Last Stand (and other storys MERGED)

"Mum! Dad! I'm home!" His shouts echoing through his childhood home.
Without waiting for a reply he rushed up to his bedroom, closing the door, locking him in his sanctuary. His private little world.

Knowing that soon his parents would come to check on him, make sure he was doing his school projects he undid his bag, slowly reaching inside for his current work, the upcoming science project.
He was relieved to note that they would have freedom in choosing what the project would be. As long as it showed suitible scientific skill it would be acceptable.
A sudden thought struck him, it would be possible to submit what he was currently tinkering with as his science project, gaining him a head start on his fellow pupils, a slight advantage.

Carefully listening for the sounds of his parents tread upon the stairs he slid open the metallic door of his wardrobe, carefully taking out a soft, cloth bag.
Placing this on his cluttered desk, pushing aside stationary, school papers falling to the ground, littering his bedroom floor like leaves after an autumn storm. Sliding open a draw filled with various tools, ranging from tiny implements that, at first glance, appear to be minature pliers, to long, pen-like tools.

Reaching over his desk, now uncluttered, what little was on the smooth metal surface now lying around his chair, dusting his dark blue carpet. He pulls what appears to be a large magnifying glass towards him, an inbuild light clicking on as he move it. Then, the whole surface of the glass broke up, reforming in vivid colour, blues, greens and whites spreading across the surface of the lens.

To a casual observer it might appear to be simply a still picture, an enlargement of the surface of the object sitting on the boy's desk. If one were to watch it for a few minutes, if they were to study the details then they would notice that the patterns would subtly change.

Quickly adjusting a few dials on the side of the machine the image quickly magnified, focusing in on a tiny section of the original image. The detail was astonishing, at this close view the movement was much more obvious. The colours also became more varied, though still primarily greens and blues and whites, there were many other colours, more than could possibly be described in a lifetime of writing.
All the time carefully observing the images displayed on the screen he picked up one of his many tools and began to work on his project.
Five hours he had already spent on his final year's work.
He now started his sixth hour, his final hour if he managed to complete it to his carefully worked schedule.

For some time he hunched over his work, deep in concentration, occasionally reaching to the drawer beside him, choosing a tool only to replace it moments later.
As he placed the finishing touches to his work, a few quick adjustments made, details placed, he heard his fathers heavy footsteps upon the stairs, the boy stood and quickly went to open his door, greeting his father with a brief smile, a quick clasp of hands. Quietly the boy said to his father, "I've finished my project, I can show it to you now".
A proud smile appearing on his face, the boys father stepped into his son's room, eyes automatically drifting to the object on the table.

It was the first time he had seen it, before it had always been covered, shapless beneath the fabric of it's cover. Now though he saw it complete. The globe suspended before him. Held secure to the desk. Magnetic clamps at the top and bottom holding it safe. From the distance nothing could be seen, it appeared simply to be an off-white sphere. Stepping closer more detail emerged, but still he could not tell what it was his sun had spent so long working out, and finally, after months, six hours to builld. Sitting down in the chair, pulling the lens close, he peered down at the globe.
Almost immediately he realised that the blanket covering of white was in fact cloud, and there were many gaps in it, that it was simply the field around it distorting his vision, something the lens accounted for. Panning over the surface of the world he noticed the detail to which his son had modelled this unfamiliar world.
Turning to his son he solemnly whispered a word of praise. A gentlec smile as he turned back to the minature world.
Zooming the lens in further upon the sphere, he could see even more detail, more movement. The modelled planet even had tides, an advanced project indeed for the level of science his son was at.
Then, almost beyond belief, the man saw movement on the land, not the movement of a branch in wind, a stray leaf drifting. Movement as if of something alive.
Sitting completely still, his concentration focused, he quickly moved the lens around until, yes, there, a small figure moved. It was unlike anything the boy's father had ever seen. A creature, a living creature, on such a scale. It was tiny, yet perfectly formed. The structure of the body identical to that of his own, and his son's, of all those living on their world.
His son had created minature people to inhabit his minature world.
He knew that if he watched for long enough he would see birds and animals as well. His son had created a planet, he had created life.
Quietly, stunned, he turned to his son.
"What will you call it? Your project, your planet?"
Quietly his son whispered a name.
"Earth"

 

It was time, he'd been watching the minutes on his watch tick by for what seemed an eternity, the noisy bar chaotic around him. Surfacing from his thoughts he abruptly stood up, walking over to the doors he noticed an argument, near to the doorway stood a beautiful woman, her long blonde hair and high cheekbones accenting her features, as he drew closer he noticed that she was arguing, quite heatedly, with one of the Club's bartenders. From previous trips to Club 71, by far his favourite place to drink, he thought the bartender's name was Dimitri, though he couldn't bring his second name to mind. He hesitated at the door, wondering if he should see what was the problem, but he as his watch beeped the hour he realised he must be leaving, his employer would not tolerate any delay to schedule.

