The next series of events happened unceremoniously, they received the details of the upcoming task and were rushed back into the normal routine; not given a moment alone, not even a little. Kani suspected they did this so the recruits had no time to process what just happened, that these men who trained them for months were intending to pit them against eachother in an orchestrated Military death match.

Even when the cold air of the morning stabbed into her lungs like a thousand white hot needles, she couldn’t wrap her head around what was happening. It didn’t seem real. The twelve miles they ran seemed like a few blinks and when the Sun had risen, their fatigues laced with sweat and gasping for air was about all they had enough energy for.

Kani was not going to let that much stop her, a little exhaustion did nothing to slow down her wit, it only inhibited her ability to talk and it was not as though she enjoyed her company enough to share her suspicions with them.

First Platoon was at least two cycles ahead of Third Platoon, which meant that from the beginning they were at a disadvantage. It was never too much difference, but what Third lacked at the moment was any sense of cohesion: they didn’t work together, in fact the first series of exercises they performed were tailored to pit them against eachother. Bloodied noses, blackened eyes and broken fingers were the most brutal of injuries they suffered at their own hands, though there was one instance of Instructor Swiderski ‘demonstrating’ a proper take-down that left another boy, George, in the medical wing for four days.

Instructor Thomas was never one to meddle in metaphors, he chose his words carefully and used them directly; he would never say the phrase ‘kill’ unless they had to kill, and never warn them of death, unless there was a genuine threat of death.

“What do you say Recruits!?” Instructor Swiderski stepped out along the dirt road, breathing deep as if relishing their suffering and looking over at another large, winding way: Agony Hill. A route that was twice the length of the one they had just completed and looped back around to the barracks, but it had earned it’s namesake from causing a large majority of leg injuries. The Instructors loved it.

“Let’s see how many of you can keep up with Instructor Swiderski.” It was Instructor Thomas stepping forward now, alongside his fellow to observe the droves of panting, exhausted men and women. It never ceased to amaze Kani how profound their physical stamina was; they were barely breaking a sweat, hadn’t the slightest hitch in their breath and were still revving to keep going.

She knew what this was, but that did not stop her from mentally punching both of them in their smug, square faces. Instead, she alongside all the other Recruits replied in kind. “For Requiem!!!”

It was Third Platoon’s creed, their battle motto. It was almost amusing, if it wasn’t for the tragedy that was Requiem. Kani had never had a proper education, but from what stories she heard over a cackling fire from a clearly demented old man, she understood a little.

‘There once was a city, a city whose name is lost…’ She recited in her head as the Platoon rushed in chase of Instructor Swiderski, trying to gauge his pace and maintain stride. ‘A colony settled on a lone Rogue Planet, creating Artificial Light that turned a dead rock, into one capable of sustaining life. After all that terraforming stuff went through, I guess…’ Recruit after Recruit fell out of the pace, the tall Instructor must have been part machine for how effectively he was leaving them behind. ‘One day, that special Light of theirs went out… along with every single life on the planet. An entire Colony, silenced overnight. When everything settled, a single probe was sent to respond to a distress beacon… and all it found was a dark, dead planet… devoid of all life. Thus, the city and later the planet… was named Requiem.’

Why they had decided to take the motto of a planet that suffered an unknown casualty was beyond her, but she was already well past making sense of anything that happened anymore.

Before she knew it, her boots thumped across the ‘finish line’, which was just Instructor Swiderski waiting for them after he had gained too much distance to be seen. Ronald crossed first to no surprise, George followed shortly after him, Kani placed smack in the middle of the head pack only a few paces behind George and pulling up the rear, the last one to cross was Jora.

The lead four all broke off to gasp; George dropping to a knee to vomit a strange mixture of partially digested breakfast and fluids. He was a strange guy, taller than most of the Recruits by a full head, skinny and a midnight tint to his dark skin—Kani was under the impression that he was their best runner, but today Ronald proved himself to once again be the perfect, superior soldier.

She could feel her eyes roll unintentionally and lay directly over Jora, who had been glaring at her for quite some time now. She didn’t bother addressing it, the unnaturally pale girl was maybe a year or two older than Kani, stronger and certainly more violent; her blonde hair cropped short, a strange scar darted from brow to past her hairline. One wrong comment and she might find herself getting beaten bloody in her bunk later that night, a mistake she did not intend to make twice, last time she almost lost her favorite tooth.

The other Recruits came by after a few minutes, some barely managing to pass the disgruntled looks of Instructor Swiderski.

