[center][B][h3]RPGC 11: Heatwave!
VOTING AND DISCUSSION[/h3][/B][/center]

[b][i]Welcome back everyone![/i][/b]

As promised, here are the entries for RPGC#11. You all did a fabulous, fabulous job-- pat yourselves on the back.

To vote for an entry, tag our vote-bot account. "I [@vote] for Entry 0!" We'll also manually make a check through the thread to make sure we didn't miss any. Discussion is encouraged in this thread, so, we use the [@vote] tag to ensure we don't miss anything.

Votes should be cast no later than midnight on August 12th-- winners will be posted on the thirteenth as soon as one of our staff people wakes up to tally votes.

So without further ado, the entries!

[hider=The Nightcrawler]
It was Summer, one of the best seasons of the year. Even though it was only one of the four seasons. The yellow sun, lighting up the clouds and the blue sky and giving the green leaves and grasses a light color. Birds flying around, and animals scattering as the loud, mighty roar of an engine came close by.

Johnathan Greene yawned, sitting in the left back seat slumped over. He sat up, and wiped his eyes. He stared out the window at the scenery, as much as it was beautiful, it was also very hot. “Rise and sunshine, Johnny-Boy!” Mark Greene nudged Johnathan, and smiled as he saw the annoyance on Johnathan’s face.

“Leave him alone, he just woke up.” Alexis Munroe said. She was in the shotgun seat of the red, newer truck.  Tommy Hardner, being the country guy he was, was driving the red country-ish truck. He groaned. “Even with the darn AC on, it’s still hot in ‘ere.” He complained, rubbing his temple and pushing his black hair around, messing it up. Alexis nudged him while smirking, “You always complain, don’t you?” The truck stopped with a big thud on a rock, Johnathan practically went flying out of his seat and on the ceiling. Mark laughed, “I told ya to put your seatbelt on.”

The truck stopped, and they were in town. The four got out of the truck and looked around. “Welcome to Oaktree, Alabama.” Tommy said, looking around smiling. “Why..why are we here?” Johnathan asked, he never really liked the country and would prefer to be in the air conditioned apartment he stayed in. Mark whistled, it was a nice sight to see. “Some nice place.” He said.

The small town consisted of nice houses, stores, and other things. It was basically the average type of modern small town. The three besides Tommy had never been there, but Johnathan and Alexis weren’t very interested. “This is it? I was hoping for more.” She said, with a dissapointed look on her face.

Mark grabbed his camera, “Outta record this for memories, right?” He said to the others. Johnathan rolled his eyes, he was starting to wish he didn’t decide to come. It was worse already, but with his idiotic brother it was even worse. Alexis laid her hand on her hips, “We’re going camping, right?” She asked.

Tommy nodded with excitement, “Of course we are! I had all types of great times in the woods out here.” The young four, after walking and adventuring the city, walked back in the car and started to drive off onto the off-road trail. 

A few hours later after setting up camp, and Mark setting up his cameras around the area. Tommy had his hands on his hips, looking around. What was the real reason they were there? Well, they heard of a myth of a humanoid monster with thin skin, pale color, and four eyes. It was called, well the Nighcrawler. Because the rumor was that, this creature only came out at night and hid in caves at day. These four were planning to get a sighting of the creature. Alexis wasn’t very fond of this, but was very fond of being in the same tent with Tommy getting something on. Mark really was interested in this, and Johnathan , well Johnathan didn’t know really why he came with these guys. As Johnathan laid in his tent, he heard a brustle outside. It was now night, and his face went pale. Was it, the nightcrawler, was it a bear? He stayed totally still, until he decided he couldn’t take suspense and walked out. “H-Hello?” He said, holding his flashlight out. He heard the noises near the bush, and walked closer and closer. Until he got closer and saw two people were there.

“Please don’t hurt us!” Sam Belcher pleaded Johnathan. He raised an eyebrow, and saw there was a woman next to Sam. She was Sara Belcher. They both looked somewhat afraid. “Who are you people, what are you doing in our campsite?” He questioned the two.

“Uh...we ..were going to steal your food.” Sara admitted, looking down at the ground. Sam glared at her, as they both stood up from the bush. Johnathan alarmed the rest of the group about the two. Apparently they were a married couple, and they needed food because a bear or something stole their food. Even though the tracks didn’t seem of a bear.

Mark got up and questioned the two about the tracks and what they thought about them. Sara honestly thought they were skinnier than a bear, but Sam didn’t believe it was the urban legend, Nightcrawler. “So, you think it’s the Nightcrawler?” Mark asked, Sara nodded. “Yeah I do.” Mark then ran and grabbed his camera.

“Show me the tracks, please.” He asked Sara as they went walking off. Meanwhile, Alexis and Tommy stranded off from the group as well. “Are you bringing me out here for some action?” Alexis asked,. “What would you say, if I said yes.” Tommy said smirking. Alexis started grinning in a crude way. They stopped near a lake and turned to each other. “You take your clothes off first, then me.” She said. Tommy slowly started pulling his shirt off, until a rustle was heard.

