This blurb is from around the same time as Desperate Times. In fact, I'd reread the piece, found it lacking, and attempted to start over. There's a decent amount of material to this entry, some of which is on target for where I was trying to take things at the time. Taken in the face of "obvious reasons", it's all obsolete- but good practice, nevertheless.

This piece has been titled posthumously, as it has not had one until now.

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On the March | Sometime in early 1999

Words come and go, flowing through the conscoiusness like forgotten, unwanted dreams. Where once there lay only the most fervant desire, there lies a crater, evidence only to the removal of the urge, the will, the way. The means now lie in hand, but in the quest for those means, the goal was lost sight of, become lost and intangible. The music sings, an ever so inaccurate tune- we are, in fact, living as far as we can take our selves from the edge. Somewhere on the hard drive or alloy disks lies a story, begun near to a year ago this month, fervently borne in a bored night in a house of little energy and much clutter. With two weeks to go, a rewrite is thought of in passing. Perhaps a pre-write, or a detailing of some sort in some way. Something has to be done, at the expense of what?

Nothing.

With nothing to lose, where lies the motivation? It doesn't. It lies stripped, devoid of life and quivering slowly, its life blood running from its torn, shattered carcass into the cracks in the road. Rose colored puddles spread out from it, waiting to freeze in a time whne it should quickly do so, in weather in which the tempurature wil very likely stay at or above fifty degrees for an unknown time into the future. Early December and late September- little detectable difference but for the lack of leaves and perpetual gloom, the early nights and late mornings. Tell the others. Call the medic. Listen for the distinctive ping of the scanner band as it searches through the dark, looking for something, anything- a police pickup of a drunkard, the wreck of a pickup into the front of a mobile home, sex crimes, murder, blood soaked hands and muddy, defiled feet in the cold mists of home.

Let the mind off the leash and witness the results. The hearts filthy lesson, it falls upon deaf ears. Deaf eyes, deaf mouths. The eyes function but do not trul focus, as do the ears, only vaguely aware of the tape hiss and the rattle of Bowie on the stereo. There is, or should be, work to be done.

Well then.

Do it, right?

On a side note, one would not notice if abruptly, a hunting party of the sons of Cain were to let loose on a small town in central Noram, would they? Camauflaged members of the black army slip through the trees to wreak havok on the rest of the world, damage in return for injuries delivered millenia ago. The death of Able, so richly deserved, and the subsequent expulsion from Eden. Time heals wounds the way a shotgun stops a headache.

I

For the First Army of the sons of Cain, or any person outside the annex of realities to be present inside the annex requires the departure of an equal number of the living from same. A terrorrist attack, a virus, an incidental explosion. The events of the daily news mark a slow, measured inlfux of the sons of Cain into our world, on their own terms.

There should be snow on the ground. There should be a chill in the air, a cold wind at the very least. Wind, rain, sleet or snow- some sort of heavy weather in order to mask their arrival. There always was- it was a tradition. The Fleet came at their enemy from the sun. The marines came at them from the storm, be it snow, be it rain, be it the hail of a nuclear blast or the freezing calm of arctic wind, they attacked through heavy weather, to prove their prowess and there enemies lack thereof. It was good for morale, good for the feelings of the troops of the First Army of Cain to get out in the field, slink through the trees guided by wits alone, to murder with sword, with knife, with polearm and cudgel. Archers and crossbowmen with poison-tipped arrowheads backed them up, a lethal hail of metal rain added to the freezing chill of the blizzard, the numbing cold of a monsoon, the scalding heat of a sandstorm.

When Greymalkin, the First Wizard of Bravo Company dropped one hundred of the sons of Cain into the contested realm, they were expecting hard weather. They were prepared for waist-high drifts and temperatures in the twenties or lower. They expected snow and were dressed for it. They were a bit surprised by the warmth of the woods, temperatures in the mid sixties, and a warm, light breeze at their cheeks. Greymalkin shrugged when questioned about it, having no explanation and caring little to manufacture one. He was their ride, nothing more. He brushed snow from his shoulders and strung his bow, checked to make sure the harness of his submachine gubn was secure. In the dark of midnight, he issued orders to establish parameter and issued a changing arrangement so that the troops could chnage out of their heavy, recently inappropriate deep snow gear. Chain mail and leather creaked as soldiers shed thermal cloaks and wraps, checked weapons, checked safeties, and drew swords. Jenson, platoon cyborg and communications specialist, conferred with Greymalkin about their next series of actions- did they in fact have the right realm, or had Greymalkin shot them off to a different target by accident? The purple-haired wizard had to know.

Jenson was wired to recieve premium cable, all satellite communication, the movie channels, military and civilian bands, and Global Postioning. He also had access to the Line and local planetary internet through the lump of hardware implanted in his skull. The antenna pods steaming out of the bck of his alloyed head twitched and shivered as he freed his machette from its scabbard. He stalked silently uphil, to the nearest clearing for optimal reception. Five minutes later, platoon suspicions were confirmed- target reality and position were in fact solidly under there feet. Weather was predicted to last for several days, at the very least. Local entertianment programming was of disputable quality, and the military band was quiet. The only sky activity was their own, further evidence proving Greymalkin's infallability.

