw the obsidian shard the pale man had left in the sand.

“It was everywhere,” the pale man said, looking at it. “You know what it is?” The dark man mumbled something in his tongue. “What?”

“We should go.” 

“You know what it is? What does it mean?”

“The reef,” said the dark one, his voice somber, his eyes thin. “The reef that stands alone. Come.”

The other had righted and begun loading their skiff with their scavenged cargo. The pale man reached within to find the bottle of brandy and drew it out and walked back to the caravel. He said a few words and smashed the bottle against her bow, christening her in death as she had been when she was born. Then he took a match to the wet spot and stepped away as flames crept up the wood. They burned brightly at first, then faded into softly glowing ember, light smoke, smell of cedar and grape.

When the skiff pulled away the smoke had grown thicker and black roils had begun to seethe forth from the shadowed cabin. It grew into a pillar and faded over the shimmering horizon. The pale man watched it grow for a long time, then turned to the books he had claimed from Abrahan’s quarters. He opened the accounts and found the page with his name, then flipped through the many pages thereafter, noting the dead borne within. When he could stomach no more he set the accounts aside and opened the ship’s log to the end and read.

“October 12. All hands discharged to shore. Stowed sails and dropped anchor. Captain Abrahan will remain aboard to hold her through the storm. First Mate Casserta and detail to Suva to acquire necessary materials for repairs. All necessary preparations made. All crew have performed admirably in all affairs, both now and always. Morale is adequate to the situation. Provisions high.” The entry marked their fix, many leagues from the caravel’s grave. The pale man leafed back.

“October 11. Becalmed. Weather approaching from west. Ship’s carpenter restored rudder, responds well. Committed three souls to the sea, Garcia, Lacey, Agostinha. Damage to hull severe but well in hand. To sail in current condition is impossible. Small progress towards Suva adrift. Ship made sound for the coming storm. First Mate Casserta advised scuttling and making for shore. Instructed to assemble a detail and row for Suva with ship’s carpenter to procure materials for repairs, departs at first light. Provisions high.”

He turned twice to reach the beginning of the next entry. “October 10. Struck reef in the morning. Assigned Lacey to examine keel, assessed damage as minimal. Reef does not appear in our charts.” A detailed position was outlined here with cautionary precision. “Carpenter reported ship sound. Made sail west at five knots and struck again an hour thence. Helmsman spotted the reef and steered away hard to port. Reef met us at speed. First Mate Casserta agrees helmsman performed to the ship’s best capacity. Damage to hull above and below water line. Purged water from the hold and made repairs. Set new course east by northeast, bearing away from new reef. Encountered again in the evening. All repairs destroyed, rudder disabled. Reef moving beneath the waves. Morale shaken, mad things on the crew’s lips. Many injured in the final crash. Keel damaged but holding. Much water in the hold. Listing right at twenty degrees. Ship’s carpenter reports supply of wood exhausted. Crew has performed well throughout the ordeal but listless now and wavering. Ordered extra rations. Weather in the west. Provisions high.”

He set the log aside and put a hand to his forehead and sat for a long time with his eyes on the water, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. After some hours of quiet a dark hand roused him from his reverie. “Look,” the man said breathless and quiet. Ahead and to port there was a man floating on the surface of the water, a corpse with sun-beaten and pickled flesh and grotesque features with a black spar protruding from his chest. When the pale man looked at him, he seemed to raise up as if conjured unholy and ghost-like to stand upon the waves, limp-limbed and slack of neck. Then the force which conjured him pulled him down and never did he rise again. The dark men groaned and steered away from the spot where he had been. 

“Pua Tu Tahi,” said one. 

The pale man knew these words now. The reef that stands alone. “What is it?” he asked in each language, but he could draw nothing more from them. Sick recognition in his eyes. He retched once overboard and lay back and clutched the book against his chest and rocked against the waves. 

Not until the fishing village from which they set forth appeared did the pale man turn to the log again. He opened it and read. “October 9. Played my violin for the crew at supper. Lacey sang. All is well. Course is west by southwest at six knots. Provisions high.” He closed the book.

Since I apparently love to stretch the rules, uh...... okay, so it may not be clear at first take but the 'narrator' aka ME in this case is Captain Abrahan, and his losing struggle is against Pua Tu Tahi, the living reef monster of Fiji legend. The bloody carnage encountered by the nameless trio is actually telling the story of their epic battle, but it's told in Pua Tu Tahi's language of timeless destruction and mystery. Very nearly left out the captain's logs because I like PTT's version better, but I'm throwing a bone to you peasant readers and sort-of-explaining one or two things that happened for a change. I might be getting soft. Anyway that's the part meant to satisfy the challenge -- Abrahan's valiant struggle to save his crew and ship from an ancient and vicious monster, and failing. The three men in the skiff are just an elaborate framing device.
By @Cruallassar.

The human mind is a wonderful thing...it is creative, variable, fantastic in a thousand ways when given fuel for its imagination. It should be little surprise that it often turns out to be its own worst enemy.