Tommy and Alexis turned around, “Hey guys! Are you trying to peek!?” Alexis said in the disgust, but the rustling got closer. “I’mma need ya’ll that back off.” Tommy said glaring, he said walking closer to wear the rustling was coming from. Tommy walked closer, and was pulled into the depths of the now eerie woods. Tommy screamed out for help, as blood splattered on the ground and crunching was heard. Tommy was heard gargling his own blood, and Alexis screamed but didn’t get far as she tripped, and something impaled her into the tree.

Sam and Johnathan heard the screams, and instantly ran to help. “ALEXIS! TOMMY!” Johnathan yelled, as they run down to the lake they heard the screams from. “Oh … My God…” Sam said, his eyes widened. There was Tommy’s mutilated body, with fluids more than just blood spilled and chunks of his body scattered. Sam stepped back in absolute terror, as Johnathan held his throw up in, or at least tried to hold it in. As Sam backed up, he tripped on a branch at what he saw: It was a slim body with no sort of fat or muscle, it’s grey skin giving it a white glow in the moonlight. It’s face was everything a face should not be, and it’s eyes. There were four, four blood dark eyes with no pupils. It pounced Johnathan as he cried out loud, and it ripped him a part limb by limb. Sam screamed, and scattered away yelling and screaming. “SOMEONE HELP ME! AAH! AAH! AAAAH! IT’S THE NIGHTCRAWLER!!” He ran into a deep cave, and went tumbling down into the depth of darkness inside the cave.

Mark, looked around, his camera in his hand. There was nothing to be found. Sara looked uncomfortable, “Maybe we should head back..” She said. Mark rolled his eyes, “Don’t be scared, it’s probably nothing, but if it is. We’ll be the first to get it on camera.” Mark said, all they heard were crickets.

Suddenly Sara was tacked to the ground, and her jaw was ripped open as her screams still came from her tongue. The Nightcrawler ripped her upper head and lower head completely off. Mark yelled, and ran off.”GAAAAH!” He tripped on a branch, and slowly crawled and slumped over on the wood. His ankle was sprained, Mark dropped the camera on the ground and prayed for it not to hurt him.

It got closer and closer to him, and Mark closed his eyes, preparing for the worst. That’s until the morning seep of light showed and it scattered off screeching. Mark looked confused, but that was right. The creature didn’t like sunlight in the myth, and the myth was right. The last thing Mark saw before being found crawling away was that it was crawling away.

The Nightcrawler went back into its cave, as it found the unconscious Sam. It sort of smiled, as it was going to have breakfast today.

Then the credits rolled, with the sunlight rising and eerie music ending.

“That movie was great! We did good guys!” The cast and film crew celebrated, their newest movie “Nightcrawler 2: It Returns” was pretty good after watching it themselves. This was going to be a great blockbuster hit.

It may have been an indie film, but people were going to love it. And they already planned a third movie. They even planned the title and were going to call it, "Nightcrawler 3: The Final Feed". It would be the end to the series, and they were going to make it even better than the first two films. Not to mention they'll be getting Keith Blackwood to come back to play Mark Greene again as he would return as the second protagonist of the third film.

The actors were great in the film. Not to mention the famous myth of Nightcrawler was a great choice for a monster in the series. After all, the myth is believable. Even though it’s fake, because monsters don’t exist. Right….?[/hider]
[hider=The Spark]
In the darkness, there was nothing. Devoid of light and conscious thought, ideas were merely whispers and feeling was a breath of smoke. Always present, but too abstract to grasp. There were others here, in the absolute black, tiny sparks in a perpetual struggle to be something. To remain consistent, to persist. The sparks had no concept of time, or birth. No sense of self. Yet, one spark was different. One insignificant mote of light, illuminating the depths of silence, fighting fitfully to remain, to be more than just nothing. It understood, It felt. It was nothing, but also made from nothing, and if that thought were to remain true, something must be done.

It was unaware of the reasoning behind these thoughts, yet could formulate ideas. Before it could delve further into this principle, it felt something. A tiny ripple spreading from white to black, through light and dark, and it grew. Then, it knew. To understand, it must grow. So it concentrated everything that it was, nothing but a speck in an abyss, and its light pulsed. The other sparks, those mindless, devoid souls of being came to the light, and our bright spark grew. Its world expanded, the blackness faded to gray, and still it grew.

Suddenly, there was color. Blooming everywhere in hues it had no names for, spots of color slowly skating on a plane of nothingness. Were these others like it? Those that had grown. It's light was gone, for its new world was brighter. Set on a backdrop of blankness, as bright as it had been, covered with these other, colorful things. They wiggled and rolled, moving without purpose. Purpose. Was that next? It must be so. But these sparks were not attracted to it as the others had been, how would it gather them? It watched as two colors collided into each other, and for a moment they held on, clinging to each other in a desperate struggle. The first began to grow... no, it was changing the other. That must be it.

The spark moved towards the dominant one, bumping into as the first had done. Suddenly it felt a force latch onto it, trying to rip away its existence. The spark struggled back, it did not want to die, it had only just begun. A perpetual tug of war, measured without time, but eventually the Spark learned. It had to not only grow, but it had to be stronger. Slowly it assimilated its aggressor, but the Spark did not stop there. It kept on, seeking out the other colors, and becoming one with them. And so the spark grew, and became powerful.

