2025-04-15 19:00:58
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Who Am I?
Death was supposed to be the end. I remember the heat of the fire and destruction around me, the acrid stench of burning metal and alien blood thick in the air. The sky had been a writhing mass of ships, their hulls blotting out the sun as they rained fire on what was left of Chicago. I was just a mutant—thrown into the meat grinder of humanity’s last stand. And I died there with a spear tearing through my chest. The pain was instant, then gone. Darkness swallowed me. No light. No sound. Just… nothing. Then—her voice. “John.” It wasn’t a whisper, wasn’t a shout. It was everywhere, inside me, around me, like the hum of a distant engine. I opened eyes I didn’t know I still had. She stood before me—if standing was the right word. Her form shifted, flickering between a woman in a long, tattered coat and something else, something with too many limbs, too many eyes. The air around her warped like heat haze, and the darkness bent toward her, as if afraid to touch her. “You’re
The End of me
The sky bled fire.From the gaping maws of the alien ships, hell was pouring down. Hybrid beasts in the thousands—skittering, shrieking, crawling—rained across the battlefield like a plague of biomechanical locusts. Their claws gleamed. Their mouths snapped with metallic hunger. Every step they took left rot in the earth. Every scream they gave peeled sanity from the minds of men.And in the center of it all—we stood.The first wave hit like a tsunami of flesh and steel. I met them head-on.I tore through the swarm.My arms were no longer arms—they were weapons, shifting into tendrils of bone, of blade, of fury incarnate. I eviscerated two hybrids in one swing, ripping their torsos from their spines, entrails whipping behind them like grotesque ribbons.A beast lunged, jaws spread wide.I caught it midair and ripped its face in half—top from bottom—exposing the twitching meat of its brain before I crushed it under my boot.Beside me, Cynthia danced. A vision of death wrapped in blood
ALIEN INVASION
We stepped into silence. Not the kind that’s peaceful. The kind that presses on your skin like water at the bottom of an ocean. Thick. Crippling. Alive. The door behind us sealed shut with a hiss like a dying breath.Ahead, a vast tunnel stretched into infinity—lit only by the slow pulse of crimson veins running along the walls. The structure wasn’t built. It was grown. A blend of flesh and machine, of neural fiber and steel bone. A mind made into a place.Cynthia muttered, “Feels like we’re walking into something’s brain.”“You’re not wrong,” I said, my voice low.And then the whispering began.Voices. Hundreds. All White. All wrong.Failure…They said he was unstoppable…But he bleeds like the rest…Break him. Take her. Burn them.“Don’t listen,” I said, pushing forward.We moved deeper. The air changed. Grew warmer. Wetter. We passed what looked like nerve bundles strung like vines from the ceiling. Each one twitched as we passed. They remembered us.And then—the hallucinations.
THE CORTEX ROOT
My fist tore through White’s stomach like paper soaked in acid, blackened claws ripping flesh and wire alike. His blood wasn’t red—it was silver, laced with liquid circuitry that hissed and sparked as it hit the floor. He didn’t scream. He smiled.“You’re predictable,” he whispered.Then the room exploded.The wall behind him vaporized, revealing a hidden arsenal chamber lined with pods—dozens of them. No—hundreds. They hissed open in rapid sequence, steam flooding the chamber as the horrors within emerged.Bots. Mutants. Hybrids. All of them armed. All of them ready.Some were sleek, spider-limbed machines with eyes like searchlights and spinning saws for hands. Others were stitched-together nightmares—mutants grafted with mech-armor, neural spikes running straight into their spines, eyes glowing like dying suns. One let out a shriek that shattered the lights overhead, its tongue a writhing chain of bone and blades.Cynthia stumbled beside me, blood pouring from a wound in her side,
BATTLE AGAINST MR WHITE
The days passed like ghosts.Inside the frozen bunker, Cynthia and I trained, planned, studied every scrap of intel we could find. But the deeper we dug, the more I realized something:This wasn’t just a revenge mission.This was a suicide run.Because Mr. White… wasn’t just a man.He was a god of information. A mutant whose power wasn’t strength or speed or fire. It was thought. Pure, unfiltered thought—weaponized and unbound. A mind sharpened to surgical precision, fed by networks, satellites, neural implants, a thousand blacksite feeds all wired into his consciousness.He didn’t fight with claws.He fought with inevitability.“White doesn’t lose,” I muttered one night, staring at a map riddled with red markers—SCID strongholds, supply lines, surveillance towers. “He anticipates. He models every variable. We don’t surprise him. We don’t outsmart him. Every path we take—he’s already seen it.”Cynthia leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Then we make a move he ca
Gods can Bleed
Smoke spiraled through the blood-soaked air, rising like spirits fleeing the battlefield.I turned slowly, my chest heaving. Corpses carpeted the yard—SCID agents torn in half, mutants shredded into wet heaps of twisted flesh, their limbs bent at impossible angles. The scent of burning flesh mingled with cordite and metal. Flames licked the shattered concrete, and the air was heavy with the thunder of distant alarms.Cynthia stepped beside me, her face streaked with blood, hair damp with sweat. She stared at the carnage around us, then at me. Her voice was low, breathless with awe and terror."That was… inhuman."I didn’t answer. I was already looking upward.The main prison tower loomed above us like a vulture’s perch, lined with reinforced steel, surveillance nodes blinking. I could feel Mr. White watching—his breath probably caught in his throat, fingers frozen over whatever kill-switch he thought would save him. He knew now. The alien was back. I was whole again.And I was unstopp
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