Grabbing his coat he strode out of the club, putting the girl to the back of his mind. As soon as he stepped from the cover of the bridge, under which was built the Club 71, he was hit by the full ferocity of the wind and rain. Pulling his coat tighter about his lean frame he leaned forward into the wind and stomped out into the night, muttering to himself under his breath. He couldn't wait to get below grounds, thankfull that, for once, his assignment didn't require him to walk across the sprawling city of Paris. Instead he headed across the street, dodging quickly to the side to avoid a car, it's quiet whine making it hard to hear, and visibility during a Parisien storm was little to none.

He quickly made his way down the steps, jumping the last two in his eagerness to be out of the dreadful weather. In the short time he'd been in the rain, what must have been but a few minutes, he had been drenched, though his coat was waterproofed it was still soaked through, and without a hood the water had run down his back, sticking his shirt to his skin. Standing in the warmth for a few minutes he allowed himself to dry. The water running down his sharp, angular face, drips falling from his short black hair onto the floor. Shaking himself he put his coat back on, wet though it was, and set off once more, this time travelling through the subterranean world. He walked on, his thoughts drifting back to his past, he remembered a book he'd once seen, pictures of Paris as it had been. Not a long time ago, only sixty years, maybe less, but in the short time Paris had changed drastically. The pictures showed a city aboveground, with only the Metro being below it, the boundaries were flowing and open. Now, although much of the aboveground city remained unchanged, it was hemmed in by high walls, through which there stood only carefully contolled entrances and exits. With the boundries in place the city had continued to expand, but in a new way, a whole new layer to it had been built underneath it, most of which were commercial centres, above ground remained housing and offices, the most prominant was the towering Avalon office. Posters of the Vice-President, Paul Dellenbach he thought the man's name was, littered the underground tunnel.

Thoughts snapping back to the present he realised he had arrived, a small unmarked door stood in front of him, a small brass plate on the wall beside it proclaimed the owner of the house to be a Mr. Jhon Fiorella. Knocking on the door loudly the man stood to patiently, after a couple of minutes the door was opened by, what is to be presumed, Mr. Fiorella.
"Here on time for once," the heavy-set man grumbled, "that's something at least. Here, take this."
The man thrusted forward a small envelope and vanished inside the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Slipping a piece of paper from out of the envelope he quickly read the instructions, then, slipping the paper back inside the envelope he burned them both, the ash falling gently to the wet concrete path.

Moving quicker now the man jogged along more tunnels, making sudden turns, darting down side alleys, the network of under ground streets like a maze of unimaginable size, yet instinctively familliar to one who was born in the streets below.
Now in a darker, danker part of the city of eternal night, the walls green with mold, concrete cracking and crumbling with the damp. One could be mistaken for thinking that such tunnels are never used. One would be wrong.
Though very few people know, those who do have a very short life span, the tunnels under the ground, the less commercial, are used as a theives highway. Over the years the Mafia have grown in power in those tunnels, extending them and connecting them, until, now, it is possible to travel from one side of the city to the other without seeing another person...and more importantly, without another person seeing you.

For in the city that Paris has become there are very few places you are not being watched. Cameras follow your everymove, always knowing where you are, watching. Since they were installed the cameras in these tunnels have fallen into dis-repair, and have stayed that way...that has been made sure of. So now there exists a means of travel to anyone who wants to stay unseen. With these tunnels under the control of the Mafia they have been extended, they travel far beyond the borders of the blue prints, beyond even the great wall surrounding the city above, smuggling has survived, and even flourished, inside the walls of the city, the carefully guarded walls and gates do nothing to stop the movement of goods, and people, in and out of the city. It is down one of these tunnels that the man travels, on his way to meet his boss. Someone he has never seen, though he meets him regularly. This time is no exception. As he slows to a walk he sees a bright light ahead, in front of which is a chair, he knows that within that chair, in the deep dark shadow, sits his boss, and he also knows that he will never see the face of who sits in that chair. Stopping just in front of the seat, his eyes watering from the bright light, he waits. Before long he is passed another envelope, as plain as the first, but this time it will not contain directions, this time it will have the details, his assignments.

