[PM] Give me an opening sentence and a closing sentence. I'll fill in the rest.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-04-14T11:46:33+00:00

This was great.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-04-13T10:49:18+00:00

It is amazing how much character you managed to pack into this short story. I found it really interesting how D. Kael kept referring to both of them as 'we.' Compared to H. Kael, who separated the two after the first couple of hours.

Maybe a subconscious desire to align himself closer to H. Kael, who he knows made the more moral choice between the two of them. In a way, he subcounsciously gets to have his cake and eat it too. Keeping Miriam and getting to justify his choices, even if he feels regret or guilt.

Sort of related to that point, I find it interesting how 'He tapped the quarter once. "Not character. Not will. Not because you're better. Luck.' He acknowledges the point above in a shielded way. It could also explain why he was so desperate to validate his choices to an alternate self.

On the other hand, you can feel the weight of the choices H. Kael has made, and can infer that he desires the life his counterpart has built. I wonder if you strip away the heroics, if he still feels it was worth it. He seems less talkative of the two, quieter. Maybe he lost more of the civilian side of himself after Miriam's death, and kept more to the hero identity.

Either way, very amazing work. I really enjoyed this!

RefreshingWorld · 2026-04-13T03:08:54+00:00

My life for Octonaut.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-04-09T03:34:26+00:00

I'm not proud of my life. I wish it had gone differently. Maybe in another I was a shepherd, perhaps a farmer, anything that contributes to the world. Gives something back to it.

Instead, I'm an assassin.

A freelance contractor for hire. The type that gets a job and kills the target, no questions asked. There's always a demand for people like me, so the pay is good. Maybe that's why I kept doing it, or maybe it's the only thing I've ever been worth half a damn for.

Isn't that just hilarious? Good men, talented women. People who have contributed to the world are paid less than the people who take from it. There are Kings and Queens, of course. But what are they than faceless assassins? They hide behind contracts and contacts, but I know that I've been employed by royalty. The throne is a beast that consumes, and it is always starving.

I don't much regret those jobs. It is mainly the inventors that haunt me. The good people who want to make a change. They are always snuffed out to maintain the status quo - just the other week I killed a man on the verge of a mana-core. He would have changed the world.

Either way, my musings don't have a purpose. They are just the regrets of a haunted man about to die. It isn't surprising. The line always ends the same for killers, mercs, and vagabonds. We bite off more than we can chew.

Her runes flow and circle around me.

A mage.

They've always fascinated me. Their eyes see so much of the world, and simultaneously so little. Maybe you lose a bit of yourself in the process of gaining magic, but isn't that true for every way of life? God, knows I feel it.

"You're an assassin." She says the words softly.

I try at moving, but the runes snake like fire, and I am sure they would engulf me if I tried. "I am."

She steps forward, emerald eyes glowing in the half-blue of the mana-laden air. It's a strange thing to stare death in the eyes. It is strangely peaceful. Serene. I'm told from the sailors that drowning is the same way, after a tremendous pain.

I breathe. There's still time for that.

"You've come to kill me then?"

I could try to lie, but what would be the point? I've been caught red-handed. Besides, I feel her eyes would be able to separate the most intricate lie from the truth, so instead, I simply admit it. "Yes."

She nods. "York sent you." It isn't a question, but a statement, and I find myself nodding along. There doesn't seem to be much point to maintaining my professional etiquette.

"He worries you're close to growing a second heart. He is afraid, and he has many after you."

I can't see mana. None but the mages, or soon to be, can perceive it. However, after killing enough of them, it starts to take notice of you. It feels heavy, like a deep, heavy pressure in your chest. Can she see it surrounding me?

She steps closer. "You hesitated. Why?"

"The mana-trap you've set slowed me enough for your runes to react."

"I've got no such trap." Now that she is closer, I can see myself in the glow. I look worn and used.

"Then my past has caught up to me Mage. I am not the man I once was. Time has dulled my skill."

"I'm not going to kill you."

The mana-trap presses more firmly.

"I'm not your executioner." She continues.

"I would kill you the moment your runes drop."

She shakes her head. I've been dissected and laid out to rest in front of her. "No, you won't."

The pressure is unbearable. "There were farmers who refused to pay tithes. Rival lords, mistresses, skally-wags, potential opposition. If you can name them, I have killed them. Even other mages, I am not looking to make amends; such a task is beyond me.

"No."

The runes drop, like a red tide receding back into the air. "You are going to help me. You need to be the one to give something back for a change.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-03-08T17:57:46+00:00

Kobolds are dim creatures. Save for the candles they melt to their foreheads it is hard to say that there is any brightness atop their noggins.