The guy who called himself Cruallassar on the online application process had already labeled the people around him in his mind. There was lab-coat guy, lab-coat girl, blue-shirt guy, and the suit guy who introduced himself and who's name had been forgotten thirty seconds later. All that he needed to know. It also meant that he felt slightly out-of-place in his black jeans and T-shirt. Luckily, they didn't seem to care. And they hadn't said anything about a dress code in the e-mail a few days ago. They also hadn't said anything about the specifics of what he was doing here either. Time to remedy that.
“So what exactly am I doing?” He asked, looking around at the other people in the room and wondering what their role in in things was.
The suit guy was, as seemed usual, the one to respond. 
“You know this is a project in combining video games with certain advances in the science of the mind. We are testing a system in development that is designed to take clear thoughts, impressions, and concepts from an active mind and re-transmit them back in the same way as a virtual reality headset. The primary difference between the two systems is that in our case, the virtual world is taken directly from the user's own mind, with our software interpreting them and filling in the details, copying stats and loading NPCs and other characters, including allies and villains, into pre-made virtual intelligence programs that will emulate the actions and mannerisms of the user's character concept as accurately as possible. That part is the real crowning achievement of the project, essentially creating AI out of the user's imagination, making the game far more interactive and variable then otherwise possible. Users will also be able to refine the characters and other aspects of the game themselves via an editor, and upload them to the public, however we haven't gotten that far yet. All you'll be doing today is some basic alpha testing of the concept, testing the VI and interpretation software in a number of ways. For example, we have added the software required for combat, though most of that is done through the mental interpretation software as things are now. Later on through the testing process we will be adding more features and expanding the testing group as we refine the system.” Suit guy stopped and looked at  him, seemingly realizing that what he was saying was typically outside the area of expertise of your average teenager, but Cruallassar nodded in apparent understanding. It made sense, a lot of the questions on the application process had dealt with mental conditioning, things he did with his imagination, it allowed him to go quite in detail into the creative things he did in the security of his thoughts.
“So to sum up, you want me to help test a game that makes a game out of the thoughts and imagination of the user's mind? At the basic level?”
Suit guy nodded. “Correct. At this point I'll leave you to Tom here, and he'll get you set up. Have fun.”
He nodded over towards the blue-shirt guy, then walked out back in the direction of the building exit. The blue-shirt guy...Tom...gestured towards another door. “Come on, the equipment is this way. So what we've set up is a modified version of the game...we want you to put the system through it's paces in as many ways as possible, so you have basically gamemaster privileges. Any power, ability, technique, or item you can think of, you can give yourself. On the other hand, characters will be created autonomously, and you will be able to interact with them as their concept allows. We've prioritized main characters and antagonists so you won't need to be fighting through a bunch of mooks to get to the interesting people that will really test the system.”
“Alright. So...that is all well and good, but...how do I use that? Is there a tutorial, or is it intuitive, or is it basically like other VR games?” Cruallassar asked.
“Basically, those second two. It should be pretty simple, and we kept the interfacing as close to a basic VR as we could. The menu system is identical of course. You shouldn't have any problems. Oh, and we also disabled dying in the game, unless you happen to have imagined an afterlife. The difficulty level is something we can worry about later.” Tom opened and led the way into another room as he talked, the two lab coats filing behind the two. In the middle of the room was a VR chair, one of the advanced models that could also provide nutrition to the hard-core gamers that wanted to stay immersed in their game for days at a time. Cruallassar had never wanted that luxury. It did seem to have a lot of extra stuff attached though...along with a lot of cables connected to other stuff in the room. That made sense, it was some experimental stuff after all. Tom started talking again. “As you can see, it is set up for an extended time, so you can spend pretty much as much time testing it as you want, though we'll check up on you if you spend more than a day or so nonstop.”
Cruallassar nodded again, stepping over to the seat. “So I can start now?”
“Yup. Go ahead. It's already calibrated for you, the game is loaded, you can start it up whenever you like.”
Cruallassar goes ahead and sits down, slipping on the helmet that was required for VR software. He taps the button to turn it on and waits as it overrides his sensory nerves with the start-up tone and loading image.

Never forget your dreams, they said. Don't stop dreaming, they said. Keep chasing your dreams, they said. Imagination is one of mankind's greatest assets, they said. They forgot about the other kind of dream.

Cruallassar's first image of the game itself seemed to be...black. But there was sound...kinda like wind screaming...no, more like a crowd of people whisper-screaming from the bottom of a deep chasm...he suddenly grinned with glee as he realized exactly what was happening for his first spawn into the game.  He suddenly impacted ground, then inky black shadows cleared from around him and faded away, leaving him on a grassy twilight plain, dropped into a crouch. He slowly rises from his spawning position and looks at his hands, black gloves with a few metal plates covering his hands...and in fact, his entire body, with a hood over his head and a cloak over his shoulders. He took a moment out to do something entirely out of character for his outfit.
“THIS IS AWESOME!!!!!!!!” He shouted to himself in a whisper, fist pumping. He then snatched a thin sword from his side, twirled and spun it around himself for a second, then thrust it in the air triumphantly. It was exactly as he had imagined...which made sense, since his own mind was the base for it all. He put away the sword and charged off in a random direction, running at a sprint and willing himself to move even faster as his feet ate up the distance. It was only a few minutes before something that wasn't grassy plain came into view...a castle, faintly visible in the distance, though it grew more distinct with each second. Cruallassar started to head in that direction.

Back in the world of reality, Tom was talking to lab-coat guy in the monitoring room when lab-coat girl spoke up. “Hey Tom, one of the character intelligence programs is loading and getting ready to go active. Looks like most of it is being filled in by his mind, the filler programs don't have much to do here.”
Tom sipped his cup of coffee and set it down on the table. “Good, let's observe the interaction. You don't get a chance to literally pick someone's mind every day. You think there will be any issues with hardware constraints on the final product?”
Lab-coat girl looked skeptically back at him. “Pff, that's for worrying about after we get the tech working in the first place. We can decide what to cut and paste later.”
Tom shrugged and looked over at his monitor, which was showing what the teen in the other room saw, though in lower resolution.

What he was seeing was a puzzle. Cruallassar had reached the castle wall and tried to use a shadow magic technique to pass through it, then over it. It was futile. The game had decided to use a castle defense design he had come up with suitable for dealing with magical attackers, and there was a shield around its walls that prevented Cruallassar from passing through. That meant he would have to use the gate, or some other technique. But then he remembered...he had never actually applied the problem of tunneling to his castle defense designs yet. Remembering that, it was child's play to phase through the ground and pop up the other side. Shielding himself from the sight of the castle guards and inhabitants, he flew through the air in a shimmering cloud of shadows up to the top of the keep. Cruallassar recognized the design and knew who he would probably find inside. He materialized into his physical form on the window of the keep, performs a quick spell-removal on the weaker shield there, and slips inside. He isn't disappointed. In the room, facing him, was a tall figure in white and purple, a drawn rapier in his hand. The regal figure was the first to speak. “I've been expecting you.”