It's world expanded once more, becoming a field of dull color, like those it had consumed. Was this the secret then, each expansion was a muddied reflection of those it left behind. The endless void it had been born from was now too small for it too see, or did it no longer exist? Here there were even more oddities, swirls and patterns of color. Had they grown just as it did? They must have, it reasoned. The spark nudged another like it, but it did not feel the same pull as before. It was still too small to feel complex emotions like confusion, but still it did not know. It bumped, and bumped, but nothing happened. So as before, it waited, for a length unseen by the concept of time, until it learned.

These swirls of color and pattern did not consume, they became, merging together in unison. In fact, The Spark noticed that similar types of swirls and patterns sought each other out. So it looked without seeing, and felt without feeling. A vibration, small, but it pulled at the spark. And so it went, finding others like itself. This time, it did not nudge, instead it caressed, convincing the other to join it. It formed bonds with the others, discovering unity. And our spark grew.

This new world approaching was different, it was bright. The spark's senses were assault by explosions of color. It had senses. It pulled itself out of the muddied world and into this one, willing itself to exist higher, to become bigger, more powerful. Its body convulsed, taking shape, assuming form. Appendages grew forth, small wiggling bits of itself. It needed more, it needed to be bigger. It sought out the others, similar in shape and desire. Yet, merging did not always work, it was easier to seize the advantage and force the others. And so it grew, and it became something. It existed, it elevated.

The tiny spark crawled from the world it had known before, into something knew. It was now made of many. The spark felt, it could reason, yet this new world was strange. Something drifted across its form, a rough surface held it up, stuck to its legs. It had legs, it had a body. The spark felt joy, dragging its new body from something it did not yet have a name for. There seemed to be four main planes here, the large body behind it that was slightly slippery and cascaded down its body. It rippled and moved and rolled across the solid plane, the one that stuck to the Spark. It had feet. This other region was covered in scatterings of other color, and overhead another solid color but the Spark could not reach that one.

As the day changed to night, and the cycle repeated, the Spark gained a concept of time. When the brightness came, it must consume, when the brightness was at its lowest, it must consume again, and when the darkness came, it must lie dormant and reflect. And so this cycle went, as the Spark traveled across this new expanse, forming names and labels for the things it saw. It gave the colors names of blue and brown, formed labels of land and sea. At night there were thousands of tiny glittering lights, surrounded by a blackness. This confused the Spark, as it had come from a place much like there. It had been one of those little lights, all alone. It wanted to join the others, it longed for them. As it consumed and crawled across the land, it also continued to learn and grow.

Eventually the Spark had become big enough that it's own weight was slowing it down. It had to consume more, which meant it learned less. This was a problem, one that the Spark speculated on as it looked up at the night. It had been one light, and above there were many. If the Spark wanted to be above, must it also be many? So, the Spark split itself. Now it was two, yet still one. The spark greeted itself, and together they continued on. The pattern continued for a time, when the sparks became too big, they would split and then continue on, learning and growing.

Yet, as the Spark stared at those it could not reach one night, there was a new problem. The Spark had become many, but there was not enough to consume for all of them. So a new idea presented itself. In the dark sky, there were lights as far as the Spark could see, in all directions. So it took this idea and presented it to the many, and as one voice they agreed. They bid their farewells, and spread in every direction. The Spark was alone again, and for that it was sad, but soon it would be among many.

The Spark continued to travel, grow, split, and scatter. It did this for some time, before one day it encountered a stretch of land that was barren. Gnawed down to its bare bones. It knew this was not right, so it followed the desolation until it found others. It did not take long to come to the conclusion that these sparks did not split, were they flawed? The Spark must begin with these others anew, it reasoned, for they were surely disrupt the progress to the lights above. So it passed through, reabsorbing those it had created and splitting them again. But this was not the only problem it encountered.

Once split, it seemed the other Sparks began to form their own ideas. Some did not want to abandon each other, others wanted to preserve the green and the brown and consume other sparks. Still others learned to create the colors they sought, and settled in one place. The Spark once again experienced confusion, which of these ideals were right, which one would lead it to the Sky Lights? It reasoned that consuming all the color from the land would leave nothing. Consuming others would lead to extinction, or a stillness in which their was neither growth nor learning. Then creating the colors and staying in one place must be the right path.

So the spark consumed and when it split it told the others to stay, and showed them how to create colors just as it had seen others do. Now, consuming was easy, and the sparks learned much. When they grew too big, they split, and formed other colonies. From time to time other sparks would come by, to consume all, or cannibalize other sparks. The spark fought many struggles like this, which always left its colony weak. There must be another way.

So the Spark consumed, and it split. This time, it separated some into color growers, and others to fend off attackers. Yet, that proved not to be enough. The Spark's tactic was copied. The defenders would fight, and their numbers would lessen, but defenders could not grow and split. The Spark could not consume enough to keep its defending force from dwindling into nothing. There must be a better way. In the world before, it had used its appendages to ensnare others like it, to grow and become one with this world. That must be it.