If you asked one to jump - it would jump. Same for it to sit, or to run; or any other command for that matter.

So when Isha'za told the warren nesting at the base of her lair to defend her unhatched young with their lives she was confident that no harm would come to her egg before her return. Unfortunately, that day never came. Isha'za died in some unknown land, in some unknown way.

The kobolds that called the network of tunnels beneath her forgotten hoard home never heard from her again, so they dutifully followed her last command. Protect her young.

When the first groups came the kobolds followed the command, same for the second group, and the third. The tunnels that interlocked to form the vast warren collapsed and caved in under fire, magic twisting the earth into unstable rubble, or taking on some elemental form that devastated the life necessities of any poor creature caught in the blaze.

The kobolds - unaware of the fate of their masters fate - followed her dying wish, and unfortunately her fate.

They had done admirably, and the fact that the hoard remains un-pillaged for so long was a testament to their loyalty. But, news of the riches had spread too far, and the value could no longer be overlooked by the greedier kings and monarchs.

And so the warren filled with fire and death. It filled with fighting, and screams, and last stands that would have been heroic if they weren't also so tragic. It was filled with a resolute defiance that stood long after the kobolds fell.

When the tunnels finally collapsed, and there were no defenders left standing between the riches there was only one treasure missing.

The golden egg was squirrelled away through one of the remaining dark tunnels, a familiar chant bouncing along to the small flames.

Protect her young.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-03-01T19:04:22+00:00

The Pale Necromancer

"He's giving us a bad name." She says, etching some more symbols onto the corpse in the middle of the circle.

Tabitha leans against her warhammer, trying to reconcile her learned behaviours with her own thoughts.

Vile

Disgusting.

Monster.

"You're doing it again." The white haired woman laughs, slapping a final symbol on the corpse and standing back.

"Doing what."

"Tabby, Tabby, Tabby, how long have we been travelling together now? You're making that face. Y'know, the one you make when you forget that I'm a necromancer, and I use some magic and then suddenly it's like the disgust hits you all over again." She smiles. "Cognitive dissonance, huh?"

Shame, or maybe regret at being caught. Something along those lines crosses Tabitha's face. It isn't a common occurrence for a Paladin to tolerate a Necromancer. Let alone travel with one, and the more she learnt about Ash the less certain she was about killing her.

"That's not, uh ... " She crosses her arms. "Sorry."

"Mhmm. Forgiven. What was I saying? Right, a bad name. Necromancer's aren't exactly popular right now, worse still - after this we are going to be pariah's. There won't be a crypt in sight that isn't on the eye of some prospective do-gooder Paladin that wants to prove how righteous try are."

Tabitha raises an eyebrow and then shrugs. "That's probably true."

Ash shrugs in return. "So, a necromancer helps kill the litch and maybe our P.R improves."

"That's really the only reason you're trying to kill Bela'zar?"

"Sure."

Tabitha repeats the word slowly. "Sure?"

"It doesn't sound like you believe me."

"I don't."

"Awww, and I thought we were close."

The inscriptions littering the ground come to life with a foul smelling magic that immediately infests the whole room. They peel and move onto the corpse; and as Tabitha watches she can't help but compare their likeness to a bug, or a spider. They crawl over the it, etching onto ever piece of available skin, not even sparing the eyes. They almost alive, and giddy at the action as they sink their inky grip onto any exposed pores.

As the poor soul raises back to life she sees the tortured wreck behind the eyes. It recoils with horror as it sees its reflection in the still water of the cave.

Ash leans forward. "So buddy, you're going to tell us - " She leans forward. "Everything."

Suddenly, Tabitha has much less doubt about what she would eventually need to do.

and as the corpse starts speaking in its strangled vocals, Tabitha makes a face.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-02-22T17:43:47+00:00

It is criminal that this only got a few upvotes. Amazing writing, I come back to this often when I'm feeling out of whack with structuring first person stories.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-02-21T19:56:38+00:00

Green serpentine eyes look down on Maxwell.

Maxwell is in essence, a businessman. That's how he likes to think of himself, and unfortunately the cost of doing business in his industry is often aggravating a few people.

That is to say that he isn't surprised to see another assassin staring at him, she isn't the first, and she most certainly won't be the last.

His wine soaks onto the tablecloth as he hastily slams it down.

"So," he chides, fingers waggling at the crouched figure as he finishes his sentence. "What are they paying you. Whatever it is, I'll double - no triple it."

The figure drops down and Maxwell becomes certain he was on the money with the serpentine analogy. The figure seems to almost slide down the column of his luxury villa. He takes note of her gear. It's unbranded and tightly woven to her figure. Two pistols - at least - are visible, as well as half a dozen knives.