The final one was Issy, though strangely enough he did not look all that tired to Kani. Maybe he lost interest in the game and just ran comfortably all the way here, not pushing himself for some invisible, petty reward? Swiderski caught eye of him, gave him a look that Kani did not quite understand.

“Alright Recruits, fall in!” Swiderski shouted and they complied instantly, shuffling to their allotted lines and standing stiff, despite their collective lack of breath.

“Recruits step forward as I call your names! Ronald! George! Kani! And Jora!”

The line stepped forward collectively, shoulder to shoulder and waited.

“…Recruit Issy, step forward!”

Kani’s eyes darted off to the side, hearing his listless step forward. Swiderski did not seem to care about Kani’s confusion, and carried on.

“You have just promoted yourselves to Squad Leaders.”

Ronald seemed confused, speaking out of turn. “But Instructor Swiderski, I’m the Platoon Leader…!”

Swiderski considered this for a moment, before cracking that strange smile of his. “Well then, let me correct myself Recruit Ronald, you just demoted yourself to Squad Leader…” He gave him a moment, stepping forward until his cap pressed firmly into Ronald’s forehead. “..and if you ever so much as speak out of turn again, they will have to invent a new Medical Procedure to remove my foot from your ass.”

The words seemed well enough to stop Ronald’s complaints in their tracks.

“Now, as I was saying… Ronald, you’ll have 1st Squad. George, 2nd Squad. Kani, 3rd Squad and Jora will have Weapons Squad.”

There was a looming silence, they looked amongst eachother, before Issy performed the same thing he always did and spoke out of turn, without consequence.

“What exactly am I doing, Sir?”

The silence returned, louder this time.

Finally, Swiderski spoke again, the same confident smile. “You are going to be leading the Zero Squad, Recruit Issy.”

(Author's Note: Chapter One can be found on profile.)

Kani Lockere awoke to the same characteristic screech of an alarm that had been her usual wake up call for the past five months, and no matter the exposure it seemed that she was wholly incapable of blotting out the noise; it resonated off the metallic walls that encompassed the sleeping area, the brilliant metal work that could capture the faintest light from dim, overhead fixtures and project it nearly around the entire room that housed fifty-seven recruits, could also be completely indiscernible from the absolute darkness once all light had been removed.

Her boots hit the floor with a heavy set thump, the metal plating inside them ensured it was a burden to run at full speed and let alone walk without tripping over oneself. ‘If you can’t deal with a little weight, what good will you be when shit hits the fan?’ The Instructors had screamed into them within the first couple hours of putting the boots on, complaints were in short supply after that, in the very least they were out of earshot.

A chorus of other thumps followed suit, Kani was only about half a second faster than everyone else, but while they were still groveling over their poor sleep, she was already on the move. The fatigues provided were always the same: dark black, no insignia and no rank, nothing to tell the superiors apart from the recruits. They liked it that way, she always assumed, having everyone hesitant about who to talk to and when they should talk if it ever came to that.

Kani herself had never had much difficulty telling them apart, it was a look in the eye that gave everything away: it wasn’t hard to tell which of these men had killed before, and which hadn’t so much as laid eyes on a firearm, let alone fired one.

While she slipped on the fatigues, pulling the baggy bottoms to a snug fit, it occurred to her that there was one person that did not quite fit her analysis: Recruit Issy. The name was not intimidating, in fact there was nothing about him that struck her as impressive. He was of average height, barely taller than her and she was only in her sixteenth year. When all the recruits had arrived, his hair was unkempt and a long, tattered black mess; once buzzed down to an acceptable degree, his expression and face managed to be even more average. The type of man that, had he put any thought into his appearance at all, he might have come off as handsome; if he smiled at all, maybe even more so. It didn’t seem to be his forte, not by a long shot.

His skill was just as average as his looks, he was neither amazing or hopeless. If anything, he had proven reliable during the few exercises that Kani had worked with him on. It was his eyes that threw off any assumption that she could make, the dull way those grey-blue eyes glazed over everything, as though everything were beneath his focus and he was entirely unable of caring. They did not appear battle-hardened, but there was something else there… something she did not like.

By the time Kani had made her way to the edge of her bunk and stood at attention, her eyes darted across the room to the only other silhouette already there and waiting, from the height and rigid stature she could only assume it was Ronald; the Platoon Leader, the best of the recruits. He was everything a story book needed him to be: a brilliant minded tactician, devilishly handsome, horribly arrogant, prideful and as devoted as Kani was. She never enjoyed his company, she preferred the quiet Issy over the boastful Ronald, any exercise—any War.

