J - Jap

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“Kuwabara, kuwabara,” muttered Taro Himura as another white flash split the sullen sky. Across from him, the American lit up a cigarette, staring uninterestedly through the dust-clad window. The American's name was Brian but he preferred to be referred to as Bri.

“D'you want one?” Bri offered a cigarette to Taro, brown-end first.

“No, thank you,” replied Taro in perfect English, even though being offered a cigarette, by an American no less, was a rarity. Bri took a long drag on the cigarette, then removed it from his mouth to ask a question: “How's life?” Taro cast his eyes from the American and laughed quietly.
“Life is as it can be here, although I am grateful for small mercies such as yourself,” Taro smiled. Bri returned it briefly before taking another drag.

“Not meaning in any way to be rude, but why am I here?” Taro asked. His question was initially met with silence.

Looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling with those blue eyes, the American replied: “The same reason all you Japs are here, I suppose. But even I don't fully understand that reason.” The room had been filled with a light grey haze, but Bri continued regardless, “We just do what we're told to do, no questions asked.”
“Forgive me,” Taro said apologetically. “I mean, why am I here? In this room?”
“You ain't in trouble if that's what you're thinking,” Bri met Taro's eyes for a brief moment, the lightning flashing through the dusty windowpane and illuminating Bri's eyes. “I just wanted to talk. Ain't no harm in that is there? I mean you're just an old man, and you won't be causing trouble, will you?” Taro was taken slightly aback, and he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair, adjusting his walking stick. The thunder, following in the wake of the dry, imperfect shaft of light, resounded in the room.

“It may seem that way, but... what is the phrase you use? Do not judge a book by its cover.”
Stubbing out his cigarette on the round table that sat between them, Bri leant forward and asked, “Now why would you say that?” fixing Taro with those cornflower eyes. Taro was not intimidated or not to be intimidated, although the American's demeanour did not seem threatening.
“I used to be a soldier.” No longer than Taro uttered the word 'soldier' Bri had begun to laugh.
“Now that, I did not know old man!” Bri rose from his seat and went to the cabinet behind him. He took out a bottle of Tennessee whisky and two glasses and set them on the table, pouring a copious amount in each glass. Bri pushed one of the glasses to Taro, which slid unaided before him. “Now this is gonna be good,” Bri gestured with the bottleneck, before placing the bottle onto the table. Bri's chuckling ended, and he gestured for Taro to talk.

“Yes, I was a soldier,” a glint of defiance showing in his eyes, “a long time ago. There is a story which was passed down in my family, of the byakkotai warriors, or the 'white tigers'. They fought against the Emperor for a freer Japan. I am descended from one of those warriors, and I am proud to be.”

“But I thought all you Japs loved your Emperor? Your boys are dying out in the Pacific for him as we speak,” Bri cut in, surprised.
“I will tell you the reason soon enough.” Coldness entered Taro's eyes for a moment, then he continued. “I was a young man seeking adventure at the turn of the century. I looked to join the army – believe it or not, I used to be quite fit.”
“I was a member of the Imperial Army in 1904. We were then given orders to mobilise, because the Russians had started moving East towards us. I wasn't shipped out until early 1905, to a place called Mukden. It is now called Shenyang.” Bri downed the whisky, putting the glass forcefully onto the table. He stopped drinking for a moment and leaned forward, apparently interested.

An explosion of light accompanied Bri's words: “What happened at Mukden?” The thunder burst from the sky like an angel's scream. Uncharacteristically of Taro he took the whisky, downed it, and slammed it onto the table.

A sudden harshness accompanied his words: “It was not a battle. It was a massacre. Scores of men died that day, and for what? An incompetent Tsar and a bloodstained Emperor.” Taro shuddered at the thought of the violence – cannons heralding death, vast choirs of soldiers destroying the other, thousands of still-warm dead littering the ground with thousands more marked and yet to be claimed. “No... That is not valiant. That is not honourable. We defeated the Russians by surrounding them.” Taro smiled a bitter smile. “Throughout the campaign my comrades switched the 'o' and 'a' in my name, and called me Tora on account of my battle prowess. But when I saw those same comrades dying, screaming, clutching at bloody stumps and crying for their mothers, the Tiger lost its appetite.”