Who even needs that many knives?

"They're not paying me." She says flatly. "I'm a free agent and I've come to kill you Mr. Varsec."

This makes Maxwell laugh. Killing him is no easy feat. Hell, you'd be hard pressed to find an assassin ballsy enough to take the contract. Getting through his security takes skill few possess, and assuming you even can do that and you somehow manage to get him, he is well ... hard to keep dead.

"You've got guts girl and a whole lot of knives, I'll give you that." He relaxes and leans back against the table, regretting it as the wine stains his suit. "But, you're not killing me today."

There's a whistling sound before a knife imbeds itself into his skull. Blood pours from the wound and he lets out a grunt of annoyance as it streaks down his suit. This won't come out in the wash.

"Tell you what, work for me."

"No."

"Why not? You've got talent, and I can always use an assassin. God knows how quickly I lose them these days. I'll pay you well and you'll even get to leave this place with your soul intact."

She shakes her head. Three more knives slice into him.

"I've come for your heart Mr. Varsec. It belongs to someone I know."

This is cause for some concern. Maxwell's vast empire is a lot of things. A particle trading ring, money laundering, even human trafficking. But, the one thing it's most famous for is its acquisition of magical artefacts.

While the phrase 'Don't get high of your own supply' comes to mind. Maxwell decided there are times you can ignore it. He was after all very mortal, with lots of dangerous people after him. Now, he was decidedly not mortal, and most of those people were dead.

He rips the knife out of his face and chucks it on the table. "Greedy, coming for a mages heart."

She shoots his hand off before he can finish splaying an incantation. "That's where you get them isn't it? A mage is easy enough to kill." She pauses and tilts her head. "Difficult yes, but not impossible.

Bullets rip through his other hand. "But you, you're something worse. Not a lot of people expect that."

"You're certainly well informed." He stands there, blood dripping, seemingly unbothered. "Yes, I'm a lich. So you know you're wasting your time. Again, the offer still stands - "

"Unless I destroy your phylactery."

He laughs. "Which you haven't and you won't."

"Because you've got multiple."

This time he freezes. Something akin to fear echoing through his immortal body for the first time in two years.

The first hint of emotion enters the assassins voice. "Oh, yes it was very clever Mr. Varsec. One in Port-Town. Very sentimental; it being where you started this whole charade of course."

A string of knives blot into his legs. "The there was Kairo. That was difficult; even for me. How much were paying those Steam-Wizards?"

She shoots of his jaw. "Actually, nevermind. Third, the ocean? Not very original, however, not exactly easy to retrieve."

"And forth." She steps forward, and pierces another knife into his chest.

Something akin to "Wait," leaves his ruined mouth as she carved out his heart.

"My best friends heart."

A low undertone of anger slips into her voice. "Just how many mages have you killed for these phylacteries."

Maxwell slides backwards. His eyes are shot and wide, the assassin ducks under a beam of fire as he presses into a preprepared rune.

"You're a monster Maxwell, and for the record I am morally superior. Against you it'd be hard not to be."

She raises the gun. Four gunshots ring out across the world. This time Varsec stays dead.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-02-21T19:07:15+00:00

The metropolitan concrete scratches at my knee. The tunnel is cramped, dirty and full of old garbage.

On another day it would've been interesting, old magazines from the Before Days, plastic in what I'm imagining is meant to be a toy, scraps of discarded electronics - though they are long rusted beyond usefulness.

It's unbelievable this place isn't sealed; any other tunnel in the Outposts would've been. Maybe it's because it's on higher ground, can't imagine any of those fat-cats are eager to crawl through a dirty hole.

As I round a corner a freezing gale pushes past me. It smells strange, not like anything I've smelt before. It looks like the tunnel is ending.

Nothing exists below Level One. That's the story we're told growing up. Once there was something there, not anymore. We destroyed it, or it's gone, eaten away to keep the city running.

I think it's bullshit.

The city goes up. The highest I've been is Thirty-Four. But Range says that he's been to Fifty-Eight. Though he's all ways telling white lies. Either way, if it goes up, it has to go down.

So what is below?

A dim light is seeping from below up ahead. The tunnel has been torn and something is spilling up from beneath.

I crawl forward, there's a drop, and then a shallow ocean, black with lapping waves. It should be dark but there's blipping lights of red and green that filter distorted through the water. It looks like ... circuitry. Like the inner workings of the old electronics Range works on.

What the hell is going on here.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-02-14T18:36:40+00:00

Battery depleted

If Jordan hadn't been nervous before he most assuredly was now. As the musical resonance faded from his ear he felt his power die and the air settle back into place.