The wizard smirked as he drew his hood over his elven-featured head. The cloak he wore melted slowly into his surroundings, leaving only a smudge of white at his face and hands. Right hand to head, first and fourth fingers forward, borught down in a rapid gesture to the southeast. Move out.

Time to kill. The wizard chuckled as he inserted the com wire into his ear, tapping local scanner radio and his units scrambled frequency. Tonight would see an end to the Terran Insurrection, the rogues gallery of Red Company, and any problems the sons of Cain were having in this part of the world. Greymalkin waved his unit forward, wood-patterned camouflage, leather and chain fading quietly into the night.

The woods, quiet for the entire ordeal, seemed as an outdoor mausoleum with the sudden departure of the quiet army.

Sometimes Silence is Deafeining.

If the quiet of the December night was to be anything, it was to be thought of as "unnatural". In the deathly quiet, the thunderously explosive drone of a decellerating tractor trailer in the distance was all it took to rattle the average man. Fresh from the city of Pittsburgh, where such annoyances shared there complaints with his ears on a daily basis, Thaddeus Gallahad slept through it, feeling nothing, hearing nothing. He slept in his clothes, curled in a ball on the floor of Kendrick's bedroom, his overcoat a blanket, his hat a night-mask. He slept the sleep of the dead, mumbling and muttering occasionally, for the dead are restless in thier repose. The metallic slam of industrial guitar looped its way through his head, rattling around as he dreamt. The truck registered the way a fly on the wall does- an irritant, nothing more.

The hoarse hammering of the deisel engine woke Kendrick with a jolt. The young man had spent the early part of his life in the suburbs of Philadelphia, and had long since shook off the damage that noise pollution had wrought on him. The distant growl faded into obscurity as his eyes opened, his fatigue slipping back into the depths of his Id from whence it came. He lay stil in his bed, ears straining, searching for the source of the noise that had woke him. It did not repeat itself.

He sat up, the blue comforter falling to his lap in the dark room. He threw it aside, against the windows of his rool, revealing jeans, a t-shirt. Kendrick did not wear nightclothes. He folded his legs cross-wise and ran his hands back through his wavy brown hair. Were he tired, he would have yawned. Thad muttered on the floor, changed position. Kendrick heard him move, did not see him. It was pitch black, blackness from outside without the aid of the curtains. He saw nothing, save for the clock, its digital readout glowing redly in the night to his left. He twisted to read it- five past three in the morning.

Shit.

He was wide awake for no good reason- it would be hours before Thad would rise unassissted, and He had no desire to waken his friend prematurely. He needed sleep- they both did. Or at least Thad did, now. Kendrick debated turning on his bedside lamp, decided against it. Better to go downstairs, maybe for a glass of milk. Maybe for some video games. Maybe for something. He swung his legs over the edge of his matress, swept his feet around until he found his shoes. Shod, he stood and slowly felt his way past Thad and to his door. The hinges squealed in protest as he pulled the planks toward him, barely enough to slide out without furthr protest of the ancient house. Thad mumbled something unintelligible and twisted his head. Kendrick could hear the hat hit the floor as he closed the door behind him, as much as was possible without causing any more noise.

Sometimes Ignorance is bliss. More often it is otherwise.

Bravo Company was not the only platoon in the Safe Area who was up late. The First Army of the Sons of Cain had another, rogue force in the area, that which Bravo saught: Red Company. When Greymalkin had looked to the sky, searching for the tell-tale red lights of FASC Aircraft, he had let his arrogance take the place of caution, and assumed that those lights were his bretheren. On that assumption, he had lead his troops through the woods masked to eyes only, thinking he had every advantage over his quarry, including air support.

If he were right, things would have turned out much differently.

One of the red lights that this part of Northam was so used to seeing belonged, in fact, to Red Company. The silent engines of a small space-capable command ship pushed its crew in all directions, holding it still in the air. While the altitude and position of the angualr conveyance were stable, attitudes aboard the command ship were anything but. Had it been summer, a passing bird would have heard the screams and commotion, and avoided the small island in the sky like it would an excited dog. It was the wrong season for birds, and the tyrade inside went unnoticed by nature.

Ars-Allen Tantek, renegade Cyborg and commander of half of Red Comany held steadast and loudly to his position in argument and bottle of whiskey in hand. The bottle was more than half gone, and tantek was showing no effects to speak of. He had little choice but to remain seated in the tight confines of the craft, but he managed to be opposing nonetheless. He thunked a thumb against his alloy chest, creasing the fabrik of his tightly-fitting black shirt. "I know what I saw," he half-shouted in a clear voice, unslurred by drink. He slammed the whiskey bottle down on his console as if to prove the point, "The Regular Army just 'ported in a platoon, about twenty miles from our present position! They have a tin can and their Centurion is a magician. They were there," his finger left his chest to point at the ground radar board, "not five minutes ago. I'll play it back if you don't believe me." He crossed his arms over his massive chest, his antenna raised out form his head in an aggressive manner. He swiveled in his chair, bringing one arm near to the playback controls.