So the Spark tried something new, this time it gave its defenders appendages, long and sharp, to cut down attackers. This worked, for a time, but it wasn't long until the others caught on. Now the struggle was fiercer, and the numbers lost on both sides were greater. To sustain this method, caused great waste. The Spark was at a loss, but it knew it must be stronger, and smarter than the others. So the Spark tried many things. It made appendages that used bits of itself as a way of attacking out of reach of the sharp arms, but this idea was taken too. It used large, hardened sections of itself to defend against its own weapon, but this idea too, was stolen. The Spark felt great frustration, it had no time for learning now, only to struggle once more to exist.

There had to be a better way. It used the colors to build up protective walls, but those were broken down by still more ideas the Spark had not thought to consider. It protected its growers beneath constructs of color, which helped, but took up much space. As the war against the newly labeled Rebel Sparks went on, our Spark thought of ways to exist in ease. It made the buildings taller, holding more growers. It created makers, with the purpose of consuming and creating defenders. It was a good system, but it was not enough.

The Spark was quite intelligent now, but it still did not have a solution. Growers fed Makers, who made Defenders and Thinkers, Thinkers created ideas to help the Defenders. But it was not enough. So the Spark added more. Crafters to make tools, Ponderers to solve the problem of reaching the Sky Lights. Directors to lead those outside the Spark's influence. But it was not enough, with every thought, every idea, every creation, the Rebel Sparks simply followed suite, never held at bay for long. They were growing faster than the Spark Colony, and the Spark had no solutions. So it kept creating.

And then it discovered fire, a gift from the brightness above.

The most effective tool by far at stopping the Rebel Sparks. This fire proved to be exceedingly powerful, and the Spark guarded it jealously from the others. With fire it could create more, make its world better. It make traps that set hundreds of Rebel Sparks ablaze. It used flaming chunks of color covered in fire to lay waste to those far from the walls. This, this was the answer. It was quite a long time before the Rebels also discovered fire, but the Spark remained two steps ahead. When the Rebel Sparks used fire, the Spark's Defenders had shields of washed out color, hardened from forges. When they mimicked this, the Defenders had fuel to melt them. So the pattern went, and the Spark felt joy.

It's colony grew, and slowly the Rebel Sparks were driven to extinction. The Spark used all of its resources, an army of Defenders using sharp arms harnessing fire. They lobbed entire balls of fire made from machines that exploded on impact. Armor and shields made from forges fueled by fire. A fuel of mixed colors, lit by fire, that could melt and burn for long periods of time. And finally, the Spark knew peace.

It spread its colony all across the world, and devoted itself to solving the problem of reaching the Sky Lights. But as time passed, its creations began to feel neglected and abused. They existed only to serve the Spark's desires, but they wanted more, they wanted to exist for themselves. Once again, the Spark found itself plagued by war as its colonies rebelled, separating themselves into their own societies. Raising up their own leaders and fighting each other. The skies burned as the war raged, and the land was left scarred and barren.

This was wrong, it thought. Fire was not a tool, it was a weapon that could only destroy. It had to fix this, before everything was gone, before it was gone. The Spark secluded its primary colony, the largest of them all. It hid behind thick walls which rose dozens of feet into the air, protected by rows of Fire Lobbers and Ranged Defenders, as it contemplated this new scenario. It could not fight all of these colonies alone, and the other colonies did not seek unity, but the destruction of all that the Spark had created. It needed something to end all of the wars, like when it had the Fire and defeated the Rebel Sparks. It needed something bigger, something stronger.

This was the thought the Spark held onto, as it stared up into the sky at the biggest, and brightest of all the lights. Then it knew, it must be the biggest, and the brightest. It created a way to seduce the Sun's power down towards the planet, where The Spark and its Thinkers captured it. It took much time, and the Spark carefully kept their actions secret.The other colonies found unity from a common purpose with one another, and assaulted the Spark's home en masse. The Red Sparks, and the Blue Sparks, and all of the colors they aligned with waged war around The Spark. Eventually the walls came crumbling down, but it was too late.

The Spark unleashed the power of the Sun, a flare of such magnitude that the colors washed away into nothing but white, the blankness. The Spark felt the fire wash over it, felt the heat eat away at its body, turning it into ash and dust. Had the Sun too then, betrayed our Spark? Smaller and smaller the spark shrunk, burning away, until it was almost nothing. As the spark faded, the light that had once been hidden deep inside was now exposed and flickered weakly. The Spark watched as all that it had created washed away, becoming nothing but fire and ash. The colors swirled together, becoming diluted, and then nothing.

It was then that it knew. The Spark had killed itself. Never satisfied with where it was, always striving higher. Its light flickered once more, and went out. The Spark closed its eyes for the final time, welcoming death as all the colors drifted away.

In the darkness, there was nothing.
[/hider]
[hider=The Ash Grows Cold]
By [@Blizz]

[color=f26522]Dark, soot kindled skies.

Forges in rows, rivaling the sun.