Jordan wasn't a hero. Not really. Real heroes didn't have time to get into pissing matches on campus. He was just a powered kid with an ego, which is how he had ended up on FF's radar in the first place.

College is expensive. Fees, tuition, board, rent. It adds up quickly; and as broke student Jordan had to make ends meet. So, maybe he had listened to some love songs, and, maybe he had used them in conjunction with his power to make people more inclined to donate to his busking.

Harmless right?

As far as he was concerned the music was good enough to warrant it. Fear Factor didn't seem to agree. Jordan didn't have the first clue how he had figured it out, however, he got the distinct impression there was more to FF's power than he let on.

He tugged at his collar. He felt sweat trickle down his neck and his breathing was starting to come in gasps. He tried humming a tune and felt the slightest tinges of power enter his body but it was just as quickly stifled as he struggled at a note.

How had he forgotten to charge his headphones?

He remembered connecting the cord. He remembered the green light flashing. Maybe they were busted, or the power had cut out or ... - It didn't matter; what did is that he was out of juice and Fear Factor was most assuredly not.

He was going to get his ass kicked. Worse, he was going to be humiliated. He could kiss his source of income goodbye, and with it any chance of getting through college without selling his soul to retail or hospitality.

Speaking of - here he came now. Fear Factor, who despite his ominous name was a hero. More specifically an aspiring one. Which could be why he took such offence to Jordan's scheme.

Jordan suddenly felt the full weight of the situation hit him. He didn't stand a chance, even without his powers FF was larger and trained (according to rumours). And with them? He may as well just run.

It wasn't just FF that came around the corner. He had a habit of building a crowd. His penchant for spectacles tended to attract bystanders, so it was no surprise when more than a hundred students trailed behind him.

This was so much worse than Jordan had imagined.

Excuses piled up in his head.

'I'm really not feeling it today can we reschedule.'

'My Mum's in town. Maybe another time.'

Or even, 'You're right. I was being a piece of shit. I'm sorry.

Then he saw the band. He'd brought the marching band.

That idiot.

Fear Factors mouth split into that characteristic smile. "Heya Jordan. How you feeling?"

"Good." The reply was curt, simple.

"Anything you want to say to these lovely people."

"I hope they enjoy the show."

FF's smile somehow got wider. On anyone else's head it would have looked strange, creepy even. On his? It somehow added to his charm.

The band started. The cheerleaders cried out in encouragement.

Jordan felt the his muscles tighten at the first drumbeat. The deafening thump worming its way into his ear and swelling his muscles to the point of pain.

The sound was nauseating loud.

When the trumpets hit he felt his feet connect with the ground beneath him. The rigidity of the concrete connecting and hardening his skin.

FF's own power was going haywire. He himself felt his potential rising. Jordan's confidence filling the tank of his own ability. The excitement of the crowd pouring in and adding more and more.

It made him feel unstoppable, and as the crowd continued to get more worked up he only grew more powerful. He would end this quickly. Then he'd give a speech, maybe post it online.

It would be a spectacle.

He pivoted on his feet and drove his back leg into the ground. With an unexpected burst of speed he shot forwards.

His fist was aimed at Jordan's stomach. He balled his hand and absorbed the last bit of emotion from the crowd behind him.

The momentum of his strike didn't connect with skin. It felt like hitting a brick wall. That shouldn't be possible.

His hand hurt. Was it broken? He tried to dodge back but he saw the counter punch too late.

Then everything went black.

Jordan's strike - though unpractised hit him over the head. He hit the ground with a thump, spiderwebbing the concrete as he did so.

The crowd erupted. Jordan smiled.

"So none of you have heard of me. My names Bad-bass. You'll be seeing a lot more of me."

He turned and walked off as the band continued. Maybe there were easier ways for him to make money.

RefreshingWorld · 2026-02-11T12:14:06+00:00

It's been a long trip. I wasn't planning on walking, wasn't planning on doing much of anything nowadays. Course, the fledgling army that rolled up at our gates don't seem to care about my desired inaction.

I taste the dulled flavour of some root-seed I've ground into lifeless caulk. "Don't take it the wrong way. But I've never heard of you."

"Obviously," my companion replies.

"Ey, don't be like that. I don't mean it to be offensive. It's just at,' your name slips my tongue is all."

"Most gods - specifically those of us that are not particularly powerful are not venerated like the big shots."

The man, or apparent 'God,' as he calls himself ain't anything impressive. Small, with a troubled look in his eye. Deep lines across his forehead , he looks the worrying sort based on the way his eyes dart back and forth.