One by one, the remaining fifty-five stepped in line and stood proudly, all unmoving as the blaring alarm died out and the flickering lights above steadily illuminated.

The Instructors came in not shortly after, all men glorified in combat that did not bat a lash at race, gender or color; if they took an issue with you, it was either because you were doing something terribly wrong, or they were just bored.

They got bored quite frequently these days.

As unmoving as she could be, Kani allowed herself to look them over, the same as she did everyday that passed like a strange cycle she had yet to break.

The tallest of them was Instructor Swiderski, a man that was more beast than man. He did not bear a beard, as per regulation, but his face was finely sculpted and linear, dark hair that was slightly unkempt on top. The tight lines of his face, the hard beady eyes that could bore through a recruit without much difficulty. He was lean and muscular, not the sort of man that one would think could overpower anyone, but she had witnessed him at least a dozen times toss the massive Ronald over his shoulder as though he were playing with a toy. There was a certain eerie, unsettling skill to his persona that she didn’t want to acknowledge, but he asserted it without so much of a nod.

The other man was a familiar Instructor Thomas, a far more simplistic man if there ever was one, blonde hair, shorter by a head than Instructor Swiderski, but always willing to prove that his size was nothing of a factor; this man was short and terribly conniving, he devised ways to confuse recruits that even the whole haven’t begun to realize—he trained them to be smarter than the ones they were supposed to kill, of course that meant putting them through a whole new kind of hell.

The third man Kani had never seen before, the stranger man was in stark contrast to the duo Instructors they had seen so far; he was fat, no other way of putting it and entirely out of the conditioned norm. His boots were unbloused, his uniform dirty and appearance unbecoming; she could’ve swore she spotted a second chin bouncing as he began to speak, flaps of muscle and skin working together.

“Recruits!” He bellowed loud enough for them to hear, Swiderski and Thomas glancing at him like an unwelcome pest in their midst as he spoke. “We three are proud to finally give you lot the opportunity to prove yourselves, to rise above… and achieve something even greater.” He said, beginning to squeak past with the skid of his boot along their line, before Thomas stepped in front of him; cutting him off, dead center.

“Here is the deal, Recruits. We are having the Forty-Fifth Annual Platoon Games, and it just so happens our Third Platoon is against Instructor Mendolia’s First. The Winner will proceed from there.” Thomas spoke with confidence, as though Third had already won.

It wasn’t until that daft silence passed over that someone finally spoke up, out of turn and in a manner completely unforgiveable.

Issy was the one that spoke, a timid voice that carried volumes. “And what do we win, Instructor Thomas?” He said slowly, each word hung on.

“You win… the right to live. This is a real combat environment, and anyone that dies… well, I don’t need to tell you what happens when you die, do I?”

(Author's Note: The first chapter in the first book that is currently in the process of being written.)

How many times was it now that she had ignored that insistent noise? How many late nights ruined by some critter skirting across the edge of the perimeter, setting off the alarm? How many times had she regretted taking the advice, now? ‘A woman in your position,’ They had said, ‘should be well protected.’ That was something she could never quite understand, the way they had worded it—a woman in her position.

Not everyone had been welcoming to the ways of colonists, even if they had all migrated here of their own accord, they needed someone to take control and show them there was nothing to fear from change, least of all this change. REFUGE II was a asteroids’ throw away from the neighboring planet, the thriving sector of life, REFUGE I. In the right light, on the right night, you could even see that brilliantly green planet; a speck of the dust in the starry seas.

It had been centuries since Project REFUGE had been launched, sister and brother planets taken by the steel and fire of progress, terraformed into suitable habitats for the overwhelming populations that stirred on each new World, everyone as eager as their predecessors to see and experience a new outlet: a concept once little more than a dream, had now become a vibrant economy.

Jaarnet Paxton was little exception to this. Her life on REFUGE had been one of poverty, a desperate scramble for one voice to overcome thousands. When presented with a chance in a lifetime, to see the next new World, she had left everything… everyone behind, without even a second glance.

The early years were thriving, the advances in modern technology were baffling, and now what had once been purely Science Fiction had begun to rise; brilliant minds, in brilliant worlds. The sky was no longer the limit, the limit was no longer the sky—there was no limit.

Her title had never been official, she hadn’t been labeled Madam Worldly President, Governor, or Mayor. She handled issues, she settled debates and she received nothing in return save for the respect of her fellow colonists and that alone seemed to be enough to sustain a lively life.

She had danced in the light of twin moons, experienced love for the second time and mothered. She watched them grow, watched them struggle and sooner than later, they were off on their own worlds: the son, Ambrose had enlisted as security personnel into a deep space mission and the daughter, the beautiful daughter had set herself towards REFUGE IV, hoping to find her own calling.