Under the mountain which towers the earth, lies the tormented, born into the flames.

A [color=ed1c24]Beast[/color], harbored between in the forge, tearing at it's food.

Bite the hand that feeds it, the beast dare.

How it hungers, and how it strikes.

All who try their will, lose to ashes.

Only one vexes the beast. But he vexes us all.

They call him the [color=Gray]Ash[/color] lord. For He has made the beast purr.

High above the mountain in his palace of silk and stone.

Sit's a beast with a heart of soot.

And down here, his slaves, pouring years of their lives into his.

Weapons, armor, whatever the Ash lord desires, we must make.

As we have, and as we will.

[hr]

[color=ed1c24]Some speak of a child.

Born from the greatest flames.

Who will steal the flame from us, and plant it in the Ash lord's heart.

And so we bore witness, as a young boy was born beside a forge.

Taking a hammer and breaking the strongest swords.

Braving the hottest flames.

One day, this child, Rendon.

Rose up and took heed of the Ash lord.

"He has never even touched fire, but we...we were born and raised in it's warmth. He says we are but sheep.
But we are wolves, and the fire is our fangs. We will sink them into his throat and watch this place burn blacker than his heart!"[/color]

And the people of the Whitest fires rallied in fury.[/color]

[hr]

[color=fff200]The fire broke free from it's den.

and smelled soot on the wind.

"The Ash lord will fall." It roared.

Rendon and the fire, together climbed to the Palace over the mountain.

Where the Ash would be swept away, Burned to the stone.

And so the fire grew restless, devouring the guards, the men, women and children.

But Rendon was unharmed.

For the beast curled at his feet.

It purred at him, it was his steed, his ally.

As Rendon was the rider, the flames were his steed.

And the Ash Lord met With the child of fire that evening. Unknowing of this being more than a child.

"No fool like you can tame fire. I am it's master, not you." The Ash bellowed.

"You have never touched fire, we were born in it, our kind have lived and died in it, you simply helped up do so." The child of fire spoke, and with this brought the beast down on the ashes, it's heat tearing through his throat.

And on that day. when fire met the Ashes.

The ashes to this day still grow colder.

And the child of fire, with the beast to warm him.

Set fire to the chains that barred his people, and with them the gates of the mountain, showing to them the world.

And the Fiery animal of orange and red stayed by Rendon's side, until he to would return to ashes.[/color][/hider]
[hider=The Tenth Circle]
By [@Silver]
	Rain was falling on the outskirts of Boston. On the crowded streets, pedestrians struggled to escape the downpour, huddling under colorful umbrellas and packing into cars like sardines. The clouds above were gray as slate, showing no hint of mercy in the coming hours, and thunder rumbled angrily through the dark skies.
	In a small, rundown house on May Street, a storm of an entirely different kind was brewing. The father had downed one too many bottles, the mother was shouting at the father, and the boy was hiding under a crooked table in the guest room. The boy winced as his parents' sharp voices mixed with the thunder overhead. He wasn't sure which noise was making the house shake.
	The father roared in self-righteous indignation, his breath a fiery plume of rage and beer, and the mother knew she had gone one step too far. His hand came down like a battleaxe, knocking her over a chair as lighting flashed through the windows. The mother screamed.
	The boy opened his eyes and made a decision.
	He was no longer going to live in fear.
	The boy ran for the front door, wrenched it open and sprinted into the storm, never to return.