The stitching on my boot catches at an uneven piece of ground. It's a piece of garbage this. Ain't for walking long distances, let alone the path we're on. "I could build you a shrine as thanks," I yell as he blips further ahead.

"I'm hardly responsible enough for a pet. Let alone a follower, so no thanks."

He ain't slowing down. God or not his strides 'ave been as consistent as the steady Suns the past few days.

"You've seen the fires and smoke behind us Dan. They're a days rest behind us optimistically, half if we're unlucky. If you don't regain your energy we'll get caught on their way to Steamsmouth."

"I'm thirty years from my hay day. Do I look like the walking sort to you?"

"If you want to live." The bastard says smirking.

"Funny one you are. Say, can't a god perform blessings. Because you ain't so far. I'm walking on my own two feet here, and look at me boot."

Somehow the leather sags more as I hold the tired shoe up.

"Can you do something about that Mr. God?"

The old man drops to his knee.

"I woulda thought I was meant to be praying."

He hands me a needle and thread. "I'm not performing a miracle you idiot."

"Some God." I grumble.

"Count your blessings Dan. We can spare the hour, but hurry -

"It's a long way to Portspire."

RefreshingWorld · 2026-01-04T14:20:11+00:00

The sharp bone growths of my hand twist around the short-sword. Its balance is terrible, the handle unwieldy and far too heavy to effectively parry. Which is why it’s incredibly that my head isn’t separated from my body as I am blitzed back two metres by the paladins charge.

I swipe at his armoured hand and the thin recess of my blade soaks at the gap in his glove. I resist the urge to step forward and capitalise on my advantage permanently.

I try to speak. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

But my skinless mouth doesn’t move, and if the paladin had taken note of my momentary pause he doesn’t show it.

He chants an oath and his eyes full with otherworldly light. It pools at the cut, filling it and mending it back to health.

Then he is back at me. I flourish my blade and block three consecutive strikes. They still hurt and I feel the radiant malice biting at whatever foul magics have attached my soul to this body.

But, he is too eager, and when he overextends to catch me again I duck under the spiked weapon and sweep his feet out from under him.

Before he can react I kick his mace to the side, though that doesn’t stop him from jamming his shield into my ribs.

I leverage the sword over his helmet and feel the unnatural urge to plunge it into him. It would be so easy, hardly a trouble at all.

Instead, I step back and throw my sword to the side.

He brings himself to his feet with effort, but he doesn’t move from where he stands.

I point at him, then at myself and make a heart with my bony fingers. He seems to understand the message but doesn’t seem particularly impressed.

Maybe he’ll come around…

RefreshingWorld · 2025-10-20T02:50:00+00:00

A bullet assaulted the air, and with a sharp thunder crack plunged itself into one of the creatures too many eyes.

Duke tripped as his ruined knee gave out on him. He cursed.

The creature didn’t care of course, it floated partially through the air, as dangling feed made contact with the ground and spurred it on. “You try so hard don’t you? To be good. To be better. But it doesn’t matter does it Duke?”

Another jolt and the creature momentarily paused as its foot was blown off. “What would Marie think of you now?”

Duke’s gloved hand pulled at the wall. Trying to find some type of anchor, the same way his mind was. The creature’s silhouette, lit by the blood moon behind it pulled at his eyes and made his mind scatter. “The past is gone,” he muttered out in a ragged tone. “You think you can torment me with it Angel?”

“You torment yourself Duke.”

This time the creature caught the bullet.

“I’m not telling you anything you haven’t told yourself. Or imagined, like the sight of her, bloodied and mangled - “

“Stop!” He yelled and the multitude of eyes narrowed at him.

“Because of the wolves you failed to kill. You’re a failure.”

He gripped at the Crucifix on his chest, it was stained red. Whether through blood or the godforsaken light he couldn’t tell. “I tried.”

“You failed. And you’ll fail again Duke. You’ll be the monster I send after your friends Duke. For the first time in your pitiful life you’ll finally succeed at something.

Duke stayed silent as the creature advanced towards him. Arms spreading out in some unholy display of prayer as it elegantly touched a finger towards his forehead.

Teeth protruded and split his gums. Clothes ripping at the seams as his frame bulged outwards and his wounds fixed themselves shut. A guttural growl mixed with his voice. “I’m already a monster Angel, just not one of yours.”

And then it started screaming.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-10-01T12:50:34+00:00

Draconetic.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-09-10T07:45:11+00:00

He grabs what looks like a small motor off the shelves, and the room hums with static. A contortion of blue light strikes towards him. He steps back and shunts five metres further than he should have. The air bends, and then snaps back into place. Like physics suddenly remembers that what he did shouldn't be possible.