Carefully tearing open the flap of the envelope he pulls out another typed sheet of paper, it's a list of addresses. Beside them are letters. Each meaning something different. Sometimes he only has to warn them off, sometime he has to kill them. Kidnappings and extortion, killings, anything that is needed he will do. It may not be a glamarous life but it does pay well.

Glancing through the list he is thankfull to see that he won't have to kill anyone tonight, although willing it is never a pleasent task, even when everything goes smoothly. Setting off once more, though slower, he walked through the damp tunnel, thinking carefully about his first task, how to accomplish it.
In short time he found himself at another exit up to the topside. His thoughts turned sour as he considered the rain. He'd managed to dry out in the tunnels, his coat only slightly damp, but as he stepped out into the weather he became drenched.
He could feel the icy water running down his back, his coat clenched tight about him he ran across the street and into a doorway. Luckily he didn't have to far to travel, his first destination was only one street over. Quickly he strode down the road, the occasional car or van whispering by, the headlights throwing his shadow into stark relief against the wall.

It takes him half an hour to walk across the city before he finally gets to his next stop. It's a nice looking place, even in this downpour, not far from where his night started, at Club 71. He no longer holds his coat closed, he can't get any more drenched. Idly he wonders if he shouldn't have taken the low road. It would have taken longer though and he is impatient for his bed.
He remembers there was something odd about this place, when he saw it written on the list. He quickly checks it, sheltering the paper from any more rain, and then sees what is odd, it's not one of his normal jobs, instead there is a small note written about it, but the rain has soaked the paper through and it is unreadable.
While he considers his options a noise from across the street brings his head up, slipping his hand inside his coat he loosens his gun in it's holster. There. A Movement catches his eye, someone is in the doorway, is it just coincidence he wonders? The movement came from the door of his next target. Then a passing car lights up the doorway, in that brief moment the scene is illuminated for him, the woman. The beautiful woman from Club 71 is being held by two men. In that moment he knows that that woman was his next target. He doesn't know how he knows but he realises he must do something to help her, to free her from those two men, whoever they are. He dashes across the street pulling his gun from his holster, he screams at the woman to run but it's no use, she's held securely. As he levels his gun to take aim something hits him. He wonders at first what has happened as he staggers forward and falls. Then he realises, he's been shot in the back. He tries to get up but finds he can't move at all. Dimly he hears footsteps splashing through the rain towards him and a foot appears in front of his eyes, but then that too fades and all that is left is the cold, the dark, until that too fades.

 

"Here they come!!" The shout ringing out through the clear morning air.
For the second time this day the defenders prepared themselves for the attack. Howling and screaming their war cries the enemy came, some carrying battering rams, some ladders, and more still just running for the walls, shields raised high, swords glinting in the dull morning air.
Every day it was the same. For three days now they town had been attacked, from dawn 'till dusk they came. Slowly but surely they were winning. The townsmen were tired each day and slept only breifly. The attackers were always fresh. After each attack they would rest while a new group attacked. More arrived each day to swell the opposing ranks while the town had no hope of reinforcement.
Soon, either today or tomorrow, it would all be over. The townsmen, the last defence, gone. The town free for them to ravage and pillage. To burn their way through, loot and destroy, then leave. The troops were almost at the wall, and already the next wave could be seen forming in the distance.
Then they were there. There was no more time for thinking, just the brutal act of war. The ladders slamming against the wall, drowned out by the screams and cries, the battering rams on the gate, the walls. Then, a new sound, metal upon metal. They had reached the top of the ladders, men fought for their lives, for their families, for their homes. Against them, men who fought for greed, for pay, for themselves. Men fell from the battlements screaming, the sickening thud as they hit the ground. The wet sound as someone was killed, a sword, a knife, sinking into their soft flesh, cries of pain. It seemed only moments later that the battlements were clear, the enemy either dead, dying or in retreat. The ladders still in place. Blindly men stumbled forwards to push the ladders from the walls. They threw men over after them, friend and foe alike. There would be no time to bury the dead. For funerals.
Then, a shout rose, the next wave of enemy forces was on its way. Fresh and trained, alert and fit they quickly covered the ground. Nothing stood in their way, there were no longer any arrows, nor were there any archers left. The few men left on the walls tired and hungry. Weak from the last battle. They wouldn't be able to hold. Not yet another attack.
This was it. With this attack they'd break through the defence. The women and children would stand no chance, raped and butchered in their homes. The enemy troops were nearly at the walls now, the ladders rising up, up, settling on the walls, and the men swarming up. The few defenders left bravely awaiting their fate. One of them reached the wall, but, just as one of the defenders was about to leap forward, to push him from the wall something hit the enemy soldier toppling him from the wall, then, suddenly, all around the wall the enemy was falling back, retreating. Amazed the defenders looked around to see what miracle this was, and there, on every wall, stood the women of the town, holding knives, saucepans, anything they had to hand. They had come to the wall, to fight with their men, to die with their men.
Before anything could be said a voice shouted out, "Here they come!!".