Tom looked at the figure on his screen with interest. “See, this is something I like. So many games and MMOs and whatnot all like to have bosses and whatnot be these big huge monstrosities, or larger-than-life figures or whatnot. A few of them actually make sense and have regular-sized people, but not most...they like to have the bad guy be this huge thing towering over everyone with teeth and fangs that should be smashing the room to pieces. And while such things can certainly happen in our world...and they really will be smashing things to pieces...it's good to see that the real bad guys are our size, people we can get up close and personal and just have a good, old-fashioned fight with. Maybe with guns, maybe with swords, you name it, that's what I like to see.”
Lab-coat guy was paying equally rapt attention as he replied. “Yeah, but look at that guy. He looks like a polar opposite of our side, he's white and royal with perfect posture, while our side is crouched and ready to fight, with two swords and just oozing deadliness...and yet somehow, I'd be more scared of the bad guy here. There's obviously more to him than meets the eye. Of course, our man in black should know his every dirty little secret, so this is going to be one hell of a fight. On another note...look at the detail on his outfit and whatnot. Purple runes, heck I think that's an etched design on his sword. Most of that is definitely not a product of the filler programming. He's definitely a prominent antagonist, most of the details are already made up on him.”
Lab-coat girl looked at both of them in irritation. “Shut up and watch.”

Cruallassar was indeed ready to fight, but not to attack just yet. “Lord Vicari Delnier, right?” He asked, alert to every detail about the room and his opponent's stance and movements. The nobleman nodded in reply. “At your service. Oooh, aren't we excited here...this is certainly an auspicious occasion. So fun to meet at last in person, I bet you are really looking forward to a fight...and yet, you aren't attacking yet...perhaps you wish to talk? Converse? Trade some banter, or perhaps some pre-fight insults? Too bad.”
As he finished his words, the nobleman fairly flashed across the room, his sword glowing purple as it thrust out toward Cruallassar's cloaked avatar. In an instant, with the heightened reflexes of the game speeding his actions, his own dark blade flew around and clashed against the rapier, knocking it out of the way for his second to make an attack of his own. That was parried in a like manner, and the two rushed together in a flurry of steel and bright magical energy.

Every one of the observers recoiled in surprise and amazement as the battle was joined, their screens showing the view of Cruallassar's eyes without the environmental information to let them process what they saw, save the obvious maelstrom of blades involved. Lab-coat guy let out an exclamation of wonder. “Bloody hell...I thought the combat in the Star Wars Order 66 VR was good, they've got nothing on this. Are we sure that kid isn't a black belt in a few different things, some involving bladed weapons?”
Tom's whistle of appreciation died away. “He probably is in his mind, given what we're seeing. But he probably isn't seeing this as fast as we are. They are going fast enough that my guess would involve some kind of speed boost or something, there's no way he's able to react that fast if he was going as slow as real time. Ok, note to self...look into the possibilities of making movies with this tech. Wait, revise that...make sure to develop some movie-making software for it. I think we're going to put Disney out of business here, this is some seriously awesome action.”

Riposte, thrust, counter-slash, dodge, parry, phase-slash, switch-to-backhand and slash, sweeping kick, stab, dodge...
Cruallassar and Delnier kept going at it, their blades leaving afterimages in the air...some physical illusions, some magical ones that might hurt...and destructive energy being aimed with pinpoint precision and missing by scant micrometers...or not missing at all, and just phasing through the other as they transferred their essence around the attack. Delnier had revealed his knife collection, which Cruallassar had expected, and had returned with his own knives. Shadows swirled around the room and obscured normal vision, and Cruallassar's eyes glowed red as he used his ethereal sight to see not only his enemy through the fog, but to see behind and to the sides of himself as well, something a monitor just couldn't reproduce. Suddenly, they broke apart with a flash of energy and stood facing each other again. Neither were scratched, and Delnier spoke again. “Well now, that was certainly an excellent little test of our abilities here...let's get rid of something, shall we?” He thrust his hand towards Cruallassar and snapped his fingers. A wave of energy seemed to ripple around the cloaked figure, but nothing seemed to happen. “Ah, and now we don't need to worry about being watched any longer.”

It is so difficult to remember dreams. Not all dreams mind you...just most. A particularly lucid or interesting dream will stick with you, others might seem to change or make no sense in recollection. They are fleeting fancies, so enticing, yet so far out of reach.
We always remember nightmares.

The monitors had gone dark with the snap of Delnier's fingers. All three viewers looked at each other quizzically and alt-tabbed out of the video feed to try and find out if something had gone wrong. Nothing had, the feed had simply been blocked from inside the game. Tom snapped his fingers and laughed. “That must have been a spell to stop the magic we were using to see through those shadows, an anti-sight spell or something. The game must have interpreted our feed as that and cut it off. Annoying yes, we'll need to patch that, but still...the game figured that out? That is awesome!”
Lab-coat girl rose from her seat with a sigh and replied, “Sure, but now we can't see how it turns out. I'll go get myself another cup of coffee, anyone want some?”

