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Scion - Part 3
Ares leaned back on his chair, his face becoming serious. "I think it's time we had a little talk."
"Oh yeah?" said Cam, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The last time we met, you told me that the reason why those wolfspawn had attacked and killed my friends was because of me. I was just twelve years old, I'd just seen my best friends brutally torn apart and I was still in shock. You dumped a crap load of blame on me, convincing me that it was my fault they were dead. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
Folding his arms, Ares fixed his son with a hard and calculating look. "Wolfspawn are attracted to the divine essence given off by Scions and they're used by the enemies of the Gods to track down and eliminate Scions who haven't yet come into their powers. Those wolfspawn were hunting you, so what I said was true. If it wasn't for you, those four people would still be alive today."
Orin suddenly felt a shiver, causing him to back away from the table invo
MegaVolt - Intro
The gunman paced down the aisle keeping a wary eye on the small collection of passengers. His finger was tight on the trigger of the sub-machine gun he was wielding, its muzzle pointing at each of the passengers in turn. A college whose nose had been buried in a textbook, her ears plugged with earphones when the men had boarded the train. There was a pregnant woman who looked ready to pop, he hoped wouldn't go into a labour while they were there. A construction worker that looked eager for a fight, he'd bet his considerable cut from this job that he would try something at some point. In the corner at the back with his hands on his head and ducking behind one of the seats was a young burgundy-haired Hispanic boy, probably twelve or thirteen. Bet he was wishing he hadn't skipped school today. Sitting on the back seat on the other side of the bus and clutching his recently broken nose was an older Hispanic teenager with what he recognised as gang tattoos for Los Diablos, a street gang wit
WIP SciFi StoryWith a hiss, the capsule lid retracted; the white mist within spilling out onto the metal floor before dissipating. Inside the capsule, a young teenage boy began to stir as the effects of cryosleep began to wear off. Just as he awoke, metal restraints around his wrists and ankles snapped open and he stumbled out of the capsule onto the floor. He picked himself up but the sudden movement caused his stomach to start performing somersaults. "Oh crud," he said, his voice croaking with misuse, as he doubled over and vomited up the contents of his stomach. The boy sat still for several minutes trying to regain the strength in his legs and the stability of his stomach. As he sat there on the floor, he noticed something written on his forearm out of the corner of eye.
For a moment, he was confused. What was that doing there, who had written that on his arm with a marker pen? Then, slowly, an unsettling thought wormed its way to the front of his brain. Was that his name? Ever since waki
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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