Sorceress Raven Haltibowski made a play for the undefended whiskey bottle, snatching it off of the observation console just ahead of Tantek's swing for the same. "So what you are telling me," she asked in a husky voice, "is that our opposition has made another move into our territory?" As Tantek nodded, She backed around to the co-pilot station, holding the bottle behind her and out of his reach. "Well then, why, and, more importantly, how, would they be doing this without our knowledge?" The copilot felt her pressing against his seat and reached back with his free hand. Raven dropped the liquor bottle into it. "You sure you're not completely sauced?" Hands free, she spread them wide, fingertips brushing the walls on either side of her. Tantek harrumphed and leaned back in his chair, putting his giant boots up on the console, which creaked in protest. "You're the mage," he hissed in anger, "You tell me." Sensing his mood easily, Raven decided to back down from the topic.

"Okay then," she slid past the big Cyborg, "Why? The regular branch of the FASC, our "Black Army", as some of our friends might call them, has been working on this planet elsewhere, further south: the center of government. Between their occupation there and the movements of the main force a few thousand light years away, they've been too tied up to even reprimand us, let alone even bother to send an emissary. Why would they send a platoon here? We can handle that much easily." Raven leaned against the rear bulkhead, lost in vocalized thought. "Unless they've got a wizard, or they found out about our experiments, or..............." Her blonde hair shook as her head snapped up, locking her gaze with that of Tantek. "Which test subject did we lose during the last summer?" There was harsh, diamond hard ice in her voice, tempered with an equal measure of dread.

"We lost two," Tantek told her, "as you may remember. The incident at the northern camp cost us Raine Lager and Payne Grimfeather, and we almost lost Reaya. You were there."

"I was," Raven nodded, " I was also in a coma when that happened. Thad and Kendrick have been to Erroth before, last year: thanks to that little accident, we stopped a FASC troop movement into the area and cut their communications. They could handle it, and would know how to get away. Raine has probably committed suicide or died by now, which leaves Payne. They probably got him to talk, and ran every test they could on him. I'm sure your blue-haired doctor friend enjoyed herself." She smirked.

Tantek looked cross. "Hey," he said defensively, "It's her job, okay? She takes orders from the highest ranking officer on the scene. I was lucky it was me the last time I saw her. If someone else comes in with one of our experiments and says 'figure out waht makes him tick', she'll do it. Or the hospital is cut off. So now the FASC knows everything, or at least as much as Payne knew. And they sent in a whack team. Suggestions?"

Raven covered her face in her hands, slumped against the bulkhead, drew them down slowly. She stared at her metal co-conspirator over her fingertips. Her voice muffled by her hands, she issued her orders. "Get Thad and Kendrick, as soon as possible. Make sure they're willing to come along. Tune in to the local police bands, keep your ears open for anything suspicious. Lets hit the ground, consolidate our forces, and see what happens."

II

Action and reaction in the blink of an eye. One cannot exist without the other. An event must exist in order to precipitate action, the action in turn a reaction to the event that precipitated it- action is reaction, and reaction, action of its own. A phrase spoken in jest can trigger a war, and a war can trigger a peace, sowing the ground ripe for the seeds of its offspring. War since the time of Eden grips the galaxy. What is the skirmish of the moment- a result of these actions or a trigger for them?

Bravo Company was making good time. With no transport, no energy weapons, and no communication, thy had covered near to fifteen miles in the three hours since there arrival on Terra, all on foot, all at a fast walk, all of it fully armed. Silent boots trod leaf-littered ground as a hundred warriors spread out into five teams, the teams in turn undergoing mitosis into four smaller squads, bowmen, pikemen, and crossbowman. All carried assault rifles and grenades- distinction was made by hand-held mellee weapons. Any idiot man could pull a trigger. Any man could dress up in armor and stalk around the woods an hour before dawn. Intensive training is what kept him from being heard form a mile away. Intensive training kept his hands on the hilt of his sword and off of his gun. Blades were silent- in such small numbers, bullets would call attention easily and spell doom for Bravo Company. Even a silencer would leave the distinctive stench of gunpowder in the air.

Graymalkin seemed to glide over the earth, feet above the ground, moving forward on will alone. Within his cloak he was a wraith, barely visible. With subtle twitches of his fingers nad eyelids he sent coded pulses over the teams's com system, innstructing them on direction, rendezvous, and number of kills to make. None, unless expressley ordered to do so. The targets were to be kept alive. Their escorts were disposable, as were local law enforcement troops and anyone who got in their way or saw them- no exceptions. The wizard smiled as the replies came in, his grin cracking broader as the advance squad reported their positions. Through it all, not a sound was made. His platoon was the night itself, moving quietly through the dark of early morning, sliding around the outskirts of a small town, only two miles from his goal.