 

Once upon a time. After all, shouldn't all tales start like this? On a bright summers day, at the sort of time all such stories should start, just after having lunch, a father took his son to the zoo. Now, I know that this tale may be sounding rather dull, but I gets better...
They looked around the zoo for hours, they saw the mammals, the fish, the birds. Even a display of various insects.
After having a quick snack they checked their map, only one exhibit left to visit.
So, off they travelled.
Reaching their destination the child shrank back...
"What is it dad?" the boy asked...for it was a horrible looking creature, it had a narrow pointed face, long and thin, the body was covered in scales, dripping with slime. It opened its mouth breifly and inside the gaping jaws, behind the sharp fangs, the child could see something glinting, silver...its tongue...
It stood upon two legs, much as a man would, yet the cold, calculating look behind its hooded eyes betrayed a cruelty much more disturbing than that of a human, no love nor compassion lay in its heart.
"What is it?" the child asked once more...
"Why not read the sign?" the father said...
This is what the sign read:




Exhibit A - A Politician
These slimy, silver tongued creatures are often found trying to take charge of any animal near-by.
When frightened or cornered these animals will often try to flee the scene, often using a combination of lies and deception.
One closely related species are the Lawyers. See exhibit B.

 

It was like being born again, a new awakening, a new world.
Everything seemed to change, smells awakened memories, both of his own...and not.
Sights and sounds had new meanings, there was information about everything.
Thoughts and ideas swimming through his mind, nothing to do with him. Yet there they were.
The voices. Thousands of voices, all talking, arguing, discussing. All inside his head. A whole world.
Then, as he gained more control over this new world, the voices slowly faded, he shut them out, the ideas stopped flowing, his memories once again were his own...
A thought away though lay more information than he could ever learn, it would take several lifetimes to digest even a tiny portion of what lay in his hands, in his head.
Thousands of minds linked. Constantly sharing information and ideas. Working on each others thoughts, building on them. New thoughts, constantly forming, constantly building. An ever changing world. Growing. A network of minds, all forming something else. Another mind. Each part of this mind made from many other minds. The epic potential. The ability to create so much more, so much co-operation. New technologies designed with never a word spoken, nothing have to be drawn, diagrams existing only in the mind, yet available to all. Everyone adding to them. Here he was. A part of this mind. Just a single cell of a giant hive mind.
He opened himself to others ideas once more, letting his own thoughts float free.
A few voices, targeting him specifically, welcoming him, showing him memories, making them his own, feelings of warmth, of love, sent to him from them. No need to touch them, the feelings being sent, his own brain, sending them back, no thought involved. Automatic.
Opening his mind more, allowing more information to come to him.
Becoming one with this new world. Existing only in his head, the outside world fading as his new one was built. Reaching out to others, greeting them. All becoming one. Many minds, joined, all minds forming one.

 

HAHAHAHA!



Well Done...

That made me Laugh...

*Rates a 10*

 

lol. =D Thank you.

 

great I found this from february - looks like goat in the snow dont post here no more but their work lives on as a reminder of how bad literature can get

 

Are you sure you want to do this Ron? Digging up threads from the past tends to upset DD. It confuses him.