Her late Husband had passed away peacefully in his sleep, stricken by a strange illness that at first, was little more than a cough. Even a thousand years of Medical Advancements couldn’t tell the body to stop ripping itself apart, but it had been enough to dull the pain entirely. They had called it something ominous: “The Twisting Flesh”, not something she would have branded on the obituary.

Ever since then, Jaarnet had immersed herself in her work, burdened by her responsibilities by willing to comply. Loss was loss, nothing good would come from mourning over it, not when she had at least another decade ahead of her—

The alarm was still going off.

She moved with a noticeable strain, age truly taking it’s toll and even though she was barely into her sixth decade, she was one woman that refused to admit her own limits.

The lavish bayside home she had been gifted was large enough to raise her family, but now it only served as a crude reminder that she was entirely alone, save for the two security guards the local militia had gifted her out of concern. Two stories, imported wood and glass. They (once again) had said, ‘This will let you watch everything happening.’

It was thoughtful had the time, but had played hell with raising two teenagers in a home where virtually anyone could peer into your life. Still, REFUGE II was a simpler place and far more peaceful.

By the time she had found the panel, punched in the override code and made her way towards the kitchen, she had realized her mistake—what had always woke her wasn’t the alarm, but the guards. They had always made a show of bravado, something she found almost adorable, when they would burst in to scare away the wildlife that had trampled a little too close to home.

They weren’t here now.

Instead, what she saw as she entered the kitchen, something her late Husband had designed to resemble the finest marbling and mock-ivory and even though she had frequently protested that it looked flat out ugly when compared to the beautiful wooding it surrounded, he had been adamant about the application and who could deny the boyish charm of gleefully eyed middle aged man?

It wasn’t her late Husband waiting for her, or the two guards… it was someone else, someone that had brought company.

It was a young man, the age she couldn’t properly discern given the lack of lighting, and a trio of large figures behind him, all of which must’ve dwarfed him by two full heads in height. Whoever he was, he must have sensed this chill that had been given by the dark, and casually flipped a nearby switch—it didn’t do anything. She heard him stifle a laugh and turn to speak to her.

“Think you could lend a hand?”

Jaarnet was taken back by the request… mostly due to something about his voice that offset her, a shrill tremble sent along her spine. She didn’t like the sound.

Still, she complied with the faintest gesture of snapping her figures—brilliant light blazed down from above, giving her full witness to the men that stood before her. The large ones adorned in a faceless armor and proudly held ghastly looking weapons to bear; they reminded her almost of statues, they were massive and imposing… but they didn’t move, didn’t even shift from foot to foot. They were either seasoned veterans, or were not real.

The young man was an entirely different story. He did not look like a professional, he did not look like a statue. He was dressed in what looked like fatigues, though they were littered with burns, cuts and what even looked like bullet holes. His hair was disheveled and a dark brown, pieces stuck to his forehead with what looked like sweat and grim… in fact, the young man appeared to be terribly ill: his features what might have passed for handsome on a good day, were partially sunken in and his eyes circled by bags. He was so very pale. A busted lip had bled and drifted, a myriad of bruises followed one side of his face—he didn’t seem bothered.

Once the light hit him, he exclaimed joy with both arms held wide and he closed their distance with two long strides and wrapped Jaarnet in the tightest hug she’d ever felt.

Stricken with shock, she would only recount after he had broken contact and stepped away how he smelt of ash and oil.

“Jaarnet Paxton, in all my days… I never thought I’d have the chance to finally meet you!” He spoke again, that shrill voice of his may as well have been dripping with venom for all the hate he implied with a simple greeting.

“Th-.. The pleasure is all mine?” She managed, her voice embarrassingly stuttered and she swallowed every ounce of terror that she had; instead, putting on that proud leader voice she had always used. Crossing the flaps of her silken robe and crossing her arms, acting like what she was: a woman whose sleep had been disturbed. “I never did get your name, or what you wanted enough to break into my home in the middle of the night.”

He flashed her a casual smile, teeth a strange shade of neither white, nor yellow.. but perfect. “Who I am isn’t all that important… what I am? Now that, that Jaarnet—“

“—Ms. Paxton, please.” She cut him off right there, this wouldn’t go anywhere if these men thought nothing of her authority.

Taken back by her correction for only a fraction of a second, as though his manners had genuinely slipped away for the moment. “I apologize, Ms. Paxton. My name is Isnoe Incunabula Noctis.” He tipped forward, an overly eccentric bow.

