Red Devil Chapter 1 part 1

These things always have beginnings. Shit just doesn't magically fucking happen, there's a build up. Whether we know it's there or not is to be decided, but it is most definitely there. And you know, if no one wants to tell this fucking story, what with the apocalypse and all, I bloody will. Shit used to get passed down by word of mouth, why not start it again. When in Rome, fuck a Roman, right?

For me it started while I was in a conference meeting where my boss was telling me pretty much how big of an asshole I am and how I don't do my job very fucking well. Who's the clown now you dead motherfucker. I digress. Anyway, he's yelling and spit is flying everywhere, it felt like he was hiding a fountain in his esophagus, and turns that shit on every time he wanted to speak with personally. Well he's bitching and moaning about some T.I.S. reports I failed to turn (read: didn't give a fuck about) when we both hear this collision. It sounded like something out of a Michael Bay movie, shit is just flying everywhere. People are screaming and sirens and alarms are going off like crazy. Pretty awesome, right? Well, we're both peering out when this guy, some quiet bloke who normally kept to himself and ate ham sandwiches on rye every fucking day, bursts in through the conference door and stares at us with bloody horror in his eyes. He looks at the two of us and screams "People are going mad in the streets! There's violence everywhere!" My first thought, is oh not again. There have been little riots in recent weeks, nothing spectacular, you know, a little violence, a little robbery, usual stuff. It was always weird to me though, because in the videos on the news you could see guys in those big yellow suits, the kind you would see on people handling biological shit, like viruses and what have you. The fuck would they be doing at a riot scene? That and they were spraying down the sidewalks with this weird blue chemical wherever these dark stains were that kind of looked like blood, only much much darker, leaning towards black. I was wondering whether the shit really hit the fan this time when I saw panic guy get tackled by what looked like a gangstered motherfucker, his chains swinging as he took panic guy to the ground. It hadn't registered, but a lot of the screams we were hearing were coming from inside the building as well. I ran to help panic guy, until I realized that G-Unit junior was ripping his fucking throat out with his teeth. It's pretty racist I know, but my first thought was "Oh shit, some rapper's gone and made a new fad." Then I looked around and saw a bunch of people just as fucked up as he was. Some lady in a nice, but bloodstained sun dress was nawing on this guy from accounting's leg while he was crawling to get away. You could see the blood trail from his wound, the bitch didn't seem to give a shit that her meal was moving. Hoping that gangster would stay with his meal, I did what any red blooded american would do: I grabbed a keyboard, crossfaced my boss with it, picked up a monitor, knocked that bitch out so that guy can get the fuck out and went to the stairs.

Instruction

The days grew steady as practice and delivery reached perfection. The chaos of battle broken down into fundamental form, then sampled out to the recruits inn hope that they can handle the taste. In retrospect, there was an antiseptic, antibacterial form to the SRS (Soldier Recruitment Service). Not literally of course, but the training sessions were meant to help develop a tolerance in the soldier, to build an immunity to the torrential, impassionate fields to follow.

Precipitation

The rain came in, as expected. Housing ourselves in state supplied tents, essentially a composite of Cervidae parts. The skin, sun stained and smooth, canvased the frame. A square structure made of bone, connected by a strong adhesive derived from melting the ligament and fat then mixing it with the inner lining of the Cervidae intestine. The typical Cervidae can create a tent that houses a unit of three. I see your face, curious as to how I know. I told you, I ask alot of questions and Sampson was always more than willing to supply me with an answer.

The war was never far from my thoughts. The battle of Sobral had just ended in State victory, thought casualty count was high for both parties. We lost 10,000 soldiers and Sampson always had a way to put it in perspective; " That's the entire population of the Callin District. Every person living in Kennedy: dead." Scanning the other soldiers present for his words, I noticed a realization in many eyes. For quite a few, this was their first batlle, their first taste of the reality that is war. The thought of everything they knew, their very existence being negated brought every facial gesture to a halt. The abstract gained recognition, personal. They could feel the lives they had taken gaining shape. What was once the enemy suddenly had a face, a family and meaning all their own. Existence brought battle to a personal level, placing fear and doubt into everything they fought for. The thought occurred to me; what was the intent behind Sampson's words?

Apprehension

There is a fear in me. I've only recently discovered it and yet it holds the sensation of antiquity, as if it was passed to me in ceremony. It eats at me in the quiet; the places in a man's mind where nothing else dwells. The place where hope dare not tread, lest it be swallowed by the abyss that is despair. It is sporadic in its exposure, a slow acting poison that never quite leaves the system, it merely allows the bearer temporary relief of symptom. Unfortunate that the cure exists always........and never.

Amore Dos Mundo

She spoke to me, quite frankly, and I wanted more. I wanted every word to become a part of me, to lay seeds that would spawn

"It's wonderful isn't it? Often times I would grow hostile towards the outside. Everyday I see death and destruction. I see the bodies of nameless soldiers littering fields that once served a purpose other than a makeshift cemetery. Those who still have a name rarely escape unscathed. The wounded arrive back to the City-State to be treated, but some wounds cannot be mended by medicinal means. Patches and slings hardly replace missing limbs, and those that return to the small, outlying village receive even less in the way of benefits. And really, what do you tell a blacksmith who's hands no longer function properly? What pittance can redress a lifetime of uselessness? I see all of this, the widows silently morning their broken bones, the disabled crying out for what had once been, I see all of it. I know you don't think so, I see it in your eyes; you think I'm some ignorant girl, lost in a world that doesn't concern the Insecta, but I assure you, my position as hunter and trader of the villages affords many perspectives of the City-State."

Her words were bitter wounds of reality, carving into my very being. Funny though, the thing I felt more than my own discriminatory thoughts paining me, was the amount of admiration I held for her.

"You would think that I would be bitter as a result of these sights, but all it takes is one; one little girl to smile at you, to give you thanks for a trinket I made to pass the time, a flower and a smile, a smile filled with youth and absent teeth, the kind of smile that is so genuine that you cannot help but believe hope exists, that not everything is wrong or destroyed, that real faith exists and the world can be better. Wonderful isn't it?"

Desultory

"Have you ever observed an ant before, or any insect for that matter? Its movements are curious, at least to my eyes. It appears to come and go at random, its purpose and direction guided by the lay of the land. It cares no more about where it has been, ever focused on where it is going. That, then begs the question; where is it going? Does its movement warrant intentions, do its legs carry motives? Is it simply searching for the next meal, or does it simply meander and if it recognizes a useful piece of its life's puzzle, it acts accordingly? I seem to be full of questions, but it simply goes to show what even the tiniest of creatures can illicit in thought. What do you think, Garrison?

Sanctorum

We arrived in short time, the Sanctum brimming with practitioners ready to give their senses to the unknown. I was simply pondering the string of events that lead me here. In retrospect I knew, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not. Sampson and his wife wore typical garments suited for practice, purchasing myself some as well since I sold any superfluous items in my possession to become a hero (eventually). It was my only goal in life, what did I need of respectable garmentry when my armor spoke for me in all situations. The architecture of the church of state was incredible. Intricate designs in front with several pillars, seven to be exact, each plated with an outline of important people and the moments they created, a summation of the seven times, points in history that lent to the creation and success of the state. If this interminable war would ever end, that moment would undoubtedly become the eight pole.