Bri seemed to be in deep contemplation: “The codeword for the attack on Pearl Harbour...”
“Yes. Tora Tora Tora. Tiger Tiger Tiger.” Taro sighed, resting on his walking stick. “I had no desire to be a soldier anymore. All spirit was knocked out of me at Mukden. I moved to America, and led a quiet life. I told no-one about it, and simply meted out a living by doing honest work. Of course, me and my wife were the first to be hit by the Depression, being a racial minority of course...” His eyebrow furrowed as he spat the words: “A Jap.” At this point, Bri downed his whisky, unstoppered the bottle and poured another pair. Surprisingly for the old man Taro downed the other glass he was given. Taro stared into the table, as if willing answers from the gnarled wood as the lightning illuminated his pained face. “My wife... she simply gave up. She died terribly young for these days, but I guess that cannot be helped.” The thunder growled outside. Hoisting himself up on his walking stick, he said: “I suppose this Jap should be returning to his quarters.” Taro turned and made for the door.
“Taro.” The Japanese man stopped his shuffling. “Stay here tonight. Take my bed. I'll sleep on the floor.” Bri had stood up, pleading Taro with his eyes.

“Sorry. But this old, worn-out soldier does not need your pity.” Tora opened the door and stepped into the inclamence.

>-S->

I - Iridescence

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The first thing I always notice about a person's face is the colour of their eyes. I have held the opinion for a long time that the eyes are the most attractive physical aspect of a person, and that much can be told from them. The owner may speak falsely, but they never lie. I can remember the colour of many people's eyes – I have a good memory of them. And I never forget a truly stunning pair of irises, from either a male or female. It's the part of the face I like to observe the most, especially concerning the latter. It is rare that I forget someone's eye colour.

Eye colour: light brown/honey

Further observation: a pure, scintillant colour which appears to glow like a distant star. The colour within them appears to be perpetual, mysterious. Reflect a carefree, friendly personality without any observable taint.

Eye colour: dark blue

Further observation: irises are flecked with even deeper tints of blue, in a pattern not unlike lightning. The depth of the colour is indiscernible... yet the colour remains. Reflect a powerful, determined personality yearning for freedom.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a pale, azure colour not broken by any pattern. Reminiscent of a clear, cloudless sky. Reflect a laid-back, yet devoted personality impacted by an inner feeling of halcyon.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a lucent blue colour comparable to cornflowers. Spiderwebbed by lines of pale yellow. Reflect a hard-working, intelligent personality which observes and knows more than people think.

Eye colour: dark brown
Further observation: the levels of melanin in these eyes is beyond anything I have formerly seen. Dark, smouldering eyes the colour of dying embers amongst firewood. Reflects a caring, intense personality which is ever loyal.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: fascinating, predominantly brown eyes. Sparse explosions of green which look like ivy spreading across a tree – the pattern is uniquely articulate. Reflects a amiable, complex personality who lives for their aspirations.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: it is occasionally difficult to pinpoint the exact colour. They are darker at times, yet the small flashes of green are ever present. Reflects a-

>-S->

H - Hamartia

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When you woke you were out of bed. Standing up. You had never before been so calm. It was not at all strange to you. Nor were you concerned that it was dark. You were not scared. More intrigued. You had never seen anything like this before. You have no visual memories. Your eyes were missing then. But you got them back. And now you used those eyes to look upon it. It looked so neat. So thin. It was taller than you. Taller than 'Mummy'. Taller than 'Daddy'. You knew this because they were there with it. 'Mummy' and 'Daddy' said nothing. You assumed they were like you. No theory to how it was possible. The small heart in your small chest beated slowly. No anxiety at all. You wondered how anyone could be so tall. You had never saw anyone like it before. You saw a suit and tie. Clad entirely in black. Impossibly long legs. Impossibly long arms. You could not see its face. You concluded it was something to do with his hat. You felt a spike of jealousy. It had more arms than you. You should have more. It stood watching you. It stretched out its left hand. It stood far away but his arm was long enough to reach you. You touched its finger which was more of a blade, long and sharp. A bit of blood came out. A umbral manifestation and the flashbacks started.

It seemed to be that it had followed you throughout the entirety of your painfully short life. It was as if you were a observer to your own eulogy. For as it were, you had assumed the guise of it. You were present at your own birth, your blind eyes and scrabbling hands reaching out to that same perpetual abyss. Like a unrepentant futility-filled denizen of that same unrelenting vacuum.

A little later now – you were in the family room. You watched yourself sit by the fire, holding a book upside-down. What are you doing? Asked 'Mummy'. I'm reading, you replied. With that a single tear crawled down her face. 'Mummy' didn't realise the tear was swiped before it hit the ground like some precious garnet.