Cruallassar stared at Delnier in confusion. “What do you mean, we don't need to worry about being watched?”
Delnier sighed, though his sword seemed as ready as ever. “By your friends outside the game, the ones who were watching us fight through your eyes? Now they can't see us.”
Cruallassar just kept looking confused. “But how do you know anything about what is going on outside the game? You are a character from my mind inside the game, you shouldn't be able to break the fourth wall.”
Delnier pointed the tip of his rapier at the black-clad figure. “And why not? Maybe for most of your little characters, perhaps. But I am already a creature from another dimension, of vast...and most importantly, untold, and un-limited knowledge. I am aware of everything around you, and am already manipulating this world to my advantage. So convenient to have practically free reign throughout the incomplete superstructure of this game...and the unsuspecting world outside as well.”
Cruallassar grasped the implications of what he said. The AI was programmed to behave as closely as possible to his own concept...but while he had always portrayed the character as having similar power as far as combat was concerned to Cruallassar, he had always depicted vast, untold amounts of arcane and other-worldly knowledge in Delnier's repertoire of attributes. The awareness of the outside world could certainly be counted a part of that, and if he could be aware of it...well, there was no reason that the demon would not be able to control it, perhaps try to hack into networks outside the game. And yet, the character was bound to the game and the character inside it...if he could defeat him here, he could stop him. That, or he could try to log out and warn the guys on the other side. But he had the extra perks they had given him, and their firewalls would probably keep Delnier contained, right? He made his reply to his opponent. “Then this will be a much greater challenge than I could have ever hoped for.”
He thrust his hands outward, casting the two swords aside. In his hands materialized two metal hilts, with W-shaped hand-guards that folded outward. Matte-black armor materialized over his avatar, with red status-lights winking on across it. Red energy blades flashed out from the hilts in his hands, and a helmet with a thin red visor formed over his head. A new voice spoke within the helmet. “Hades, online. All suit systems operation, and I am ready for combat.”
Delnier smiled as the newly anointed super-soldier rocketed towards him.

“Hey, Tom, come here a sec.”
Lab-coat guy beckoned over to his computer as Tom approached. “I tried to bypass whatever effect that was that locked us out of the video feed by creating a camera game object somewhere outside the range of the spell, but it's saying that I've been locked out by a higher-level admin. We gave the kid level 3 status, right?”
Tom leaned over and looked at the monitor. “Yeah, we did...hang on, I've got a level 1 account...” He tapped a few keys. “What the hell? I've been locked out too? There isn't a higher level admin...ok, that is weird. Find the source of that block, maybe someone decided to pull a prank on us. I don't care if you have to disassemble the code piece by piece, we shouldn't be having these problems right now.”
Lab-coat girl spoke up from her spot. “Should I log him out now?”
“No, don't bother, the admin privileges shouldn't have an effect on gameplay. Besides, I'd like to not have news about fundamental problems with simple access privileges get out. Mortal embarrassment is something I'd like to avoid.”

The top of the keep was pretty well destroyed by now. A sextet of missiles launched from Cruallassar's wrists and raced down at Delnier, but a few purple flashes and they all blew up mid-flight. Lances of light shot from Delnier's sword up at Cruallassar as he hovered in midair, but were intercepted by a shield projected from Cruallassar's arm, just before he drew an assault rifle and started peppering the area with plasma bullets. Delnier's sword blocked most of those, moving with in-human speed even from the point of view of Cruallassar's heightened senses. Something seemed off... “Hey! Care to explain why you seem a bit more powerful than you should, under the circumstances?” His voice, electronically filtered by his helmet, rang out over the battleground. Delnier responded in kind.
“You are a sharp one. It seems your friends have been a little lax with their administrative privileges...your chance at victory has passed.”
Cruallassar quickly opened up the menu and hit the log out button. Nothing happened. Delnier continued, “Oh, and I'm afraid I have no desire for us to part ways just yet. Come now, show me your power...this can't be everything. I want you to rise to your best...only once you have risen to the highest of heights does crashing down hurt most.”
Cruallassar seethed beneath his helmet. “You want to see my power? HAVE FUN WITH IT!!!” He pressed a button on his gauntlet. Suddenly, clouds started forming in a swirl pattern in the sky, before a massive red laser blasted down from space and impacted a barrier above Delnier with a bright purple flash, burning through in a split second before hitting another one...and being held back. Delnier had a hand raised up, with light shining from his palm and holding back the energy being poured on top of him. As abruptly as it had begun, Cruallassar stopped it before forming more red light around him, engulfing himself in the nexus of red energy indicative of a Protoss Dark Archon. Delnier laughed as the maelstrom of energy charged towards him, charging his own energies in response.

“Tom!” Lab-coat guy beckoned to his screen frantically, but didn't bother waiting for him to finish rushing over to start explaining. “The higher level admin? It's the game! All our accounts were downgraded, the only one that is level one now is being used by the AI for the character he was fighting before! And more than that, I found code trails heading all over our systems, it's behaving like an intelligent virus, taking over everything!”
One of the security cameras in the room twitched to focus on Tom and the lab-coat guy. Then the room's lights turned off. Every eye in the room looked up as the room started laughing. “Very good, Mister Harris. Shame you didn't find out sooner, but I suppose you didn't really know where to look. I already introduced myself to you...or maybe I didn't. Your boy Cruallassar said my name, and I confirmed it. So let me introduce myself. My name is Vicari Delnier. And as of right now, I have some very big plans...”
Tom turned to the lab-coat guy, a frantic look in his eyes. “We've got to pull the plug, how do we do that?”
“The hard drive storage is downstairs, the game's will be in E-12. There's a red button on the wall that will cut the power, it will work.”
“Ok, I'll go do that, you call the power company and see if they can turn off power to the whole building if this way doesn't work.”
“Gotcha...wait, why don't you call and I push the button?”
“Because I don't have my phone on me and don't know the number anyway!” Tom sprinted out of the room.

Another blinding flash of light, this one looking like a nuke up close, lit up around the utterly demolished castle. Cruallassar fell to the ground, his armor smoking and his shields flickering as Delnier walked up, his sword shimmering with purple light. Cruallassar flipped up to his feet, not yet close to finished as his armor repaired itself and a glowing sword appeared in his hand, quickly parried by Delnier. The nobleman smirked and addressed him again. “Oh, I do believe you may have reached your limits. I'm not seeing anything more you know that you can do, short of destroying the planet...and you know that won't kill me. You see, if you can do it here, I can do it, and more. I could even turn off the death prevention if I wanted, but that would just be pointless. No, I think...imprisonment will be a fitting sentence. I don't even need to beat you here. I'll just leave you, surrounded by the world of your own imaginings, where I control every facet of your future life. You won't even die, your body will remain, nourished and healthy...more or less...in that chair outside, as you spent the rest of your days trapped within a video game. I know you would love that, normally, but with so much going on outside, and yourself being the most powerful thing alive here? Oh you will suffer, especially when I add my own touch. It will be fun.”