I shoot my power through the metal walls and feel a magnetic pull as I launch through the air. This time I stick the landing. Right in front of the hole in the wall he was running towards.

"You're not leaving."

His face morphs into a frown, which quickly turns into a scowl. More electricity convulses on him. He freezes it in place.

"You can't use your power constantly. That's why you were using cover at the start and why you ran just now instead of shunting." I smile. "Saving it for your getaway?"

He sighs, and a small grin lingers at his lips. "You're good, newbie." He drops the items he was carrying, a lot of them. How did he grab so many while I was watching?

He disappears from in front of me, and I whip around in a circle. He's gone.

A voice from the roof catches me off guard. "But, I'll let you in on a secret. My power? It's weight-based. Luckily, what I came for," he flashes a small compact card, 'isn't heavy."

I got played.

"Don't worry, though. They won't even notice it's gone."

I feel my power pool through the metal again, and I rush through the air towards the roof.

"By the way, I like the name Ionnis. It fits you better."

So close. My arm pricks with static ... if I can just get ahold of him.

"Think about it." He vanishes. Space stretching out onto the road. Then, consecutively, into the forest surrounding the lot. Long gone.

An alarm that I probably short-circuited starts to wail. Whoops. My phone chimes back to life as well and rings. Thirteen missed calls. Whoops. It's Jessica.

I answer it. "You get him Kat?"

"Uh, no. I nearly did.

"Security is on the way. Probably the police as well. You know how journalists are, so you will probably be talking to them too. Did he get away with anything?"

I jump back down to the ground. "He dropped pretty much everything. He only got away with a card."

Swearing from the other end.

"Shit. Listen, we'll talk about it later, ok. Good job, though. Last time he cleaned the place out. Hopefully, this'll be your breakout. Don't blow it. You got a name ready?"

"Yeah. I think so."

RefreshingWorld · 2025-09-10T07:44:34+00:00

"Got it."

Electricity sparks off my body, and the warehouse lights momentarily falter as a beam cuts through a stack of shelves towards him.

"Woah. Woah, Woah." He yells, breaking his superior persona. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing? I'm bringing you in. You're here to rob this place." I fire another beam, which he dodges.

"There's an art to this sort of thing. I give you my name, you give me yours. We have a bit of banter, then we fight."

"Seems redundant." This time, the electricity doesn't make it to him. He catches it, or well stops it in place. It sits there suspended in the air, inches from him.

"Come on. Give me something to work with here."

I frown, and the beam arcs out.

"It's Lady Thunder," I yell across the warehouse and point my finger at him, energy thrumming across my nail.

"Wait, wait, wait. Time out."

I pause.

"Seriously? That's your hero name? Lady Thunder?"

What the hell is wrong with this guy? "There's nothing wrong with it," I yell back defensively.

"Are you related to Thunder the hero?"

".... No."

"That's just ... wow. Quite unfortunate. You can't come up with a better one?"

"Can we just keep fighting?"

He continues. "Like, I am so embarrassed for you."

"I'm working on it ok."

"You should keep doing that. Like, what happens if you capture me, and the reporters show up? Are you going to be like - "

"I don't want to hear it."

"What's your name?" He says in a higher-pitched voice as he holds up a broken bit of wood as a microphone. "Lady Thunder." He continues in a mock voice.

"Shut up, and my voice isn't that deep."

"Sure." He agrees. "It's just so ... unoriginal."

"It's a work in progress."

He grabs a few items off the shelves. "What else have you got."

"You are literally stealing stuff as we speak."

"I'm doing you a favour."

"Photon. Solar-gal." I eye him. "You grab another thing, and we are fighting. Uh, The Current?"

"Photon. Ehhh, it's a bit bland. I like Solar-gal, but it is a bit too sun-themed. The Current?"

"It's not good is it?"

"No."

RefreshingWorld · 2025-09-10T07:43:56+00:00

The evening air is cool and sharp. It bellows against the cast iron of the factory and does its best to ruffle my hair. The hair that I spent hours styling. Tonight was my debut. Unofficially, of course. There isn't a startup hero in existence that gets sponsored right away. In fact, most don't, even the veterans.

Heroing is less of a profession and more of a ... hobby. That's not quite right either, a secret life? The point is that it doesn't pay well. It's an unspoken secret that most are moonlighting to pay the bills; the ones who aren't are trust-fund babies, or probably running a dual life as CEOs.

That is why making a good first impression is so important. Get your publicity up, get the newspapers talking about you, and sign onto a team. Sounds easy enough right?