Jaarnet Paxton had seen a lot in her day, had seen supplies raided by starving people and seen men beaten to death for overstepping an imaginary line… but she had never speculated that she would run into a living myth, a legend that kept children up and eager to hear how the story ended.

The Noctis were not real. They were a story travelers brought back with them from distant stars, claiming to have encountered terrifyingly beautiful and strong men and women: men and women that felt no fear, knew no pain and could survive the most grotesque of injuries. However, in these stories… the men and women of the Noctis were Heroes—valiant soldiers that stopped horrors, that safe guarded society and fought for anyone and everyone that needed help.

They certainly were not what this Isnoe presented, a wounded and dying young man. He might have passed for the beauty, maybe even for the hero and soldier… but he looked average, normal; the way he acted was the only thing off.

She had at some point taken a seat at her dining table, she couldn’t tell when, but by the time the haze had faded – a cup sat in front of her, dark and hot.

“Black, right?” Isnoe spoke up, standing at her side, a spotted hand rested on her shoulder as though she might fall over at any moment.

She politely brushed it off as best she could, nodding some but she never touched the drink, instead averted her gaze to him. “Do you take me for a blind old woman?” Her voice was far more harsh than she intended, but she wasn’t going to step back.

He looked puzzled for a moment, before pulling out a chair next to her, sitting in it with a loud thump! that shook the table, the beautiful bouquet of flowers nearly toppled. “What do you mean?” He asked, innocent as a clueless child.

“What I mean…” She reiterated, voice more level now. “…is that the Noctis are a myth, and—“

“Are we?”

He cut her off this time, his uncut nails tapping loudly against the wooden table. “I mean, I kind of like being me… so if I’ve been a myth this whole time?” He whistled, low. “…that would be some kind of mind f***, and I’d have to call you a dumb blind old woman.”

Jaarnet resisted the urge to snatch the grin he wore right off his face and instead, decided to pry. “Alright, then… you are one of these fictional Heroes?” She asked, slowly.

“Heroes? Is that what they call us?”

“There are stories.”

“Tell me them, then. I like stories.”

It took her a few minutes, but she slowly recounted the tales she had been told in rigid details, one in particular he had decided to jot in on: a story of a nearby flyer, a freighter had been found with the entire crew deceased, all killed in gruesome ways and the only person that had laid witness on it had been asked if there were any survivors; his reply, a grim ‘is none’.

“So that’s what he said, huh?” He looked as though he were recalling a fond memory, before an open palm loudly slammed against the wooding. “What a riot!” He was laughing now, a loud and terrible thing to endure upclose, but she waited patiently for him to stop. “Well, in that case… yeah, the Noctis you heard of ain’t real… all…” He gestured with both hands, fingers flailing about. “Imaaagination.”

“Then why are you here, Isnoe?” She growled out and his expression fell, so much so that she might have mistaken him for a corpse at another point in time.

“Recruiting.”

“Recruiting? You will find no soldiers here, Isnoe. We are a colony, we have a local militia… but they are no soldiers, they are farmers.”

He waved her words off with one hand, head shaking lowly. “I’ve already seen what you guys pass as security here, I sure as sh*t ain’t interested in that.”

It took her several seconds to register what he had said, by the time she did she was already half-standing and demanding an answer. “Where are they?!”

He made a face that plainly suggested she was nagging him over something that truly didn’t matter, but he nonetheless nodded towards the furthest hallway—a bloodied hand had barely passed the threshold, still clutched in lifeless fingers the standard issue firearms they gave local militia.

“Why…” She managed, a desperate plea more than anything. Not a soul had died of unnatural causes in years, all strife had been put behind them, they were making progress. Her guards, one barely above eighteen with a bright future and the other a middle aged veteran. They were good men, they volunteered to watch over her and she hadn’t turned them away.

“What were their names?” Isnoe’s voice broke her spiraling depression, she shot him an even more desperate look. He returned her gaze, awaiting an answer that never came. Her own shame was evident, the two men had lost their lives and she hadn’t spent a couple seconds out of her day to ask them their names.

He made a clearly disgusted face. “Now that’s kind of f***ed up.” He jotted a thumb over towards each one of the large, armored men. “That one there is Axe, he don’t talk but I always get an Axe vibe from him. That other guy is Diesel, he doesn’t talk but he usually drives. Last one there is Snap, he doesn’t talk but we used to have two others called Crackle and Pop… though now that he’s alone, the joke just doesn’t carry much weight.” He sighed loudly, looking over his companions once more, before returning to Jaarnet. “Ms. Paxton, there are only lives wasted and lives spent. You wasted their lives and didn’t even have the decency to learn their names.”