[hr][center][b]THIRTY YEARS LATER[/b][/center]
[hr]
	Robert Parker awoke to the most violent heat he had ever felt in his life.
	His eyes shot open and he gasped for breath, his chest heaving with effort. The air that flooded his lungs was hot and rancid, and he found himself coughing even harder. He tried to cover his mouth, but his hands were stuck still. His feet were equally immobile, and he realized he was upright, hanging in a spread-eagle like the Vitruvian Man. 
	He squinted through the bright haze around him, his eyes teary and his heart thumping ever harder. He was in a chamber of red and black, surrounded by a wall of flames. He looked to his hands, and founded that they were encased in a black stalactite that glistened like obsidian. His legs were bound the the floor the same way. He was completely restrained.
	Robert began to panic, taking shallow breaths of air that only increased the pain in his lungs. He struggled against his rocky bonds, twisting his body and flexing his limbs, but found no success. He stopped for breath, his heart racing, when he noticed a dark shape moving behind the flames in front of him.
	He stopped still, staring out into the fire.
	“Hello?” he called, his voice hoarse. He coughed as the heat scorched the back of his throat. “Is someone there?”
	The shape stopped moving and held still, just outside the nearest flames. Robert's confusion and fear turned to anger.
	“Where the hell am I? Get me out of here!” he barked into the flames. “What the fuck is going on?”
	The shape held its position for another moment, then abruptly moved forward through the inferno. The being that approached Robert was far from human. 
	It had six black legs, each covered in thorns the size of a fist. The legs met at a scaly abdomen, where the creature's body sprouted two arms with three razor-sharp fingers each. Its body was segmented, like an insect or a suit of armor, but black bristles jutted out from every joint. 
	Its head was the most terrifying part of its whole body. It had six black, empty eyes, positioned just above a gaping maw. Two giant fangs pointed upward over its top lip. Smoke poured from its nostrils in between.
	Robert yelled in surprise and tried to kick, but his legs were still immobile. The creature took another step closer, and another, its gruesome head tilted to the side.
	“Get back!” Robert shouted, jabbing his knees forward in the most threatening motion he could muster. “Stay away from me! Get back!”
	The creature ignored his exclamations and kept coming closer, alternating between its six legs, and finally came to a stop just before Robert, blowing smoke in his face. Robert pulled his head back as far as he could, bracing himself for a painful end.
	Without opening its mouth, the creature spoke.
	“A wise man would hold his tongue,” the creature said. Its voice was low and rumbling, like a rockfall in the forest, and it spoke slowly, carefully pronouncing each word. Its voice was tinged with an accent, but Robert couldn't place it. Robert opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. The creature released a satisfied grunt and stepped back, balancing on its four hind legs. It continued:
	“Good. You are learning. Tell me, Robert Parker, do you know how you arrived here?”
	Robert was too confused to answer. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but the heat was muddling his thoughts and stopping his words before they could take shape. 
	The creature spoke again. “Think, Robert. Where were you last?”
	Robert groaned and closed his eyes, trying desperately to grab hold of his memory. He spoke his thoughts as they entered his mind.
	“I was... I was in my house in Bakersfield. In California,” he mumbled. The creature nodded assent.
	“Good. But not enough. What is the last thing you remember?”
	Robert shook his head. “I can't...” he said, but stopped short. He paused for a moment, the creature waiting patiently. Robert's next words came slowly and shakily.
	“I was... walking down the stairs, and... this... sharp pain. I think... I think...”
	The creature raised a hand to stop him.
	“Yes, Robert. This morning you had a heart attack.”
	Robert looked up in astonishment. “But then...” he stuttered, “Where...”
	The creature spoke, his tone edged with a strange hint of remorse. 
	“You have died, Robert.”
[hr]
	Robert felt his heart drop into his stomach. 
	“What are you talking about? That can't... that doesn't...” But even as he feigned denial, he could feel truth in the creature's words. He collected himself. “So... where am I?”
	The creature's voice echoed through the room. “You are in a place as old as time itself. Many peoples throughout the centuries have tried to put a name to it. Naraka, Duat, Abbadon, Gehenna... but you most likely know of it as Hell.”
	As the creature spoke the final word, the flames seemed to leap and dance in the darkness. Robert trembled with disbelief.
	“That can't be!” he exclaimed. “I- I- I don't understand! I've lived a clean life! I, I go to church every Sunday! Well, almost every... I'm very busy- look, I've done nothing to deserve this!”
	The creature clicked disappointedly. 
	“Robert,” it said, its voice stern yet sympathetic, “This place is not what it has been described as. You are not being punished.” The creature glanced back at Robert and added, “...yet.”
	Robert thought it looked very much like the Hell that had been described to him so many times in the past, but he decided to keep that to himself. 
	“Then why am I here?” he asked. The creature's mouth contorted, forming what could almost be called a smile.
	“That, Robert, is precisely what you here to find out. I am Synchoron, and I am here to guide you on your journey.” It took a step closer.
	Robert wasn't comforted by Synchoron's lighter tone. “I don't understand!” he said.
	“You will,” Synchoron replied, and put his long, black fingers on Robert's forehead. Robert was thrust into darkness.
[hr]
	Robert awoke on his feet, but immediately fell onto his side in surprise. He glanced up and found that he was sitting on a sidewalk. Rain poured all around him.
	He rose back to his feet and turned around to find an old man walking briskly towards him, looking at his phone under a blue umbrella. 
	“Hey, can you help me?” Robert called, but the old man seemed to ignore him, walking closer. “I need to know where--” 
	The old man stepped directly through Robert and kept walking, entirely unaware of the exchange.
	Robert jolted back in surprise, and another pedestrian passed through him from behind. He looked down at his hands and saw that even the rain was going straight through his body to the ground. He was invisible and immaterial. 
	Robert took a deep breath and surveyed his surroundings. The rain was coming down harder, making it difficult to discern distant objects, but he was able to determine that he was standing on a residential street in the suburbs. To the left, he could make out the green outline of a road marker. He started toward it, and the more he examined the road the more he felt like he'd seen it before. Finally he came close enough to read the white letters on the sign:
May Street
	Robert stepped back in surprise. Not only did he know the street, he had [i]lived[/i] here, a long time ago. 
	A very long time, he ruminated.
	Just past the sign, he saw a building he never thought to lay eyes on again. His home.