Years. Those people had given your eyes back to you. You would have thanked them, but you had no idea of gratefulness, of sympathy, of love. These things did not exist to you, in parallel to spirits refusing to apparate before the living. But you did. With malicious intent... You remember vividly the first thing you saw -not 'Mummy' or 'Daddy'- but yourself as you were now, looking on a bygone self. It was as if you knew – you did not register or fear your presence. You just knew, and acknowledged it.

Thus the tautology came to a close. Your form had not shifted. You looked upon little you, so out of touch with the world. The two people who had protected you, tried to issue you some kind of emotion were gone. Their forms cast away like mere chaff. They begged you to give yourself your eyes back. You had agreed but there was never a truly pure covenant with you. It was delightfully ironic to think they did not provide to you what their autistic child could never provide – specifics, details, intricacies. That was their sin – and once last life was to be stolen in penance. They let you in... and you will take them out. You try to resist, but you can't stop yourself. The process of self-elimination had never seen such an artistic method. You extend your arm. Your small form seemed ever smaller by your spectral size. Your small form, intrigued, also reached forward. “NO!”

>-S->

G - Garotte

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When I was young, relationships with other people were simple. I had my family, my peers and my friends. My friends were simply that - all were equal in my eyes. But after primary school and moving through adolescence, I realised that there were different degrees of friendship. There were those people who I would perhaps give a brief nod to in the corridor, and others with whom I would spend the whole of my school days if possible. Concerning some, it was as if the world had turned on its head. Some who I had been close to would not receive even a prolonged glance in their direction, although sometimes something stirred within to speak to them; I don't know why, maybe for fear of them forgetting me or not wanting to bother talking to me again.

However, as I noticed this, something was confirmed of which I had had a suspicion for a while. There were not just degrees, but there were different groups. In my life, there was and still are several. These groups are often united by their uniform interests in each other and other subjects; occasionally they stray from another group because they dislike a person in said group. I like to think of myself as a 'drifter'; alas, it is not always the case. I guess that some of my previous loyalty to my friends' attentions has made me believe that. There are some people whose friendships I neglect, and I feel bad because I don't spend enough time with them.

But, on the other side, there are always people in these groups who will say things about other friends which I disagree with. Things which, I'll be honest, sometimes make me rather angry or annoyed. The problem is, however, is that if I speak against them, then they will think I have betrayed their trust which usually is not the case. This makes me feel like my opinions are restricted, and my moral obligations to my friends mean that I cannot express myself fully.

I guess as a side-note I probably should mention interests which go beyond friendship. So far, there have been few who I have had these feelings for, and even less of those who I have succeeded in making my feelings known. Like many immersed in infatuation, it can be difficult to break away from 'that person'. And yes, I cannot say that these feelings do not influence my behaviours towards others. But we're all human, which is why I write this: we all make mistakes, but there is a fine line between that which happens as a result of mishap, and that which has its wheels deliberately set in motion. But I digress.

This is why I have called this piece of writing Garotte; speaking freely is no longer allowed. And thus the noose tightens.

>-S->

F - Frumentarius

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3. October 165 CE: Entry 702

I am at the end of civilisation. Nothing but the dismal knolls of this barbaric land enclose the recently commissioned settlement of Luguvalium; the timber is plentiful here, yet the ground is as untamed as its inhabitants. Our cohort is already displeased with the place. Though I know they are courageous, their morale has decreased due to the rumours passed back from the Wall. Rumours of the painted ones pulling our soldiers from their posts, and butchering them like savages.

Regrettably, dealing with them is part of my task. I have been assigned to the Luguvalium cohort of this Legion, which is based at Eboracum. We have one vexillatio posted here, comprised of roughly a century and fifty auxilia. I am told that we have held a fort here for 31 years; however, the former fort had become weak and required rebuilding. No difficult task for us of course; part of a legionary's training is building a palisade, among other things.

Legatus Regulus Gurges came to visit today. The last time I had seen the man was back in Eboracum, in the same circumstances; still surrounded by his Praetorian Guard, dressed in his tired centurion armour and glorious plumed helmet, undercut with the scarlet tunic. The man was a Praetorian himself as was required by a legatus; he had even served as one of the Emperor Hadrian's bodyguards. He had reminded me of my mission, but dealing with these militaristic tribes is impossible. It appears that all legionaries are to be killed on sight, which would mean a disguise. What an affront to my honour. Even if I were to disguise myself like a common spy, I have it on good word that the guerilla groups are watching our camp built atop this hill. The natives can disappear and reappear like spectres. This place is nothing like our pure-blood state; the sun never appears to us here, rendering our tunics insufficient for these climes.