She slowly returned to her seat, no longer of the high stature she had once claimed to be; now she was just another heartless woman in control. She didn’t want to talk anymore, she felt nauseous. Isnoe didn’t seem to mind, and decided it was his queue to keep talking.

“When was the last time you heard anything from REFUGE III? Or REFUGE IV? Or REFUGE V?” He began, pushing up and walk over to that deceased hand and pry from it’s clutched fingers the sidearm, racking the slide to ensure it was chambered. “Probably been awhile, right? What is the standard communication protocol between REFUGE Worlds?” He asked her now, once more returning to his place at the dining table.

“Thirteen weeks…” She answered, voice low.

“Thirteen? Seems like it has been quite a bit longer than that… but you know, what?” He gestured towards her with the barrel of the weapon. “When was the last time you spoke to your Daughter?”

Jaarnet looked at him now, eyes unfocused and her vision beginning to cloud. “What..?”

“Your Daughter. REFUGE IV, right? Pretty little thing, and a complete medical marvel let me tell you that—“ She smacked him, hard. No one moved, not even the giants that had invaded her home and killed her unnamed Security.

Isnoe didn’t seem to care either, even as an angered Jaarnet panted harshly at him and screamed. “WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY DAUGHTER?!” It was actually amazing that she could even manage to formulate words with all the rage that blinded her, but Isnoe was as patient as he should have been when dealing with an inconsolable child.

“She is dead.” If words could hit, that may as well have been the flat impact of a dump truck. The way he said it clearly implied he was not the cause, but that did not stop the welling of tears that came with it. They streamed hot and heavy down her face, snot rolling and every manner of poised woman had been rushed away—she believed every word he said, she didn’t know why.

He gave her time to grieve, sitting there patiently while she cried and even offering her a tissue when he deemed her too unsightly, or found a measure of manners. It was a moment before she could cease her crying and cradle deep that memory of her loving, laughing child…

“Funny thing about us Noctis…” Isnoe began to speak, casual and carefree, the death of her Daughter meant nothing to him and he made it show. “Everyone always comes to that conclusion of strong, beautiful and perfect… but really, it couldn’t be that much further from the truth. I’m sure you’ve heard of those… what’re they called, the Cosmetic Medicine?”

She nodded some, she had heard of it. AdvanIX was what it had been marketed as, a reengineering of the face that held promise of allowing anyone to look like whatever they wanted; it was expensive though and later on found to be degenerative, the beauty only lasted for little over a decade in the best cases—it had been banned ever since.

“Well, with us… it is kind of like that, except there are no fancy computers involved to tell you what to look like, you just look like… well, you. What you look like in your head, you know? Which, let me tell you, it did get a little weird… spend your whole life with a guy, grow to call him brother and then boom!” He snapped. “Next day he is your sister and a hot one too. Not the weird, surgical kind either, talking bonified woman. Now you spend your waking hours on mission trying not to ogle the ass of your own brother but he—“ He stopped himself, running a hand through his greasy hair and sighing loudly. “The point… being, our appearances change our whole existence. We will slowly but surely, start to look one way… then the next, look the other way.”

“I don’t understand why you are telling me this, Isnoe…” She managed lowly, still wiping the tears from her wrinkled cheeks.

“All those parts in the stories, the unkillable and invincible warriors…” He snorted a laugh, turning in his seat and raising the sidearm to the armored man that he had called Snap: he took aim and fired once, the round tore through the armor on his right knee cap and the man twisted. No sound, no pain – and even though Snap now made a more visible effort to stand, he was unchanged.

Jaarnet’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest, her voice raised. “What the hell are you doing!”

Isnoe merely pointed with the weapon once more. “See that?” He meant the knee, of course. “Snap here is a bonified Noctis himself, though.. he and they are on more of the mass produced side, not quite like us… but a good example: we can take a helluva hit and keep standing, but…” He raised the weapon again and fired, this time she was more used to the sound in confined space, and even as the round tore through the helmet and obliterated what had once been a face, body falling heavily onto it’s back with a loud thud—the others didn’t move. “Find a soft spot and in the end, no invincibility… no unkillable.”

“He was your soldier, wasn’t he… your friend?” She asked after several seconds had passed, eyes falling onto the young and ruthless Isnoe.

“Crackle and Pop are dead, figured Snap might’ve missed them… besides, they can’t exactly feel anything.” He said with a shrug, before slumping back in his seat to face her. “The thing is, people just get this misconception about us.” He continued as though nothing happened, as though no one had died. “Someone here will see a Noctis spitting fire, or a Noctis controlling metal… but that is all just side effects, side effects from things inside us. Never really been that big of a deal, really.”

