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Fiction Park / The Other One. Chapter IV
« Last post by newchinaren on August 19, 2019, 09:12:55 PM »
Mike looked left and right. The street he was in was one of those wide, new ones, with trees and landscaping designed to let you know that only expensive people should tarry there, unless you were one of the people who cleaned up.  There was no one else in sight.

Lacking inspiration from the surroundings, Mike looked the school fence over once more.  The gate, which was a large black iron one, and wouldn’t have looked out of place at the entrance to hell, was closed.  A camera, speaker box and push button was situated at a convenient height next to it.

Mike made up his mind.  He was close now to Her, he somehow knew that, and an iron gate wasn’t going to stop him. Pushing his borrowed bike away, he secreted it behind a convenient bush.  Then, glad he’d stopped to dress up before he left, he smoothed down his jacket and walked back to the gate.


Mother Superior Overseer Mary Strikt was busy praying when her secretary knocked on the door.

“What is it child?” she asked, resisting the urge to take stronger action.  She had been going through assistants rather quickly lately, and this one showed at least a modicum of promise.  “I am in prayer, you know - I don’t wish to be disturbed at this time.”

“For give me Oh Mother Overseer,” said the young woman, pulling at her habit.  “There’s a young man here, he says he is a wealthy investor, and would like to look around.”

“Who?” Mary stood up and put her whip to one side. 

“He says he is Micheal Strobowsky, he owns some social media company, and he is interested in enrolling his daughter.”

“Is he now?”  Mary nodded.  Social media was the invention of the devil, and as such, this man could be useful to her school.  She took her seat behind her desk and nodded.  “Send him in.”


Mike stepped into the large office somewhat nervously.  He had never been comfortable around religion, assuming that any deity worth their salt would be mostly disapproving of most of his life so far.  This school though, was more unnerving than he’d expected.  The corridors had echoed, and  the only noise he’d heard, other than his and the nun’s footsteps, had been strange chanting from the classrooms.

This office was even more unnerving.  It was a large, plain, room.  The floor was some kind of dark polished wood, and the walls were plain white, with the sole exception of some kind of, rather creepy, symbol painted on the back wall.  He didn’t know what it was, except it certainly wasn’t a Christian cross. 

Slap bang in the centre of the room, behind an enormous wooden desk, sitting in something that was more throne than chair, was a thin, stern looking woman.  She was dressed in a slightly fancier habit than the single nun who had escorted him into the school, once he’d managed to blag himself past the gate.

Her outfit was made of a finely cut black leather, studded with small stones that could not be diamonds.

The nun, the head of the school he’d been told, stood up in one smooth motion and smiled, an expression that looked like she was trying for the fist time. 

“Please, Mr. Strobowsky, have a seat.”  She pointed at another chair, sitting in lonely isolation on Mike’s side of the desk.

“Ahem, well, thank you.”  Mike lowered himself onto the chair.  The sister looked on, and then sat herself.

“Now, how may The Holy Mother Synthia’s Puritanical Boarding School for Young Girls, (aged eight to sixteen) help you?” she asked.

“Well, ahem, I have a young daughter, and I, er, heard this school, I mean, a frien… acquaintance of mine, recommended this place.  I was wondering if I could take a tour.  I didn’t mean to take up  your time of course.  Maybe your assistant?”  He gestured behind him.  The other nun, from what he could tell beneath the robes, had seemed quite young and friendly. 

“Oh, every parent deserves my full attention I can assure you Mr. Strobowsky,” she replied.

“Please, call me Mike,” Mike said.  He’d made up the name on the spot, and was rather regretting it, and he was even more scared someone would ask him to spell it.

“May I ask who your acquaintance was… Mike?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.  Mike felt as if she was looking into his soul.

“Ah… I would rather not.”

“Very well.”  She paused.  “It’s just, well, this school is extremely… selective on the girls it takes.  Background checks are required, and other restrictions also apply.”