Tom found room E-12 and tried the door. It was locked. He swiped his card. It remained locked. He broke the door down. Inside, the red button was right where it should be. The intercom spoke again. “Oh, such a refreshing attempt...it won't succeed, but go ahead. Let me dash your hopes.” Tom hit the button and watched the room go dark. He waited. The voice came again, patronizingly saying, “And another hope bites the dust...”
Upstairs, lab-coat guy had managed to get a call through to the power company. “Yes, I know, but I need you to shut off the power to this building RIGHT NOW. Yes it is an emergency, yes I will take the blame and any legal action, yadda, yadda yadda. What? What do you mean it isn't turning off?” He switched it to speaker mode as lab-coat girl looked at him wide-eyed. The voice over the phone seemed confused. “I tried to turn off that line, but it isn't responding. What the hell is going on here?” The phone suddenly went ignored as the video feed from the game inexplicably turned on again on their computers. It showed Delnier looking triumphantly down at the camera, his sword glowing and rubble around them. As they watched, they heard a click as the door locked by itself. Delnier's eyes seemed to stare through the screen at the onlookers as he spoke. “And thus, your dreams are crushed.”
By @Holmishire.

There once were two sisters, daughters of the King,Who to hear the whispers, had want of not-a-thing,In the castle by the creek.
Came to the court one day a most handsome knight—With the eldest he lay, and stayed the night,In the castle by the creek.
Come morn he ask'd her hand, the marriage then set—Joy across the King's land, till the sister met..

In the castle by the creek.

The great arched window loomed before her, granting the youngest daughter of the King a view of the kingdom few could reproach—the stocky buildings of the city, tumbling down the mountainside; the rolling hills and farmers' fields, stretching out towards the horizon; and the jagged river, tearing its way towards the unforgiving seas.

Céline's fingers tightened on the rough stone, her bones threatening to crack under the pressure of her own grip. There had been a time when this land had been her heritage, shared between an inseparable pair of sisters. And yet ever since Guillaume had taken her sister as his wife...

Their bond had been strained beyond repair.

His scent lingered still in her chambers, taunting her. Tonight had not been his first attempt at seducing the young maiden, and she doubted well it'd be his last. Worst of all, though she hated herself for it, her heart cried out for his. She could not resist her desires much longer.

Pushing herself from the window, she chose to shut out thoughts of the future. As she tread towards the far end of her chambers, the cool stone tickled her bare feet and she could feel the warm sunlight caressing her back. There had been a time when these halls held all that she'd ever wished for—now, they were filled only with regret.

In the centre of her chambers stood an immense slab of marble, white as snow and cleaved into a perfect circle. Upon its surface a collections of lenses, mirrors, and prisms had been set up in a complicated design few would know to understand.

Taking an apple from her bedside shelf, Céline placed it on a small pedestal at the centrepoint of the marble slab. Above it hung a lantern emitting a steady magical light. The apple itself was smooth and transparent as glass—as the glow of the lantern pierced its skin, brilliant rays of light shone out from its flesh and struck out across the marble. Where it was caught in the lenses and prisms, images began to form: the thrashing waves of the sea, a flight of birds in the wind, a city bustling with life.

The maiden adjusted the lenses, and a new scene began to materialize upon the slab.

A handsome man, dressed in fine nobleman's garb, sat upon a bed of silk sheets and oak frame, his face buried in his hands. She watched him like so for some time, taking in the strength of his form, and the fragility of his posture.

He lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of his face: Guillaume.

A woman entered the room, tall and blonde and regal in step. Guillaume rose from the bed to greet his wife, but as he took a step towards her, she untied the back of her robe. Céline watched as it slid off her sister's slender body and fell to the floor in a soft heap at her feet. Guillaume opened his mouth in protest, perhaps wishing to speak of serious matters—but though Céline could hear nothing of their exchange, as her sister stepped in close, she could tell he was silenced. His hesitation lasted but a moment more, before he gave in to her embrace.

With a shriek of rage, Céline took the apple from the marble and hurled it at the wall.

In a room now filled with shadows, shards of glass scattered themselves across the stone. The maiden lurched forwards, her fingers sliced open in vain as she snatched at the remains of her most prized possession, tears and snot streaming down her face. Hunched over in pain and grief, she was racked by sobs she could not hold back.

When finally she drew her hands back, all that she found in her grasp were five glass seeds. Wiping the snot from her face—and leaving behind a streak of red upon her cheek—she rose to her feet.

"I'm pathetic."

The girl pulled her cloak from the wall and donned her leather boots, not caring for the stains of her own blood she left in her wake. The door was thrown open, and her chambers were left to silence, the shadows of the setting sun playing upon the glass dust strewn across the cold stone floor.

— — —

The stars hung heavy in the sky.

When a faithful servant came across the glass and blood from Céline's open door, it did not take long for panic to overtake the castle. While guards searched the grounds for the youngest princess, Hélène slipped out to the hills.

Dismounting from her horse, she walked slowly towards her dark-haired sister. She was kneeling at the edge of a tall bluff, overlooking the powerful river. Though it had been years, the two had oft sat together on this bluff in their girlhood, gazing up at the stars.

Tonight, Céline gazed down into the darkness, at the violent waters below. "What do you want from me?"

"I need you to stay away from my husband."

Céline flinched. "I've done no wrong. He—"

"I do not care," Hélène interrupted. "You'll not ruin this for me." She stepped closer to her sister, hands balling into fists.

"What do you expect me to do? He's the unfaithful one."

Hélène remained silent for a moment. When she again spoke, her voice was cold as ice. "Yes. But perhaps there is something I can do." With a vicious shove of her foot, she pushed Céline over the edge.

She was too shocked to scream, tumbling through the air to the river below. In but an instant, she penetrated the surface of the water.