“Why are you telling me thi—“

“Ya’ see, everyone thinks we are these super-powered, super-awesome soldiers and sh*t… but it couldn’t be further from the truth, Ms. Paxton. You know what the hardest part about destroying any entire planet?” He leaned close, eyes half-lidded and tired. “All the precious pieces get lost in the explosions, and everyone wants to blame someone else for it—tragedy, rebellion, war and hate… they are all just some stupid little circle people can’t seem to get out of.”

He held up a finger now, smiling. “Take yourself a disease. The best disease, the strongest disease you can think of… shove it inside of someone that can carry that disease. You get a few side-effects here and there, but you got yourself a goddamn carrier. Make that disease ridden person fly off world to this new planet and shoot themselves, shoot themselves square in the f***ing head—all biological life dies, or… it could be targeted biological life? Only humans? Maybe an infestation of a species that is a little too harmful for a settlement? Or maybe, maybe even something that jumpstarts biological life…” He went on, nodding towards her some. “Don’t tell me you actually thought machines and sh*t terraformed planets? Don’t tell me you thought all these tragedies that happened in the outer colonies were just random plagues?”

He proudly flung out both arms, laughing in that terrifying tone again. “The Noctis..!! Glorified goddamn disease carriers!”

“…why are you telling me this, Isnoe?” Jaarnet repeated, she knew that in time the Militia would come and they would surely be able to handle the handful here; Isnoe himself had said it, they were not invincible.

“Because, Ms. Paxton…” He looked to her for a moment, something in his eyes betrayed her – he raised the weapon and shot her square in the chest, a splatter of her own fluid hit the wall behind her and she fell from her chair, thudding hard onto the beautiful marble flooring her late husband had laid out.

She couldn’t breathe, every inhale was labor and when she spared herself enough to glance at the gaping wound, she found the crimson gush was bubbling—a lung puncture, from the sound of it. Every breath was wet.

“Because Ms. Paxton…” He repeated, his boot thumping loudly next to her head as he squatted down over her, curious eyes watching. “…I have never seen, nor heard of a Noctis growing old.”

“..w..ha..t..” She tried to speak and Isnoe clasped a free hand over her mouth, insisting that she cease and forcing her to do so.

“In the initial stages of our conception, we were couriers… sent off to various worlds, waiting for that little piiing that would tell us it was time to end our own lives… all of them, except you. Ms. Paxton.” He was still looking her over, still looking disgusting. “We are sterile, we cannot have kids. We are virtually immortal, we do not age and some of us are impossibly beautiful…”

She raised her hand to try and push his away from her mouth, only to find the frequent wrinkles and paleness of her skin had vanished—a smooth, caramel had etched into place. Her whole body felt different, a complete stranger. Her breasts no longer sagged, they were supple and perky. Her bones no longer ached, her skin no longer dry and her face, in the dull reflection of the ceiling above, was beautiful once again; perfect features, angled beneath a shading of dark, silken hair.

The only thing that hadn’t changed was the gaping wound in her chest and the slow, steady realization that she was dying.

“The thing we carry, sometimes it goes to sleep… and it looks like somewhere in your life, you truly managed to forget what you are… and found happiness.” He remarked, he sounded so incredibly hurt by the thought. “…but, Ms. Paxton… you are about to remember everything you are.”

He stepped back, removing his hand from her mouth and before she could speak, the heel slammed into her face and she fell unconscious; little did Jaarnet Paxton know, this was the last thing she would ever see.

“Sir.” Diesel spoke up, demanding Isnoe’s immediate attention, but at the moment he was far more concerned with the bloodied, dying beauty at his feet.

“Yeah, yeah… what?”

“The Local Militia is on their way, Sir.” The robotic, boring overtone of Diesel’s voice was almost warrant enough to kill him like Snap, but Isnoe shrugged it off.

“It doesn’t matter, not anymore… because like I told you…” He was talking down to ‘Ms. Paxton’ now. “Jaarnet L. Noctis… your world is going to find out the exact purpose of the Noctis.” He lazed the acquired firearm over her forehead, lightly squeezed until the thunderous echo drove metal straight into her pretty skull and she died. Whatever variant of the Toxin she carried was spilling into the air and in a few weeks, the entire planet would be devoid of life—or worse, thriving with it.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A Short Story based off of a Universe I created, REQUIEM. The story follows various person(s) while they try to unfoil the uprising of a new, deadly virus and the people who seem to be capable of controlling it: The Children of the Night, or 'Noctis' as they are dubbed. 