Mike waved a hand dismissively.  “Oh yes, I know, my friend told me all about it.”

“Did he?”  An eyebrow was raised.

Mike felt as if he’d just failed a test.

“Well,” he said, “in strictest confidence of course.  As a potential patron too,” he added for good measure.  Throwing the lure of money into the equation.

“And what of your daughter?  How old is she?”

“Oh, er, yes, Alice is, er, ten now.  Yes, ten.”

“She is a little old for entrance to our establishment at ten,” the nun said.  “However, it isn’t unheard of.  Assuming she’s strong enough.”

Strong enough?  Mike resisted the urge to frown.  Time to go on the offensive.  He leaned forward and put his hands together.  “I can assure you, Alice is up to the challenge.  As am I.  Now, how about that tour?  Or is everything I’ve heard here a lie?”

The Mother Superior raised her eyebrow again, but then nodded.  “Very well,” she said.  “Though you will have to sign an NDA before you leave.  I hope you understand.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Mike said, outwardly calm.   Inside he was screaming.

“Very well.  This way.”  The woman stood up abruptly.  Mike was startled to see she had acquired a long, coiled, black whip from somewhere.

Standing, he followed her out into the hallway.  Her footsteps clacked sharply on the floor, and, looking down, he thought he saw tall black stilettos underneath the robe.  He frowned.  Surely nuns didn’t…?

She stopped at a large wooden door and turned to face him.  “What is behind here is confidential, I’m sure you understand.”

Trying to appear at ease, despite his increasing alarm, Mike nodded. “Of course.”

“Very well.”

Reaching into her robes, Mother Mary pulled out a metal chain, not unlike what you would expect on a prison officer. At the end was a large ring, jangling with iron keys of medieval design.  Selecting one, she inserted it into the lock and turned, then pushed the door open and stepped through.

Mike followed.

And stopped.

Behind was a large hall.  Overhead chandeliers straight from ancient times, laden with candles, illuminated a scene that he would usually assume was the result of smoking something illegal.

Groups of girls were gathered in different areas, listening to nuns or participating in actions that were alien to Mike’s experience. 

He looked to the right. 

A group of girls, they had to be no more than nine, were dressed in short leather outfits.  A nun was pointing, with a long stick he noted, at a picture of a naked man on the wall.  She seemed to be highlighting tender areas to assault.  The girls were taking notes on tablets and laptops.

To his left four older girls, well into their teens, were standing around an intricate design chalked on the floor.  They were chanting in a language Mike didn’t know.

“Keep up please.”  His attention was drawn back to his guide.

“Ah, yes.  Of course.”  He stumbled on.

“This is our general hall,” Mother Mary pointed out. “Usually of course these lessons would be in their own classrooms, but whilst the renovations are being carried out we are slumming it.  Ah, here we go.” 

They had arrived at a large archway.  Beyond it, by some strange optical illusion, he could only see dark.

“After you please,” Mother Mary said, gesturing.

“Of course.”  Pulling at his jacket, Mike stepped through.

“Oh balls.”

He was in a torture chamber.  A literal torture chamber, with rack, iron maiden and all of the traditional pieces of equipment.  A group of year twelves were gathered around a restrained naked man who was in the process of having his belly slit open by one of them.  Again, notes were being taken.

“Here of course, is where we get to the nitty gritty,” said Mother Mary, stepping in behind him.  At the same time, two nuns, very large and burly nuns, stepped forth and glared at him. 

He looked at the Mother Superior.  “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Mr. Strobowsky,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, call me Mike,” Mike said.  He went weak at the knees.


Well, that wasn’t  at all what I expected.  Not at all.  But then, I’ve managed to secure some Vodka.  So I guess I know where my muse has been.

Anyway, what does Mike say/do now?  Let’s hear some inspirational stuff peeps!