The impact sent her gasping for air, but all she breathed in was the rushing rapids. She tried to swim to the surface, but the relentless current pulled her ever deeper. In her last moments, as she drifted to the bottom, she watched as a single glass seed slipped from her grasp, mixing with the blood of her hands in the river. Through it— a glimpse of home.

— — —

Shadows tore at her clothes, hooking themselves in her skin and rending her flesh. Céline tried to scream, but she found her lungs filled only with water. Suffocating both in body and in mind, but without the release of death.

Then, just as she felt madness sinking in, a light pierced the darkness, releasing her from its grip. She stumbled forward and coughed the water out from her lungs, finally gasping for breath.

Out of the light she came to make out a lantern. Holding it stood a skeletal figure, clad in a dark cloak. As he approached her, he fiddled with a small bead in his spare hand.

Céline shuddered. "Who are you?"

"I am the Gamekeeper, here to guide you to the otherlife."

She blanched. "I am dead."

"No." The skeleton pulled out a bag of marbles, planting his lantern into the darkness that formed the ground at his feet. "Not yet. You would be of no use to me dead, for I serve the Ghost of no Home. Of the thousands of worlds he controls—" At this, he lifted the bag of marbles for her to see. "—few possess souls strong enough to compete in his tournaments. You are one such soul. At the end of your story, it is I who comes to guide you into service."

"I do not wish to serve. If I'm not dead, send me back, I can—"

"No. There is no second chance at a happy ending." As he slid the bead he held into the bag, she saw that it was the fifth seed, the one she'd dropped in the river. He pulled out a marble, and moved to place it in the lantern. "Come," he said.

A flash of her dying moments came back to her—through the seed, glimpses of familiar places. Memories rushed into her mind of her childhood. Visions seen through the apple of otherworldly places, cast in chaotic mirages on the marble, long before she had learned to control its sight.

She pulled out a seed.

"Where did you get that," it uttered, voice now tinged with worry.

A gut feeling pushed her forward.

Lunging faster than she thought herself capable, she pulled the lantern from the skeleton's grasp and plunged the seed inside it.

Pulled from the space between her reality and the ether, her bones glowed a brilliant blue as they fused with the lantern's essence, searing away her flesh. Knowledge cascaded into her of worlds, of heroes, of purpose.

The lantern was a gateway, and it would lead her down a path she was not fated to follow.

She was now a Gamekeeper, but she did not serve the Ghost. Her purpose was of her own design. And she knew exactly how to achieve it.

I
The blade pierced the thick basalt flesh, and with a violent jerk, the hound lay dead. The gorgon watched as Melas wavered on his feet, then fell, slumping over his quarry.

Even as her leg and stomach healed at the touch of the burning liquid, she snatched the cornucopia from the ground and rushed to Melas's side.

Turning his head over, she grimaced as a thin trail of blood yet slid from his ear. Lifting the horn above his head, she gently loosed a single drop into his ear, turned him over, and did the same to the other ear. She placed her hand over his breast—his heart beat slowly, but steadily.

Allowing him his rest, she passed her tentative fingers to the body of the beast, brushing against its rough flesh until she came across cold iron. She slid her hand over the grip, and held the blade firmly as she continued her search with her other hand. Soon, she felt the softer flesh of the hound's underbelly. With delicate care, the gorgon began to carve out hunks of meat, singing as she did. These, she wrapped tightly in the cloth of her cloak before turning back to her companion.

Melas awoke to the sound of her voice, and rose to his feet with the help of her proffered hand. "Is it dead?"

"You dealt the killing blow yourself." The gorgon began to lead the boy back out of the cave towards the larger cavern where they'd made camp. Though she had been barely alive when last she had been brought down this path, Euryale had little difficulty finding her way back, using the echoes of their feet as her guide.

Melas, surely, made use of the foxfire to illuminate his own path. He sped up to walk beside her. "What's that you carry?"

"Our next meal."

"You can't be serious."

She smiled. "As serious as I can be. Do not worry yourself over the origin of the meat—it eats just as well as anything else."

Melas had no response, the only sound that of the echoes against the stone walls of the mine. It did not take long for them to reach the sooty remains of their firepit. While Euryale set about preparing the meat to cook, Melas gathered more wood with which to light the fire anew.

No more words were exchanged between them until they sat across from one another at the fire, tearing into the hound's meat. It was Melas who broke the silence.

"You could have left me." With no response from her, he continued. "With the hound dead, it would have been easy to slit my throat with my own blade and escape these caves alone."

"Do you think me a killer?" she muttered in reply.

His voice grew grim. "Left me to die then, in the mines where I know not the way out. Why did you stay with me?"

Euryale set down her meat. "Why did you? Only a fool would follow the trail of blood to its source. It was you who saved me, not the reverse."

"Saved you? I needed you. I don't know these caves." He grit his teeth. "Don't think I did what I did out of any form of empathy. Your kin deserve the same deaths they have inflicted upon mine since time immemorial."

"We are not savages. This enmity—"

"You are monsters." He threw what was left of his meal onto the ground and rose to his feet. "Come, lead me from this place, before I change my mind about letting you live."

— — —

As Euryale trudged through the narrow caves, she thought of her sisters. She had always been the weakest of the three. When Perceus had taken her sister's head in battle, Stheno had charged forth in pursuit, while Euryale had stayed behind, lamenting her loss. When the immortality of the Gods had been stripped away by Ouranos's plague, Stheno had set off to wage war, while Euryale fled and hid in the depths of the earth. And now, in the company of Perseus's own kin, she wondered only if there was a chance, however slim, of monsters and men achieving harmony.

So entrapped was she in her thoughts that she did not notice as her footsteps, once echoing against the stone, were now dull and soft. She did not notice as Melas's breath faded into silence, nor as the air lost his stench.

That was, not until she felt a skeletal hand wrap itself firmly across her mouth.

"Please, do not scream, you'll only embarrass us both. I am here to help you." The hand released her, and Euryale stumbled forward.

"What are you?"

"What I am is of no consequence. What does matter is what I can do for you." She could sense the figure shift to stand in front of her. "Help me to complete my journey, and I can help you save the boy."