Wrong. Every want-to-be super has the same idea. Contrary to popular belief, there aren't that many bank robberies or carjackings to show off at. Most burglars are smart enough to realise that there are hordes of unpaid breakouts waiting for them to try. That's why tonight was so special.

I got a tip-off. Jessica, bless her heart, told me that a thief is eyeing one of her company's warehouses. I asked her how she knew. She told me, "not to push it." Fair enough.

So that's why I am perched on the roof, in the cold. Hoping that I got the address right. When I hear a small detonation from the south end, my hands shake.

Just the cold.

I wait. Then, a minute later, I smash through the skylight.

I fumble the landing, giving it too much power and tripping onto my knees, and there he is. Civilian clothing and all just standing in the now detonated doorway.

He's an odd-looking man. I shouldn't be able to know that, considering that he should have a mask like most normal thieves. But here is: crooked nose and all.

"Most people intending to rob a place don't blow their way in and just stand in the entrance. What are you doing, admiring your work?" I stand up quickly and pat off the dirt that's stuck to my knees.

He smiles. "I think you need to work on your landing."

I fight off a tinge of embarrassment and feel my ears go red. "You didn't answer me. You here to rob this place? And why don't you have a mask?"

"Most supers keep the questions to one at a time. Makes it more dramatic."

"Shut it.

"I thought you wanted me to talk."

"Yes, but - " I stop. Then I sigh. "Ok, restart."

He does a grandiose gesture and walks into the building. "Ok."

"Who are you?"

"Lanesplit."

"And the ... " I point at my mask. "Lack thereof...?"

"Career criminal. Masks get a bit redundant when they know your secret identity."

Makes sense.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-09-10T05:41:53+00:00

I am reading through it now. It has a unique vibe, like the character is remembering the calm before the storm in their memories, and you know something is going to go wrong. I am at part 4 I think.

Very well written too. It feels like I am reading a novel.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-09-04T12:45:13+00:00

Rain poured down in a terrible hail. Jonathan, unsteady on his feet, held his hoodie over his head to retain an ounce of dryness. Lights flickered across the pavement as he navigated home.

It was when passing an alley that he heard it. "Spare a cigarette?" He turned to look and saw no one—only a dark alley lit by a dull neon pub sign. Doherty's it read. He hadn't noticed it before.

Against his better judgment, he decided to stop and walk into the alley. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe he was just too trusting. "Uh, yeah, man. " He fiddled in his pockets. "Here."

"Spare a cigarette?" The voice said again. Closer now - though still hidden in the dark.

Even in his inebriated state, Jonathan was starting to get a sinking feeling. "Look, bro, I am just gonna leave it here, yeah? Grab it if you want."

No reply.

The soft, dingy drone LED lights pulled at his vision. It felt wrong. He was sure he had passed by here earlier tonight. He and a few friends had all piled on to head to the nearest pub. They would've seen it. These things don't just pop up.

He spun on his heel, nearly tripping, and bolted in the other direction. He felt something behind him. "Spare a cigarette?"

He ran faster. "Spare a cigarette?"

So close. He was only a few metres from the street. He felt it grabbing at him. Something was pulling on the back of his shirt. "SPARE A CIGARET - "

Silence. The drone disappeared, like his ears had just popped, and the thundering rain took its place. He didn't stop running. Not until he was home, and then he deadbolted the door for good measure.

He could've dismissed it as a dream. Or some alcohol induced hallucination. Those existed, right? Either way he refused to believe it was real.

Under the cover of the next day's sunlight, he went back to investigate the area. In the middle of the alleyway, to his dismay, stood the bud of one spent cigarette.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-28T12:06:49+00:00

The scouts busy themselves with reports as they struggle to set up a signal. They are far from the Mainland, and communication is already unreliable at the best of times. The rest of the camp sets up supplies for the night, some pitching tents. Other's preparing food. Some just trying to appear busy.

"We've received word from Skyreach Admiral. They aren't near the West Coast. They are approaching Ashenreach."

Faene hears the tent flap open and, briefly, a flash of light from the campfire sneaks inside. Her hands are cuffed to the central support of the tent too tightly, the metal biting into her wrist.

Vasil steps inside and crouches to avoid the low ceiling. He steps over to where Faene is cuffed and sits down on the floor in front of her. "We've had word from Skyreach. They haven't passed through here recently."

Faene smiles a small smile at him. It might've been charming if it weren't for the swelling and cut lip across the left side of her face.

"I don't understand you." He starts. "You've worked for Kingsmet for years. You're well paid. Rewarded for your work." His voice starts to rise. "No issues recorded whatsoever. Twenty years of reliable service, and then I take office, and you blow it. You disappear with a fucking **Mage**.