I had to inform the Legatus of the loss of one of our vexillarii, Aelius Structus along with some of our recruit legionaries as they were ambushed by a party of tribals. The tribals were repelled and many came back alive. Though our losses were few, the Legatus was furious. Apparently the centurion bore the brunt of the Legatus' almost divine wrath, of which I had not encountered but heard much about.

It appears at first glance that nothing can be done about these primitive Britons. But the Roman army always finds a way; the liberti can testify to that.

Taken from the diary of Ignatius Corvus, frumentarius with the legion Legio VI Victrix

Vocabulary:

CE – synonymous with AD (Anno Domini)

Luguvalium – name of a Roman fort; now known as Carlisle. The fort was built atop Stanwix Hill, but present-day Carlisle Castle was built on the site of the Norman castle established by William Rufus in 1092.

'The Wall' – the famous Hadrian's Wall, built along the Anglo-Scottish border.

'Painted ones' – the local tribes would often coat themselves in a pigment named woad to intimidate enemies in battle.

Cohort – a group of men separate from the rest of the Legion.

Eboracum – present-day York.

Vexillatio – refers to part of a Legion broken off from the main force as a vanguard or garrison.

Century – a 100 legionaries.

Auxilia – simple warriors; fought in much less compact formations than the centuries.

Legionary – a member of a legion. Elite infantry.

Legatus – often anglicised to Legate. Equivalent of a modern-day general, and the highest rank of command obtainable in a Legion. Legatuses must have obtained Praetorian rank in order to become one.

Centurion – the commanding officer of a century. Notable for their plumed helmets.

Praetorian Guard – highly prestiged infantry commonly used as bodyguards, frumentarii, torturers and other roles.

Vexillarius – (pl vexillarii) standard bearer.

Liberti – freed slaves. Often enslaved as a result of the conquest of their tribe.

Frumentarius – The Early Imperial secret service. Many were also of Praetorian rank. Sometimes acted as an ambassador to conquered (or soon to be conquered) tribes.

Legio VI Victrix – The Victorious Sixth Legion. Posted in present-day York at this time.

>-S->

E - End

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“Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I had grabbed the sentry as he was passing by. Such a secluded location seemingly allowed no chance of an intruder. Intelligent, I thought, but not intelligent enough. My gloved hand was held tight over the sentry's mouth, though not too tightly as to incur lack of consciousness. I held a combat knife to his back, the slightly curved blade delicately close to lacerating a nerve in his spinal column. I imagined the steel must feel like an icicle in these inclement conditions.
“Do you know the best thing about snow? It muffles your screams.”

I flipped him round to face me, the knife now curled around his throbbing carotid artery. He was shaking violently.

“Even try to cause something I'll disagree with, and I'll cut your spine and leave you to die paralysed in the snow. Understand?”
The sentry nodded fearfully. I removed my hand from his face, still keeping the knife firmly at his neck.

“How did you-”
“Silence. I'll be asking the questions.” I glanced down his uniform; he'd pissed himself. I couldn't restrain a smile but I hid it as a grimace. “Hand me your blade.” Struggling against the force I applied to his neck, he pulled the knife from his chest strap. I snatched and threw it into the blizzard. Impatiently, I pulled the MP-443 from his holster. Backing away, I told him: “Give me your rifle.” Slowly, he slung the AK-74M from his back and threw it on the ground. Cautiously, I edged towards the weapon and grabbed it swiftly. I removed its magazine and hurled it into the snow. By this time I could see that the blizzard was easing up. Excellent. At this point I brandished a black, leather-bound suitcase I had brought with me, the only weapon apart from my combat knife.

“Get changed into these,” I ordered. The sentry's eyes widened at this peculiar demand.

“But-”

“Now!”

The sentry was now dressed in civilian clothes. Clothes which were inadequate for the weather, but distinguished him both from snow and friend alike. For reasons unknown to him, he had been ordered to return to base by his captor. He had soiled himself in his uniform; he was at least spared that embarrassment from his comrades. He carefully descended the snow-bound slope of the hill leading from the mountain-face. He decided his superiors must be told. He looked towards the ridge where he knew a sniper was posted. He wondered if the sniper could see him. Then he heard the call: “Freeze!” and seen the soldiers aiming AK-74Ms at him, closing in.