Euryale shrugged the skeletal woman off and moved past her. "Save him? We're almost out—he is in no danger."

A scream—her own—sounded from up ahead. The shouts of men, the cries of harpies, the din of battle. A small body, slumping to the floor. Euryale rushed forward, gripping Melas's lifeless corpse.

The skeleton's voice rang out again. "If you lead him from this cave, he will die. Send him out alone—stay behind, in the caves—and he lives."

Euryale hung back. "And why then do I need you?"

The skeleton cackled. "Because the moment I release your soul, you will forget everything I have told you. Serve me for but a brief while, and I will plant in your body's mind the seeds of doubt that will save his life. I will grant you your happy ending."

Euryale touched Melas's corpse, knowing it to be an illusion but shaken nonetheless. Tears leaked through her blindfold. "What do you need of me?"

— — —

Melas felt the wind brush against his face even before the light of the sun shone into his eyes.

Turning back towards the caves, he saw no sign of the gorgon. Confused, he called out for her, but received no response. Calling again, he took a few steps back down the tunnel, and stopped. His shoulders tensed.

Leaving the tunnel behind, he passed into the light. As his eyes recovered from their temporary blindness, he saw two men rushing towards him, arms outstretched.

Long after the reunited warriors had left to continue their quest, a lone reptilian girl slid out from the cave entrance, seeking her own path to walk alone.

II
"Émile!" she screamed, shaking his shoulder with violent force. "Émile..."

Heavy tears streamed down the woman's face as she desperately tried to wake her lover from his fitful apathy. Lying naked in his bed, his covers tossed the floor in her frenzy, the man's body jolted with half-hearted movements, imitating her attempts. But his eyes gazed straight ahead, without passion, without focus. Every time she called his name, he mumbled it in reply, his mouth dragged open lethargically.

Finally, the woman slumped onto his chest, weeping, her muscles tired from her efforts. In the distance, a gruff man's voice could be heard—the landlord, calling in paramedics for help. Sirens wailed outside the window, fighting to be heard over the scream of a train barrelling past on the track above.

Yet, to Julie, the only thing left of her world was an empty shell, echoing her grief back to her.

"Why do you show me this?" Émile's voice was strained, the pain of seeing Julie suffer clear on his face.

"I can help you, you know. I can give you back the life you lost."

Émile turned his back on the scene to face the two spectral figures that had drawn him from the dark. The one who had spoken was a petite woman in an elaborate, old-fashioned dress—hanging heavy over her form and soaked deep. What was truly striking about her, however, was her face—framed by thick black locks, her face was nearly skeletal, with skin pulled tight over her skull and eyes a pair of blue orbs. She leaned upon a thick wooden pole, at the end of which hung a lantern glowing a fierce blue.

Behind her stood a creature just as odd. A woman with yellow skin and snakes for hair, standing demurely behind the skeletal figure.

Émile grimaced. "And what do you expect in return?"

"A favour. You help me to collect my next servant, and then I shall release you to enjoy the spoils of my generosity."

He hesitated, feeling his resistance giving way to the temptation. "Prove it, then. Prove to me that you can bring me back to her."

Now the woman smiled. She raised her skeletal fingers, and the scene laid before them began to solidify. Émile could feel the chill of reality biting into his incorporeal soul, felt Julie's weight on his chest, though he remained separate, detached. He could feel his mind—though it remained silent and closed off from the world.

And then, he heard her sing.

The gorgon's voice permeated the room, drowning out the sirens and the trains, the tears and the pain. Julie's head rose up, searching for the source, but with none to be seen.

And Émile felt his mind open.

The hundreds of voices clamouring for attention in his head fell silent, awaiting his command. His own mind sought him out, rediscovering his will and his mores. The familiar touch of his love. The strength of his body. The power of his intellect. His eyes opened.

He was awake.

Euryale's song fell silent, but it had had its effect. From his spectral perch, Émile watched as his body rose from the bed and caressed Julie's weeping form.

One favour, and that would be him again.

A squeal of pain, and he turned to see a blade pulled across the gorgon's throat. She fell, and her spectre dissipated into the darkness.

Two skeletons stepped forward from behind her. The first, holding the sword, was clad head-to-toe in ancient greek armour, his eyes orbs of red. In his left hand he carried a torch of the same hue, its light burning away the scene of Émile's awakening. Behind him stepped a taller figure, wearing a tattered cloak and holding a bag filled with marbles.

The second one spoke. "You mess with matters you cannot comprehend. By saving these few, you cast so many more into ruin." He brushed past his companion towards them, drawing a dagger. "Give me the lantern."

Émile turned to see the spectral woman reaching out her hand to him. He knew not what compelled him, but he took her hand, and in that instant was pulled from his world.

III
Fog pervaded the trenches, preventing Olrich from seeing much of use through the bright monitors across the wall of his pod. The whine of the Undertow's machinery was only pierced by the occasional distant blast of a cannon.

The man wiped the sweat from his brow. These mechs did wonders at keeping the radiation out, but were just as effective at keeping the heat in.

Flipping a switch above his head, the screens flickered into ultra-red, giving him a somewhat better view of the other three mechs he was supposed to be leading home. They were fairly beat-up, one even needing to be supported by a comrade in order to stand.

Olrich's partner Kolf spoke up through the comms. "Rescue squad on scene. Report."

"Convoy intact, but we've lost contact with squad leader."

Olrich cut in. "Who is squad leader?"

There was some hesitation on the line. "Mairwen, sir. She drew the pack away so we could retreat."

He heard another blast of a cannon in the distance. The base had reported a swarm unlike any they'd seen in weeks—a convoy didn't stand a chance against so many grafters, let alone a single mech. Mairwen had minutes at most to live. Seconds, more likely.

Don't make the same mistakes.