Wizards Way / Re: The Ragnarok Chronicles
« Last post by newchinaren on August 11, 2019, 09:40:27 AM »
Oh, a very nicely written start there Bizzy!  :thumb:
Wizards Way / Re: The Ragnarok Chronicles
« Last post by Saint on August 08, 2019, 03:47:52 PM »
Biz is back! :wave:

This sets up nicely, although I'd give that second sentence another read if I were you.

I look forward to seeing the rest.
Wizards Way / The Ragnarok Chronicles
« Last post by Mister Biz on August 08, 2019, 08:33:07 AM »
The halls were filled with cheer and laughter. There was the sound of the fire burning in the fire, mugs clinking together, and the sounds of dozens of jaws tearing into a feast fit for kings. It was a good day. Men and women dressed in furs ate, drank, and made merry. These men and women were revered by lesser beings as gods. Their worship had decreased over the years but they hardly noticed. What was a couple thousand years to gods? As the men drank, golden mead spilling into their beards and the women feasted, wiping the juices of meats away with the backs of their hands, one figure sat alone from the merriment.

He sat with his back to the fire pit, his eyes focused on the main table. His eyes shone a bright blue as he examined the people at the table he excluded himself from. At the center was an old man, his flesh weathered and his hair wizened. A single stretch of cloth was wrapped around the spot where one of his eyes should be. One on side of him was an elegant woman dressed in a dress of crimson and gold. The other side of the leader held a man with short blonde hair and a thick golden goatee.

“Pay them no mind, dear husband,” a soothing voice cooed into his ear.

“They are fools, Sigyn,” he responded. “Down in Midgard, winds blow. The snow is gathering. The storm is raging. Fimbulwinter has begun and all they care for is their food and drink. They know what is coming. The Norns have decreed it.”

“Yes, my husband. They know. They are well aware of The Norn’s prophecies. What better time is there to drink and be merry. Once this Fimbulwinter ends, the battles will begin. Why not try to find peace now?”

“Because it is foolish. Look at Baldr,” he said, gesturing toward the blonde man sitting beside the cyclops. “It is foretold that I will be his downfall. Odin’s favored son, the god of war, and I will bring him down with an arrow of mistletoe. So why drink? Why not burn all the mistletoe on Midgard and the rest of the realms? Why not crush me before I can? Anything would be better than dining like a pig.”

Sigyn ran her fingers through the mess of black braids that hung from the top of her husband’s head. He turned and locked eyes with her. She smiled softly at him for a moment before letting out a soft sigh.

“Oh, dear husband,” she said. “It is because it is futile to go against the wishes of The Norns. They weave destiny together. So even if Baldr were to try to take precautions against you, nothing would work. In the end, you with your mistletoe will break the spell upon him and you will be his downfall.”

The figure looked at her for a few moments before rising.

“No,” he said, before rising. “The Norns have no sway over me. I will not be some pawn to a few old witches. If these fools refuse to act, then I will have to in their stead.”

“Loki,” Sigyn said, standing to meet him. “What are you going to do?”

“Simple. I’m going to defy The Norns. I will not cause Baldr’s death. I may have sired Fenris and Hel, and Jorgumunder. But I refuse to be used in some cosmic game to end the world.”

“How are you going to stop Ragnarok, dearest? It’s end is set in stone. Even you pointed out the Fimbulwinter is occurring. How do you propose to break prophecy?”

“Simple,” Loki said, smiling wide. “I’m going to introduce something new. In all the stories, it’s all death and destruction and rebirth and us fighting and mortals running and screaming and hiding. So I’m going to find a mortal. A simple mortal to do as mortals do best. Write a new Edda. Chronicle the epic of Ragnarok. If I’m right, their existence in events will throw The Norns plan out the window and we, my lovely bride, have a chance of surviving and being heroes instead of villains. If I’m wrong, then perhaps someone in the next cycle will read the new stories and be better.”