“Get down on the ground!”

I had watched the entire event from the vantage point atop the hill. It was all I needed to know.

16 minutes later, I had mirrored my captive's behaviour. I had tread the snow down to the facility; I had been caught by the garrison posted there. I was now in the middle of a compound yard, with 8 soldiers scattered unevenly around guarding me. My objective was behind the officer interrogating me; a circular titanium cover sank into the ground. I scanned left and right. At least 6 soldiers to the left judging by the steaming of their breath. 3 to the right. One either side of me.

Begin.

MP-443 right.

Draw from holster.

Semi-automatic pistol.

Hold to hostage.

1 bullet one life.

Officer goes down.

16/17.

1 bullet one life.

Soldier left.

15/17.

Confusion ahead of me.

Grenade on jacket.

Pull pin.

Push forward.

1 grenade four lives.

Three hostiles.

2 o'clock.

Retrieve AK-74M.

Fully automatic assault rifle.

17 bullets three lives.

13/30.

Eight hostiles.

9 o'clock.

Find cover.

Storage crate.

Hostile gunfire.

Strafe sideways.

13 bullets-

Click.

0/30.

MP-443.

5 bullets three lives.

10/30.

Diversion.

Left into building.

End.

I was now deep in the bowels of the nuclear beast. I kept moving despite the angered shouts behind me, my steps resonating louder than I would have liked; except there was nothing but the siren and the fiery glare of red light.

I found myself in the control centre, in the computerised cortex of this juggernaut. It appeared everyone had abandoned their stations – yet...

ICBM LAUNCH: 0:00

LAUNCHING

I had failed. For the first time I had failed. All I could do was auscult to the hissing of the hydraulics. Feel the fall. And observe oblivion.

>-S->

D - Deterrence

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“We require your help, 0.”

The words resounded around the unlit building like a metallic war drum, calling me to aid them. The relaxing cold darkness kept me from view as I inhaled, the acidic taste of rust prominent in my mouth. I would not have it any other way; I am obscure, the last thing they never see. I am the shadow of every room, with a thousand guises.

I raise my head to speak, “Why should I do this for you?” The suited blonde man tilted his head, a mirthless bitter laugh escaping his pale lips. His façade was unconvincing; I saw that his hands were pale and shaking.

“Why? Because if you don't, the entire world will fall into ruin,” his wrinkled, ice-blue eyes stared blankly into my cloak of umbra, as if he were trying to pinpoint me. I considered this point – the time was mine to spend.

“Tell me Mr Craynor, do you have a family?” It meant nothing to me on a personal level, but I believed there was more to the man.

Mr Craynor sighed and bowed his head, “Yes, a wife and two children.” Always an ulterior incentive.

“Surely you have been allocated a place in a shelter?” A glint of defiance scintillated in his callous eyes.

“Yes, but a post-apocalyptic wasteland is nowhere to raise a-”

“So, you would rather have me do this for you for your family, than in a professional sense for your superiors?” I had shaken his core.

Mr Craynor's gaunt face reddened in shame, even in the brumal conditions: “Yes.” He took a step towards me, “We will pay-” then froze as the click of a hammer being pulled back echoed harshly in the warehouse.

“Do not insult me, Mr Craynor.” I lowered the handgun which was pointed directly at his carotid artery, just south of his neck. “I am in no need of your money. Why, I could walk away right now. You would never track me down...”

“NO!” Craynor's loud voice had startled the bats, summoning an uproar of distress. “No...” he sank to his knees. This man put on a good show, but underneath, he was simply a cheap jack crying his wares.

“I told you to be truthful with me from the start, Mr Craynor.” I said quietly. “Stand up.” Craynor stood ramrod upright, using one leg to push the other. I gave him a moment to gather his thoughts in his sunken head, then asked a question.

“Mr Craynor, why should I do this for you?” His head snapped upwards to face me – unsure whether I was visible to him, he glared directly at me nonetheless. His face was a reflection of passionate desperation, fuelled by an engine powered by a nugget of hope.

“For my family,” he begged, his smooth voice wavering, “Do it for my family.” I glanced disinterestedly at the two jet black suitcases lying on the ground.

“Leave the money. I will contact you.” Mr Craynor's heartbeat was audible, pulsing like percussion. Soundlessly he about-turned and walked away.