Have you ever watched the World end?

…Well, that question in itself is a bit asinine, isn’t it?

The longer this goes on, the more jumbled the thoughts get and the less likely I am to make sense at this – the end of everything I’ve ever known, or will ever know.

…Well, that just sounds a little bit too morbid, doesn’t it? Maybe if I double back, everything will start to falling back into place; I’ve come this far and this is the least I could do.

My name is Craft Howie Lewis, and no that is not meant to be sly or witty, the name was actually a nod at a long deceased Writer, whose name escapes me even under these circumstances, though I’m confident I’ve touched on the subject more than once.

I was a middle-child in a History that wanted nothing to do with me, raised as though my parents were playing a practical joke by disarming me for the fires of real life. When I say fires, it is no metaphor, that was one thing that I have not been able to forget: the fires, so many of them. I’d never thought fire could be so terrifying, every instance of my life prior involving it had been quelled, controlled; this was anything but. It surprised me, I’ve never known concrete and metal to twist and crack beneath the hunger of flames. It never even occurred to me as being the slightest bit possible.

I will say this for my own sake, my life was anything but spectacular. If you assumed, whoever you may be, that by myself heading this collection of notes that I am in some way a valiant, heroic Main Character; think again, and again and again. Until not even a ghost of that thought remains.

The third child in a Family of five, siblings older and younger seemed as stranger as people you pass on the street. Their faces escape me now, their names as well… and I am content with this. If I was unfortunate enough to remember some deep seeded emotional connection to these vague silhouettes in the darkness my life has taken, I fear I might not have the fortitude to finish.

I am getting off track. My name is Craft Howie Lewis, and no that is not meant to be sly or witty. As far as I can remember, which is quite far mind you, my choice profession was a safety net – I knew I would never get let go, but I knew I had no room for advancement. I liked that, I can’t remember why I liked that… I can’t even remember exactly what job it was that I had, but I had a mediocre talent for it.

I must’ve been required to wear a suit, because… well, I’m wearing one now, aren’t I? Unless this and everything else is just some strange delusion and I’m adrift in my own thoughts, and somehow my mind put together that Death went hand in hand with a tattered old suit.

There was a flash of brilliant light, almost as if a second Sun had appeared—and that is where everything stops.

I awoke minutes, hours, days or even months later in this place and haven’t been able to escape since. The walls extend for what seems like infinity, to a ceiling that I cannot see and the candle light does not reach. At first, it looked like a study of some sort: parchment stacked on a plain oak desk as high as me, ink, pens, pencils and every writing utensil that I knew to exist and a few I didn’t. (There might have even been a chisel in there somewhere, too)

Shelves surrounded me, not an exit in sight despite my repeated attempts at finding one. The wooden walls did not nick or chip, the shelves did not move and every book from ancient to fresh were filled with blank pages.

Blank pages and every method to write.

So, before boredom or madness came knocking, I decided to sit down and start writing.

It was in this moment that I discovered a talent I did not have before: I can perfectly recount every instance of my life, from the vague days as a toddler to the cringe worthy days as a misguided teen. I could remember the very first thing I ever laid eyes on and I can recite with perfect accuracy, every conversation I’ve ever had. The first time I witnessed Death, the first time I fell in love with a woman whose beauty I dreamt would never escape me, but now it does. The damned of it all, is the further I delve into this new talent of mine, every thing I’ve written gets swiped from my memory—ripped away by the stroke of the pen, a complete mystery to me until I pause for a moment to glance over what I’ve just written. Everything, except for my name. That seems to be the only constant, and should that ever escape me, then I know that the End is truly beckoning.

If I keep writing, maybe it will come to me… the reason this World of mine has come to an end, the reason as to why I am confined to this room to jot down the most dreadfully boring life. Is it of any importance, or is this just what happens when any person faces Death?

A cruel joke of whatever authority decided to catalogue every person’s existence into paper, have them rob themselves of experiences: happy, sad and terrifying… until nothing remains. I can say for certain, this life of mine has been anything but exceptional. I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Every person is a collection of words, repeated over a lifetime and the curiosity remains. What do you think… what do I think, the last Word ever spoken will be? Will I be the one to speak it?

For the life of me, I can’t remember what my point was… so many pages, the handwriting is dreadful… difficult to read, the longer it goes on. I feel sorry for whoever is struck with the task of reading it all.

What was I trying to say, now?

Maybe back pedaling will help me remember? My name is…

The End.