Sigyn’s soft smile vanished from her face as she reached up to caress her husband’s cheek, gently stroking the high cheekbone. She leaned up and planted a kiss upon his lips. Without a word, she gave him a nod. He looked once more to the table of the gods before storming out of the hall and heading to the bifrost bridge. It was time to find a mortal and prove that was more than just the trickster of the stories.He wasn’t a monster. He was a God. And perhaps, when all was said and done, maybe a hero as well.
Futuristic Skies / Re: Apocolypto (WT)
« Last post by Saint on August 06, 2019, 01:07:06 PM »
I've been rather distracted by stuff I've had to do in RL, but I haven't forgotten things.  I'll be adding more as soon as I get a chance.

Preaching to the choir my man.  Once I can sit down for five minutes I'll be working on my own and eagerly awaiting this.
Futuristic Skies / Re: Apocolypto (WT)
« Last post by newchinaren on August 01, 2019, 09:34:34 AM »
I've been rather distracted by stuff I've had to do in RL, but I haven't forgotten things.  I'll be adding more as soon as I get a chance.

Futuristic Skies / Re: Apocolypto (WT)
« Last post by newchinaren on July 21, 2019, 11:00:27 AM »
Thanks Saint.  Duly noted.  I'll leave this open for a little while longer, in case someone else comes along.  :)
Futuristic Skies / Re: Apocolypto (WT)
« Last post by Saint on July 19, 2019, 09:51:43 AM »
It seems the recorder has more info than anyone at the moment, so I'd try asking that what the hell's going on.
Futuristic Skies / Re: Apocolypto (WT)
« Last post by newchinaren on July 18, 2019, 07:26:19 AM »
Heh, apparently loads of ?s together generate smileys.  Never mind, it adds to the wonder.  :facepalm:
Futuristic Skies / Apocolypto (WT) Chapter I Part II - Dave
« Last post by newchinaren on July 18, 2019, 07:22:37 AM »

The metal thing was some kind of toy.  A small metal, old-fashioned steampunk style miniature thing, with a grill for a mouth and small red LED lights for eyes, currently off. 

Dave frowned.  What the hell was going on here?  He glanced at the three bodies that now adorned his place of work, in some cases in various locations.  His now ex-acquaintance had certainly done a number on one of them before succumbing himself.

Stepping over to the mostly-headless attacker he’d shot, he lifted the cape that covered most of the corpse. And screwed his face up.  The body was steaming, literally steaming, and it didn’t smell pleasant.  As he watched, the dead, for want of a better word, man, started to bubble and melt, taking his black leather garments along with him.

Stepping back, Dave watched as the assailant slowly and goo-ily spread out on his floor, staining it irretrievably no doubt.

“Well, that’s the most fucked up thing I’ve seen in a while,” he said to himself.  He glanced up.  The bar was empty.  All the patrons had obviously decided weird human-like people who melted were a step too far.

“Early closing then,” Dave muttered.  He looked at the tiny robot in his hand again.  If the stranger was to believed the melted men were after this.  Turning it over, he noticed a tiny button at the base of the back.  He pressed it.

Immediately the little machine became active, moving in an impossible, almost human-like way.  It’s head swivelled about and the now glowing eyes focussed on Dave.

“Urgent departure from this dimension is recommended,” it said, in a smooth male voice.

“Er...Yes?”  Dave replied.

“Urgent departure from this dimension is recommended,” the robot repeated, waving a tiny arm.

“Oh, well, sure.  Um...”

“Holder is new command user?” the machine asked, somehow sensing his confusion.

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Dave said.

“Stand by for induction,” it said.  “Hold device up to face.”

“What?” Dave asked, confused now.

“New User to hold device up to face,” it repeated.

Feeling foolish, Dave complied, holding the robot up and staring him in the tiny eyes.  “Like th...” 

His question was cut off as the robot’s eyes flashed, and a bright light pierced straight into his brain.  There was a brief, but incredible intense, moment of the most excruciating pain he’d ever felt, and then a small beep.

Staggering back, Dave slipped on the gooey remains of the melted man and fell hard on his back. 