>-S->

C - Chrysalis

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“Once upon a time, Zhuangzi dreamed that he was a butterfly, flying about enjoying itself. It did not know that it was Zhuangzi. Suddenly he awoke, and veritably was Zhuangzi again. He did not know whether it was Zhuangzi dreaming that he was a butterfly, or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was Zhuangzi. Between Zhuangzi and the butterfly there must be some distinction!” - The Complete Works of Zhuangzi - Free and Easy Wandering, Section Two: Discussion On Making All Things Equal

Zhuangzi didn't know where he was; it was as if he had just risen. He opened his eyes to darkness. He felt that he was trapped inside something. Then suddenly, a shaft of light. It pierced the tight umbra like a butterfly sword, but then again Zhuangzi wouldn't know. He was outside of his time inside this confining structure. With much difficulty, Zhuangzi pushed himself from his natural prison. Something wonderful had happened! He stretched his antennae skywards, basking in the midday sun. He contemplated his situation. I... am a butterfly. He unfolded his wings, allowing them to warm in the glorious glow. He had meditated upon his dream a lot throughout his afterlife, and it appeared that he had been born again. He knew then what he must do. With a slight struggle, Zhuangzi pulled his legs out from the inside of his sanctuary, and crawled from the mould he had made with his thin, slender body. His proboscis extended slowly, testing the warm air; it was summer, but not as he remembered it. He felt that the temperature was right, however, and took off. It was difficult at first, he knew, but he managed to flutter to a nearby leaf, its soothing humid surface warming his feet. The taste of his childhood came back to him. He looked back at what he had left behind, his chrysalis rocking slowly in the breeze. Zhuangzi silently thanked it with a silent observation, and flew away once more.

Zhuangzi saw a lot of things he didn't recognise. Much of what he saw did not belong in nature, the ugly cuboid structures daring to defy the powers above. Yet Zhuangzi was at peace, at one with himself and the world.

As quickly as a butterfly wing-beat, the temperature dropped. He could feel his wings getting weaker. I need warmth! He had only just begun his reincarnation as a butterfly – he had forgotten that it could be taken away just as swiftly-

Once again, there was darkness. But also, there was warmth! Zhuangzi felt an peculier ecstasy of fear and safety. It was like being in the chrysalis, but without that certainty of security. The walls of this new prison felt softer than that as he explored, but Zhuangzi had to be careful of his wings. Then, as if it was a gift from the Three Pure Ones themselves, the confines of his cage unfurled, letting in the sight of the pure jade-green colour of nature. Zhuangzi could see two humans; they appeared to be children. I am not of them any more... Zhuangzi was thankful that the child had learnt the virtue of mercy. They were both dressed strangely, but Zhuangzi could see that the teachings of his time were still remembered in these strange times. As if the child had heard his thoughts, he swiftly raised his hand up into the air, letting Zhuangzi fly free. It was at this moment, in the summer air, that Zhuangzi realised; humans and nature are one. Just like being at peace was being at one with the world, despite the ying and yang, they were indivisible.

There was no distinction between Zhuangzi and the butterfly. Zhuangzi was the butterfly.