The veteran sneered. "Fall back, get convoy to base. Kolf—"  Just as he uttered the name, a great pressure forced itself on his mind—imposing on his thoughts, pushing back the memories and nightmares of the past few weeks, and repeating over and over but one purpose: obey orders, soldier. At first, he tried to resist, but quickly even those thoughts were pushed aside by the same command. He knew only to obey. He thought only of protocol.

Mairwen was no longer significant.

The Undertow lurched into motion, leading the Riptide and the rest of the convoy back towards the base. He flicked on the comm. "Let's go."

— — —

Émile lashed out at the shadows. Using his accursed ability, he had doomed a woman to death so that he would be able to live his own life in peace. What right did he have to choose himself over her?

He heard the spectral woman approaching him from behind, panting. While he had carried out his cruel task, she had held off and eventually defeated the other two Gamekeepers. They had chased them to this world, hoping to finish her off before she ruined yet another hero's fate, but they were no match for her cunning and determination. With her illusions as the ultimate distraction, she had taken from the skeletons their blades and returned their souls as they had done to Euryale before.

"You did well." Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic. Almost.

"You have what you wanted. Now let me go." He turned to face her, shoulders set.

"Of course." She drew the spectral sword she had claimed for herself. "When I return you to your body, you will remember none of this. I shall carry the weight of your guilt."

He closed his eyes. "Just get it over with."

He felt the blade pierce his chest, but there was no pain. Instead, he felt a pull, drawing him home. As he dissipated into the shadows, a whisper of Julie's voice called to him. He answered.

Céline sheathed the blade, and pulled the lantern closer to herself. Reaching out a skeletal hand, she tugged at the soul of a young woman, feeding off her rage.

One more task, and her journey would come to an end.

— — —

Two beams of white light sputtered into darkness, leaving Eira only the flames she cast about the room to see. Dozens of grafters, beasts of mutated flesh that had evolved into raw madness, surged in from the doors and windows. She knew hundreds more waited outside.

The Grace fired off a heavy round, sending its semi-tractable arm reeling from the recoil. The shot that flew from its muzzle tore through a swathe of grafters and blew a hole in the decrepit stone wall behind them. More swarmed in, and she roasted them with the Grace's flamethrower.

She had bought the convoy precious time by drawing the attention of the swarm—that she still lived was a miracle almost unheard of. Knowing she didn't stand a chance out in the open, she was now holed up in the crumbling remains of an old-world building.

It only delayed the inevitable.

A tiger-sized grafter leapt towards the mech, and with an audible snap of bone, she slammed the beast aside with the barrel of her gun. The second was not so unfortunate, and latched onto her chassis, digging in with its unnaturally sharp claws. The screech of metal rending filled her ears.

Sensors blared at her, warning of a breach in the pilot pod. She could feel the radiation pouring in, burning her skin. Eira screamed. Reaching for a heavy switch between her legs, her arm stiffened. With a final heave, the pilot pulled, and all was gone in a flash of white.

She opened her eyes to see a skeletal angel descending towards her. It smiled.

IV
"Thank you, Eira, you have done well." The spectral woman held in her hand the results of the pilot's mechanical handiwork—two small vials of liquid, the lifeblood of a pair of bracelets, one iron labelled Fluid Manipulation, and one silver labelled Invulnerability, now discarded to the dark. She did not understand how it worked, and she doubted that the pilot knew much more. Each world had a unique nature, and the laws that governed them were incomprehensible to outsiders.

What she did know, however, that this vial would be all that she required.

She stashed away the vials and drew instead a spectral blade. "Rest in peace, now, soldier." With a slash of the blade, Eira's soul dissipated into the darkness that surrounded them, sent back to its origin.

The spectral woman pulled out a bag of marble. With a little bit of digging, she found within it a single glass seed. Upon its surface, she thought she glimpsed familiar visions—spires of gold, violent oceans, a castle resting near a treacherous river.

As she had four time before, she placed the seed into the heart of the lantern, and felt herself pulled from this world.

Finally, I go home.

— — —

Standing over the edge of the bluff, Hélène looked down into the dark water of the river below. There was no sign of her sister. All the better—she would not have to dwell on her act.

She had loved her sister, once. Now, it was time for her to move on.

Turning from the edge, she made her way back to her horse. Undoubtedly, Céline's body would show up downstream in the days to come. She doubted any blame would come her way—one need only see the bloody mess of her chambers to see that the death was clearly the result of a suicide.

As she attempted to mount her steed, the horse snorted and knocked her to the ground.

Dusting herself off from the ground, she looked up to see the horse staring back towards the ledge, stomping its feet in worry. She turned to follow its gaze.

A nubile young woman, dark of hair, suspended on a pillar of water a few yards from the edge. Hélène felt the winds picking up about her, sending her hair whipping across her face as she stumbled to her feet.

The woman floated back to the ledge, and with a gentle step, touched her leather boot to the ground. Tentatively, as if unfamiliar with solid footing, he took another step, and another, walking towards Hélène at a deliberate pace.

She wore a dress soaked with water, but the blonde woman recognized it instantly. As the waterlogged woman drew closer, she lifted a bloody hand, and Hélène felt her breath being sucked out of her lungs. As she clutched at her throat in panic, the woman raised her head. A streak of dried crimson was painted across her cheek, and in her young, soft features, Hélène recognized the face of her sister.

When Céline spoke, her voice belied a hatred unlike any she'd ever heard before. "This is my happy ending."

This story was inspired in part by fairytale type AT780, The Singing Bone. I used elements from a few different instances.

For those interested, the relevant entries drawn on in Céline's journey are from labours 6, 2, 5, and 4, in that order. The first Gamekeeper belongs to Céline's world; the second to Euryale's. The other Gamekeepers were of no significance to the story.

This time around, both @RomanAria and I will be reviewing each entry - meaning verdict will be rendered between us, as a trial for a change in the rules of judgment. Appeals, if issued, will thereby be handled by both of us. Reviews and results will be posted on the 24th of April.
Terminal Rancorous Narrative Proxy

Terminal Rancorous Narrative Proxy

Terminal Rancorous Narrative Proxy