“Damn!” he shouted grasping at his head.

“Induction complete.  Reboot recommended if available,” the voice of the robot said.  “Powering down.”

A distinct click followed, and once Dave could focus again, he saw that the small recorder’s eyes were no longer glowing…

Recorder?  Had he just called it that? 

Suddenly Dave knew he had. Because that’s what the robot was, an alien recording device.  Without any conscious effort on his part, instructions flooded into his head.  The only problem was they came at him way too fast to process, like someone babbling at him at full speed on how to build a nuclear reactor. 

“Stop it!” he cried to himself. “Slow down!”

Immediately the flow of information slowed, and he no longer felt like he was drowning in a sea of words.

However, before he could do anything about this new information source, the recorder activated again. 

“Enemy portal detected.  Relocation recommended.  Initiate transfer?”

“What?  Er, yes. Wait, hold on a second.”  Dave rolled over, wincing as he nearly cut himself open on the hatchet his dead friend had brought with him.  Grabbing the axe, he climbed to his feet and looked around for the gun.  If more ‘enemy’ were coming, that could come in useful too. 

“Portal initiation urgently recommended,” said the robot, which he was surprised to find he was holding in his other hand. 

“Fine, fine,” Dave said, finally locating the other weapon and, juggling the axe and the robot, retrieving the gun.  He managed to thrust axe and gun into his belt, where they were sure to fall out and land on his foot any second. 

Meanwhile, the recorded climbed nimbly up his clothes and stood on his shoulder, where, showing no signs of falling off, it began emitting a strange grating noise.

Dave stepped away from the melted man puddle and looked at the detritus behind the bar.  Amazingly, standing amongst all the broken glass, was an untouched bottle of vodka. 

“Just the ticket,” he said, picking it up. 

Before he could unscrew the top though, the noise the recorder had been making stopped.

“Transfer initiated,” it said.

The world turned white.

“What the fuck!??” Dave screamed, finding himself floating in a misty void. 

“User to remain calm, transfer is in progress.”

“Fucking transfer what the fuck help shit!”  Dave ran out of breath, and was just gasping for air, which at least this void seemed to have, to start again, when the mist started to dissipate.

“Transfer complete.  Target particle occurrence ninety three percent likely within twenty sectors,” the recorder stated. Then it climbed down into Dave’s shirt pocket and went still.

“What the fuck?” Dave repeated, but more in wonder this time, as he took in his surroundings.

He appeared to be in some kind of oriental fairyland.  Pristine fields stretched out to either side of him, with various unfamiliar crops of different hues waving in the gentle breeze.  Here and there some kind of field worker, dressed in what appeared to be green silk robes, tended the plants. 

Dave himself was standing in the middle of a narrow road constructed from earthy coloured brick.  It led away over a hill to his left. To his right it wound its way into a small village of some kind, with narrow, pastel hued dwellings that rose three or four stories high. 

Beyond that, in the distance, more substantial buildings were huddled together on a hill. Resting on the summit was a kind of fairy-princess castle, with impossible spires stabbing skyward.


“What?”  Dave turned, to see a small, wiry man addressing him.  He looked like the kung-fu teacher in the original Karate Kid, with grey hair tied up in a bun, and brown robes with dangling sleeves that covered his hands.  A long dagger was thrust through his belt.

“????? ????? ????” the stranger repeated.  Nodding gently and pointing at Daves’ hand.

Looking down, Dave saw he was indicating the bottle of vodka, still unopened.

“Er, sorry bub, no speakee Japanese,” Dave, the international diplomat, replied.

“???? ???? ???? ???? ?????” said the man, more urgently this time.

“Oh dear,” Dave muttered.  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more Toto.”

The gun fell out of his belt and landed on his foot.


Rightee ho then amigos.  The alien recorder finally makes an appearance, but I liked the little robot idea too, so, well, you read it.

Suggestions for Dave’s actions folks!  Let’s hear ‘em!
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