txjax
There is no truth greater than the edge of a blade. If you are hit you die. If you hit you survive. Swords were songs. Daggers and knives were words. And killers...killers were poets.
The cities had all come together to give tribute. It was a heavy price to pay, made only slightly lighter by the fact that it was demanded only once every ten years. It was enough time to rebuild and recover. It was enough time to raise a child. And in that time, the crimson lady Telma would return
I needed no decorations. There is no point behind them. There is no need to have a pretty bullet when all that the bullet does is kill people. The gun does not have to look pretty when it's been dragged through mud and water and waste, it just needs to work.
In motion, constant motion, she couldn't slow down, couldn't stop otherwise she'd stop and slow and stop. She'd die. So she ran and ran and blurred into the air and ground and her feet were wings that carried her high into the sky.
"This configuration is all messed up!" the blond man sighed throwing up his hands. "How the hell do you manage to fly this thing without getting blown up to bits?"
"A little bit of trust," the young woman answered bending down to deliver a light kiss on his cheek. "That's all."
The maze went on for miles and miles forever and ever. He breathed a lungful of dust and coughed it out as he strained to see past the light of his torch, squinting into the darkness. Deep in the shadows he felt something watching him, waiting. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and chilled him to the bone.
Odds were against them, but then again they always were. Only one thing was different this time. They were looking up to him. His crew. His compatriots. Dare he say it? His friends. Perhaps even his family. Well, maybe not that far. After all, no one ever bothered to remember his birthday. But as they all looked up to him now, he could not deny the fact that somewhere inside of him a glimmer of hope was ignited.
Epiphany. A sudden realization had just struck me on the head like the baseball bat of some murderous killer sneaking up on me from behind. It hurt a little. I saw stars and lights and lasers and then nothing. Blackness. And I realized something. Like anyone who had a good epiphany did. But then I forgot it. It was as if someone had knocked the information out of my head by smacking me from behind with a murderous baseball bat.
He was filled with passion. He was filled with skill. What he did not have was purpose. A passionate swordsman couldn't do much when he knew not what his sword aimed for. But he needed purpose less than food in his stomach and air in his lungs. Purpose didn't sate his thirst. So even without purpose he was satisfied. He didn't have to do much--sit and stand around with his sword and look mysterious. That was enough to keep most people at bay. Most others were deterred by the number of similar swordsmen who were beside them.
"So you have no idea what you're doing?"
"This isn't like driving an automatic!" Jeff screamed as he spiraled in the air. Smoke and flames sputtered out of his feet as he watched the mountains grow larger and larger beneath him.
"Um...point with your head?" Andy suggested.
"What kind of stupid advice is that!?"
"It's what the super heroes do in comic books," the voice on the other line replied. "It's why super heroes look like they have sticks up their butts when they fly."
"If I die, I'm going to shove a stick up YOUR butt!" Jeff replied.
"Yeah, well, point your head and, according to Spider-man, the rest of your body will naturally follow. If you die...well, I'll still be here waiting for that stick."
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