Green Sky, Blue Grass.

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Emma smiled. Her eyes sought a light she could not see, and her brain whirred with a hyper-capacity beyond normality. To the outsider, it would seem as if Emma was in seventh heaven, or some variety of it. To the outsider, they would see a tall, slim girl with a halo of dark hair and large blue eyes slightly glazed over, laughing at some unknown joke.

Emma’s laughter was a shield. Emma was on one side of the shield, and the rest of the world was on the other. In Emma’s version of the world, everything was white and gold and transparent. She saw only the truth as it was told. She believed only what she heard and could tell was true. The other side of the shield was false, like an ultimate reality Emma would never be able to reach.

A group of lanky teenagers wandered past where Emma knelt on the ground, by the flowers. Emma tilted her head, but didn’t look up at them; instead she seemed to focus on the ground. On the green, green grass. A colour she didn’t understand. She heard their idle chatter, felt their normality and envied it. She envied the fact that they had friends and could exchange pleasantries on the colour of the sky – blue or grey or black with impending thunder – or how they had done their hair.

Emma felt their footfalls pass, and looked up, under a fringe of black hair. She seemed to watch the sky. Birds swooped and looped and pirouetted gracefully in arcs and Catherine-wheels; the trees danced and serenaded passers-by with their branches; the wind toyed with people’s hair, lifting it and brushing it across their foreheads – Emma could see none of this.

Emma smiled. Her brain began its vigorous sprinting once again. To the outsider, she would appear to be a graceful, kneeling girl, watching the insects play with the flowers. To the outsider, she would seem happy, or at least, content.

Untrue, it was all untrue. To Emma, the sky might as well be green. The grass might as well be blue. Emma was blind, and her world was white and gold and transparent. To Emma, everything was not as it should be.

~H

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->

The Siege: Part One

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There I was. Waiting. In the first large courtyard of Hungate Castle. This courtyard was the closest one to the Badlands, which is where the enemy loomed. Just outside our castle walls there was an army only distinguishable by the terrorising war-horns and the echoing drums from beyond. Trying to intimidate us. I stood proudly at the top of a column of soldiers; my soldiers; my garrison; I was in charge of roughly fifty men that held a sword in their right hands and a shield in their left. They looked so scared. Dressed in predominantly metal armour, but with flashes of red cloth from underneath they obeyed my every command without hesitation. Looking around I see identical columns of troops standing adjacent to mine, there’s at least twenty, all standing, waiting. Every single soldier had one word rattling through their mind like an unwanted pest scraping on the inside of their worried skull: Defend.

It was tense when the officer rode up on a large brown stallion; the officers’ name was Sir Pasco. Wiping sweat off of his brow with his gauntlet he boomed,

“The King has issued the order, do whatever necessary to defend your homes! Do whatever necessary to defend your family!  And do whatever necessary to defend your King!” to which every swordsman, archer and spearman exclaimed dedicated cheers, including me. “King Rulf has made a mistake by trespassing within our lands with his weak army!” continued Sir Pasco. “They will not be alive to make that mistake again! May the Gods prove this battle, short, easy and casualties a few. Best of luck my brave men!” He ended his speech and rode off back in the direction he came from, wading through loud cheers and war cries.

I turned to my men, gave them a long and trustful stare then shouted, “Onto the walls!” and with a point of my gleaming blade lead my fifty-few up a narrow staircase onto the first defensive barrier between us and the enemy. On the stone wall stood archers, each at their own crenel overlooking the fearsome Badlands. I stopped and shouted, “Take position along the wall and fend off any ladders that you encounter. Any enemy that makes it onto the wall, kill them!” I strode over to the crenel as an archer moved one step to the left and saluted me. Looking out was a sight I would never forget, an uncountable number of men stood about eight hundred metres from our castle walls, each garbed in a dirty green colour with cheap chain mail torso’s, sword in one hand, shield in another. Among the army were various contraptions including catapults, trebuchets, battering rams and ballistae that would tear down the walls we were stood on like it was scissors going through paper. The archer gave me a worried look when I patted him on the shoulder and wished him luck. Further along the wall I spotted one of our own ballista sitting upon a formidable looking square-shaped tower, it was basically a giant crossbow that sat and fired giant bolts over a great distance. Not far until the enemy will be in range for them to impale the dogs. I thought.

Giving my sturdy men a reassuring glance I sat and waited for a mere seventeen minutes before the enemy drums stopped, the war-horns creased and the emanating sound of ugly shrieking exploded from eight hundred meters away and drowned any possible sound from escaping anyone’s lips, every green dressed soldier ran at the feeble walls crying one single word and holding the note until it formed an uniformed scream: Attack.

>G

The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil

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Penguin Phil was a penguin. Obviously. Also, his name was Phil. Likewise obvious. Penguin Phil lived in the South Pole, for, as I’ve mentioned, he was a penguin. Called Phil. As David Attenborough has time and time again showed, the South Pole was not an overly pleasant place to live; it was indeed overtly cold. So, times weren’t always easy for a penguin. Especially ones called Phil. For Phil, who was, as I’ve laboriously stressed to you, a penguin, had asthma; asthma is trait rather unbecoming of a penguin. Such as Phil. As penguins need to waddle and swim and fish and whatnot, indeed, one could say, that the life of a penguin was a rather active one – not to say on par with that of an Olympian, but compared to a sloth for instance, they were practically Michael Phelps. So, as you can see, asthma was hardly a benefit to a penguin like Penguin Phil. Although Phil wasn’t in as poor a state as he might’ve been if he was something other than a penguin, a puffin for example. Although it was a great annoyance to penguins, particularly Phil – because he had a drink problem – that they remained perpetually grounded on terra-firma, whereas puffins could fly and glide and swoop as they wished, Phil couldn’t deny that he was hardly a prime candidate for that excess movement. For he had asthma. And was a penguin. Called Phil.

Life is rarely easy for penguins, including and especially Phil – because he was after all a penguin. Called Phil – especially when one lives in the South Pole. The snow is all consuming, the cold is all engulfing and, to be honest, there’s not really a lot to do. For penguins, of which Phil was one, don’t have electricity – as they have no means of building or inventing, as they have no hands, merely flippers, as they are, you must remember, penguins. So Phil, a penguin, couldn’t idle away his hours watching TV or playing on Assassin’s Creed (which was a shame, as, despite being a famed asthmatic, Phil was a fan of free-running) so he had to otherwise occupy himself. Phil was quite content to whittle away his hours, sitting in front of his igloo – for the very best penguins, like Penguin Phil, do of course live in igloos – contemplating many a thing: why is Pi such a long number? What colour does a Smurf go when you choke it? And what is the meaning of life? Phil was a contemplative penguin.

Yet, one day (Penguin Phil didn’t recall which, because penguins aren’t overly good with dates. And Penguin Phil was a penguin. Called Phil) contemplating was no longer enough for Penguin Phil. That day, of which Penguin Phil didn’t recall the date (because he was a penguin. Called Phil) was the day that he decided he was going to get a job. And that’s where this story ends, but the story of Penguin Phil goes on

Penguin Phil will return in the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!


WJ