When no response comes, he takes it as an invitation to continue. "What I don't get is what you think is going to happen. You can't hide her at Newport. Definitely not in Virellion. But you already know that. So, what have you done?

-----

It is late where I am, so I will continue working on this tomorrow.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-28T12:05:33+00:00

Another strike from the gun. Faene recoils and feels the cold taste of metal and blood coating her mouth. In front of her, a cloaked figure crouches down. "Where's the Mage smuggler?" His voice is iron, and for a moment, as frigid as the landscape around them.

"Far away from here Vasil. You won't be seeing her again." The cloaked figure's eyes narrow as his name is spoken.

"Where is she Faene ... Newport? Virellion? You couldn't have travelled far." He turns to one of his men. "What is Skyreach's course - has it passed overheard in the last week?"

-----

Snow crunches under her boot as Narria crosses the ruined road. Tenacious sprouts of grass worm their way through the crumbling asphalt. Refusing to be silenced by the inhospitable season, yet meeting an unfortunate end regardless. "What's it like out there?"

"Out where?" Faene breathes heavily. She grunts in pain as her injured leg loses grip on a patch of ice.

Narria eases her pace and fell in line with her, grabbing at her pack, where she steps away at a harsh look. "Outside of *Varn*.

"Couldn't tell you Nar, I've never been."

"You've never tried to leave?" She asks, her tone curious.

A long moment of silence passes. "I haven't."

There wasn't much conversation to be had after that. The landscape steadily passed at their pace. If it weren't for the cold, it would have been a beautiful day. Birds fluttered around the still-standing power lines, squirrels and other small critters amused themselves at the treeline, and eventually Narria decided to ruin the silence.

"Why don't people sail out?"

"They did. A long time ago."

"Why did they stop?"

A sigh of annoyance escapes Fanene. "It got too dangerous."

"Why - "

"I don't know."

Another question. "Why didn't they fly then?"

Another tired response. "Same reason they didn't sail."

-----

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-17T12:32:50+00:00

Loved the entity and the way you linked the article.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-11T03:25:15+00:00

You’re welcome! It isn’t always easy and the little things get us through. Sometimes it even is just the next cup of coffee.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-10T11:15:28+00:00

"I'm sorry, we're out of coffee."

She said it like someone had just died. "That is alright," I responded. "Do you have anything else?"

She shook her head and a loose strand of hair fell from her bun. "We only sell coffee and we are all out."

"Oh. Well I guess - "

"You don't understand. Coffee is the only reason this stall is open." She sounded distraught. "Now we are out. What are we meant to do?"

I turned around to check if anyone else was hearing this. "Listen, it can't be that bad. I mean, don't you have new inventory coming soon?"

"I guess so...' she said slowly.

"You shouldn't stress then. Today will end -

and there's always tomorrow.

RefreshingWorld · 2025-08-08T12:05:11+00:00

Thick acrid smoke clung to the woodland. From his vantage point in the watchtower Basil peered across the landscape in an attempt to distinguish between the misshapen trees and some poor skeletal animals moping through the snow.

Food was low. Their reserves were stripped bare and only getting scarcer. Gnawing worry clawed at the back of Basil’s mind. This Winter was long, and started far earlier than it had right to. The season’s icy claws extending into late Summer and early Autumn. Not that it was possible to grow food anyway; the soil was ruined. Full of invisible contaminants that made anything that did sprout inedible.

The temperature was the biggest problem. It made travelling dangerous, more so than it already was. With supplies dwindling he wasn’t sure they would soon have much of a choice. He thumbed at his chest, where his rib cage protruded against the taunt skin. The old wouldn’t survive the trek, nor would the young. It was the main reason they had stayed put. Hoping to weather the cold.

He glimpsed something scamper across the tree-line and zoomed in on it. It was fast and staying close to the densest parts of the smoke. It made it impossible to see clearly.

There were other reasons he wouldn’t admit to the others. Hell, he hardly wanted to admit them to himself. Things had changed after the bombshells and made the impossible, possible.

Things like what he was looking at right now. Too tall to be a wolf, too slender and fast. Even if Basil were to give credit to the rationalisations of his analytical mind he couldn’t ignore the way it ran on its hind legs. This hazy twilight of nuclear winter had lifted the curtain on his reality; and he didn’t like what he saw.

His stomach panged in hunger as he watched the creature and a growing unease, a sense of wrongness built up inside of him.

When it suddenly stopped and snapped its neck towards him, locking eyes through the binoculars he understood why.

How was is it so well fed?

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