	The house wasn't very attractive: a beige concrete block squatting under a pile of loose red shingles, the windows cloudy. The garden was pretty enough, but weeds grew in between the perennials. The concrete path leading from the sidewalk to the front door was weathered and cracked. 
	Robert hesitated. The house before him was fraught with bad memories and haunted dreams. He wasn't sure how, or even [i]if[/i], to proceed.	
	Then he heard the shouting.
	It was muffled by the concrete walls, but still loud enough to be perceptible outside. He took a step closer to the house, his entire body tensing up in reluctance. The shouts grew more distinct as he drew closer: he could definitely make out a man's voice and a woman's. Before he realized it, he was on the doorstep.
	He paused again. The argument inside was growing more tumultuous, even as the rain came down harder around him. He shook aside his fears and raised a trembling fist towards the doorknob.
	The door burst open, and a young boy ran through Robert and down the walkway to the street. Robert spun around, watching himself flee into the rain. 
[hr]
	Robert was suddenly awake again in the fiery chamber, bound at all extremities. The smoke stung his eyes and he coughed, shocked by the abrupt transition from the cold, rainy afternoon to the infernal pit he now found himself in.
	Across the flames, Synchoron stood motionless, watching Robert with an air of curiosity. Robert lifted his head up, spotting the creature, and let out a groan.
	“Still here,” he observed. “So what? That was my journey?” 
	Synchoron shook his head. “You still do not see.” He walked closer to Robert on his segmented legs. Robert gritted his teeth, angry now.
	“You're damn right I don't see,” he spat. “So I ran away from home and now I'm in Hell? That's what did it?” He rolled his eyes in exaggerated contempt. “Did you even see what was happening in there? My dad [i]beat[/i] me, okay? I had to get out of that house. Any sensible kid would've done the same.”
	Synchoron stared back silently, seeming to consider Robert's words. After several moments of rumination, he spoke through motionless jaws.
	“You still do not see,” he repeated, “But your journey is not yet complete.”
	He raised his hand, and the room disappeared once again.
[hr]
	As Robert came to his senses, he felt the floor vibrating beneath him. He immediately planted his feet to steady himself, then looked at his surroundings.
	All around him were rows of plush chairs full of travelers. To his left, an old lady pored over a map with a thick magnifying glass while two young children bounced in their seats. To his right, a man with round spectacles was snoring loudly next to a teenage girl, who was trying to balance the acts of holding a book open and plugging her ears. On both sides the long room was bordered by a line of windows, outside of which the green terrain was zooming past.
	Robert was on a train.
	He took a moment to collect himself while a man carrying a large briefcase brushed through him towards the restroom. He couldn't make out anything that seemed important, and the train car didn't feel at all familiar. He frowned.
	“Well, Syncho-de-Mayo, or whatever your name was,” he called out to no one, “Was I here too?” There was no response. The passengers didn't seem to notice. Robert sighed and started walking. Before him, the train's progression of cars were going around a curve through a pastoral countryside. The doors between the cars were open, and Robert stepped through to the next room. He walked down the center aisle, but didn't notice anything unusual.
	Then he stopped in the middle of the car. In the far left corner, a lone woman was staring out the window at the passing fields. She wore a tan peacoat, and her auburn hair fell in waves on her shoulder. Robert recognized her immediately.
	She was his mother.
	Her legs were resting on a giant trunk, bearing half a dozen paper tags attached by strings. Robert stepped closer, almost unable to believe his eyes. He hadn't seen his mother in nearly thirty years, but there she sat. She was older than he remembered, but not by much. He estimated she wasn't quite forty, then realized that he was only thirty-eight. Standing there in the train car, Robert and his mother were about the same age.
	Robert eyed his mother as he stepped closer. She was entirely unaware of his presence. He sat down across from her and watched her carefully. She was fixated on something far beyond the windowpane, her blue eyes clouded with worry. He stared at her for several minutes, unsure how to feel, when she turned away from the window and looked at her hands. Robert followed her gaze, his own eyes coming to a rest on a thin wedding ring with a tiny blue stone. His mother looked at it for several moments, and her anxiety seemed to disappear.
	Without flinching, she pulled the ring off and dropped it out the window.
[hr]
	Robert winced as the hot air blew over his body again. He let out a long breath and raised his head to see Synchoron waiting patiently. 
	“I saw my mother!” Robert exclaimed, surprised at his own excitement. Synchoron nodded.
	“I know this,” he said, his voice rumbling through the chamber. “Where was she?”
	“She was on a train,” Robert replied, thinking back in wonder. “She was... I think she was leaving my father.”
	Synchoron nodded again. Robert was reassured by the creature's confirmation, but perturbed by his silence.
	“So what?” Robert asked. “I still don't understand why I'm here.” For a moment, amazement clouded out anger.
	Synchoron edged forward. “I think you do,” he said, his eyes cast to the ground. “But your journey still lies ahead.”
	“What are you talking about?” Robert demanded. “I have no idea why--”
	Synchoron pressed his fingers to Robert's forehead, and the flames faded away.
[hr]
	The sky that greeted Robert when he awoke felt even brighter than the fiery chamber from whence he came. He squinted against the bright sun, which shone uncontested in an empty blue sky.
	When his eyes had adjusted, Robert took a moment to examine his terrestrial surroundings. He was standing on a sidewalk again, but this time the air was dry as a bone. Next to him was a broad street, bisecting two rows of outdated business buildings. Awnings flapped red and white in the warm wind. A few nondescript locals wandered the sidewalk, going about business as usual.
	“Definitely never been here before,” Robert said out loud. By now he was convinced no one could hear him. By the architecture, Robert guessed he was somewhere in the midwestern United States, but he had no way to know for sure. He sighed, looking around for some clue as to where to venture next. Before he could give it any real thought, a rusty yellow taxi cab rolled down the street and pulled up on the curve next to him. Robert stepped back, and the passenger door opened.
	The woman who stepped out was at least ten years older than when Robert had last seen her. Her hair seemed thinner, and was permeated by several scattered streaks of gray. Her face was newly adorned with wrinkles, clustered around her eyes and forehead, and her blue eyes reflected an aura of exhaustion that hadn't been there previously. Despite her changes, Robert immediately recognized her as his mother.
	She thanked the taxi driver and turned on her heel, walking briskly into the building behind them. Robert turned and read the large sign above: 