>-S->

B - B

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And then I was born. I am proud of myself. I am the first. I glance down to realise I have no navel. That proves it. The protective web between my eyelids is washed away. I feel weightless. Things are latched to my arms. I open my naked eyes for the first time. Unable to move them.  Movement comes gradually. There is a slight and sweating man. Has a clipboard. A shudder as my heart begins to start. Pulsing. Throbbing. Movement has came to my neck. I turn my head left. More men. With navels. I would like to sneer but I cannot. My mouth does not yet work. Not even my tongue. So it cannot open. Just as well. I remember to breathe. There are tubes in my nostrils. I am born with a bounty of knowledge. This is why my birth is the ideal birth. No growing up to do, no dependencies. Only the purpose is important, my purpose. My purpose is innate, pre-natal. But only now do I realise that my motive is to kill. My body is a weapon, and like any other weapon it was made to be utilised. I don't know who I belong to. I think I belong to myself. Yes. Blood has flushed into my respiratory system. It's flowing to my muscles, carrying oxygen. But it's also carrying adrenalin. This is it! My purpose! I study the glass before me. I have enormous potential for myself; I will rid the world of those with navels. I am the beginning of a superior race. The glass erupts in a clear-as-crystal explosion, scattering to the four corners of the room. The amniotic fluid spills onto the floor, but I am left floating. They're shouting something, the men. I can't understand; language isn't vital in my development, especially when I don't need a mouth to communicate. Much like I don't need appendages to manipulate the world. The only world I know is in lockdown and they can't escape, the men. I waste no time in beginning my task. Rushing towards one, I grip him by the neck; the trachea is crushed beneath my heavy hand. Death by aerobic deprivation and tracheal collapse. I held him too hard, I'll try another. What did they say? Practice makes perfect. I grab another by his fabrics and throw him to the floor. He's dazed, but he'll live. Not for long, however. I took him by the neck as I did the last, with a fraction of the strength used previously. I held him and scrutinised him. Clearly terrified. A forgettable face. I stare into his eyes with the fastness of my grip. A surge of memories rush into my head; a whole life is played before me in 10 seconds. I find it hard to concentrate; it is annoying. I regain my vision to find I have dropped my target. Breathless as the corpse on the other side of the room, he tries futilely to escape. I place the force of a thousand upon his crown, which bursts like my glass capsule. Death by cranial fracture. The blood fuses with the amniotic fluid. Another, another! I'm impatient, so I hurl one across the room towards me as easily as when I kill a man. Bending to my will, this one adheres to my psychokinetic command and rises to face me. He is floating in the air as I am. Something moves within me. His lustrous eyes watch as I raise my right hand, the fingers clenched. I then raise my smallest finger. He goes rigid immediately. I hear a loud crack as his spinal cord begins to erupt from his back. With each finger raised, a bone rose to greet it. By the end of this punishing treatment he is very much dead. Death by spinal dislocation. Suddenly, I fall to the floor. My head begins to heat up. Blood flow increases to my head. I let out my first post-natal sound, a deafening roar which smashes all the glass in the room. My vision goes red. I see nothing but life and men and I want to end it all I will end them all...

Later. The room is awash with the corpses and blood of the slain. I don't know what else to do. I catch a reflection of myself. It is lavishly coated in the life-force of the dead. I look just like a human. But I do not frown. I smile. I smile because it will help me blend in. Like the clothes. That's all the clothes are really, a disguise. I then realise that blood is supposed to stay inside the body not outside. I'll have to sort that later.

Having assimilated the memories of that man, I find that I can now read and write and talk. It is then that I realise with great anguish what the patterns of ink mean on that shiny white surface. It reads: Subject A – stable. Respiratory system functional. Nervous system functional. Cardiovascular system functional. Muscular system not functional.

Subject B:

I was not the first.

>-S->

A - Ambition

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I guess that this ambition of mine cannot truly be achieved. Someone once said that unattainable dreams are the best kind, but I'm not so sure. Once you know for certain your ambition cannot be achieved, well, it all falls into place doesn't it? You cannot be that which you want.

Someone I know said their life ambition was to ascend to space but their physical restraints meant, like me, it was impossible for them to be what they want to be. This is the closest anyone has ever got to understanding this disappointment of mine.

When you're a young impressionable child, your parents say you can be anything you want. My choice of profession has changed over the years, I must admit, but whose doesn't? No-one is ever really sure how they will turn out, not even in adolescence.

You see, I've always admired the sky. How one day it can simply be a grey shroud encapsulating the atmosphere, then the next it can be as limitless an azure as the sea below it. How birds have the freedom of flight, yet our wings are clipped. Of course we now have aircraft and, seeing as they are the closest thing to the sky, I've taken a keen interest in them.

If you showed me a picture of an aircraft (particularly military aircraft), I could probably tell you what it was named; or at least its codename. Hip, Little Bird, Warthog, Thunderbolt... these are probably all words you recognise, but did you know they are all NATO codenames?

In my opinion, the most beautiful aircraft ever made is a plane, and that plane is the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. Its smooth, black sheen and its arrowhead shape epitomises the aeronautics industry. Its service as a recon plane is now discontinued due to the breakthrough of new reconnaissance devices, mainly satellites.

I find the story of its secret development fascinating; the sort of clandestine science hiding behind the Cold War paranoia. It makes me wonder what they did with it.

This is why I'm more disappointed than ever. Because it means I'll never achieve my ambition. It's performed its soliloquy and bowed its last bow, and now the curtains have been called.

Not necessarily of course, associated with the Blackbird... but I wanted to be something I never could, perhaps deluding myself in the process. I wanted to be a pilot.

>-S->