[center][u]Redgrass Post Office[/u][/center]

	Robert followed her in,  bells jingling behind them as the door closed. His mother was clutching a dark blue handbag close to her person as she navigated the narrow hallways. Robert kept close behind her, curious as to why he had arrived in this town at this moment. After turning a few more corners, the  pair arrived at a reception counter, manned by a stern woman with frizzy blonde hair. The woman leaned forward as Robert's mother approached the desk.
	“How can I help you today?” the receptionist asked, pulling a pen out of a drawer and clicking it absentmindedly. Robert's mother reached into her bag and pulled out a crisp white envelope, addressed and stamped. She placed it on the counter.
	“I'd like to mail that out of state, please,” she said, smiling nervously. The receptionist smiled back.
	“Of course,” she said, and turned to her computer. “Just a moment, please.”
	Robert leaned over his mother's shoulder and read the envelope's address:

[center][i]Bobby Parker
442 Clinton Road
Bakersfield, California[/i][/center]
[hr]
	The flames were higher when Robert returned to consciousness. Across the chamber, Synchoron knelt patiently, watching him. 
	Robert hung his head in silence.
	After several moments, Synchoron stirred.
	“You've seen that letter, haven't you, Robert?” he asked, his voice coarsely interrogative. Robert didn't respond. Synchoron grunted knowingly, and pressed on. “But you never opened it. Nor did you open the other twenty-two letters she sent you over the next few years.”
	“I... I couldn't bring myself to. I was scared.” Robert replied, bitter with remorse. 
	“Scared of what?” Synchoron demanded. “Scared she would be angry at you? Do you truly believe that she would write you two dozen letters only to reprimand you?”
	“Scared of my father!” Robert shot back, his voice choking up. “I thought if I went back... if I went back, he'd kill me.”
	“And yet you couldn't be bothered to read your mother's words,” Synchoron said. The venom in his words felt genuine. “You think that your father hurt you. That woman took the brunt of his fury for eight years of your life, and many months after. She sacrificed her own well-being to keep you safe, and this is how you repaid her: ignoring every attempt she made to contact you!”
	Robert was in tears, but the drops seemed to evaporate off his cheeks as the flames grew hotter.
	“How can you blame me?” he asked shakily. “I was traumatized! I didn't know if I could trust her!”
	“SHE LEFT HIM TO FIND YOU,” Synchoron roared, “AND LIVED THE REST OF HER DAYS ALONE!!!”
	Robert broke into sobs, unable to respond. Synchoron leaned back on his legs, exhaling smoke with an audible hiss. Robert shook his head and struggled to find the words.
	“I'm...I'm... so sorry,” he whimpered. “If I'd known... but it's too late.”
	Oddly enough, Synchoron's face seemed to twist into a gruesome and knowing smile. 
	“Wrong again, Robert,” he said, and Robert succumbed to the blackness.
	[hr]
	Robert awoke in a deserted hall. The walls were a dull white, and every few steps a door sat on either side of the walkway. Long tube bulbs hung intermittently from the ceiling, drenching the blue tiled floor in unpleasantly bright light. Down the hall, an empty metal card was left lopsided in the corner.
	Robert was unsure of his location now. He was in a building of some sort, but not one he'd seen previously. There was no decoration to hint as to its purpose, only bold black numbers beside the doors,  which were each adorned with a thin translucent window.
	Robert raised his head as he heard footsteps down the hallway. He could make out two sets, moving fast, and soon he heard their voices. Before he could move, the pair came running around the corner. There was an elderly man in a red polo, struggling to keep up with a younger girl. The girl seemed to be in her late teens, wearing a wet raincoat that stuck to her brown hair. The two passed Robert, then came to a stop at the end of the hall.
	“Room 361,” the girl said, panting as she looked at the number next to one of the last few doors. “This is it!”
	She turned the handle and pushed the door inward, hurrying inside. The man followed behind her, a mask of concern on his face. Robert followed them inside.
	The room's purpose, and with it the building's, became immediately apparent as Robert saw the interior. Long, white curtains billowed in the breeze from a window, casting light onto an array of high-tech machines. In the center of the room, an old woman was lying in a clean and crisp bed, accompanied by a female nurse in blue scrubs. The woman had oxygen tubes under her nose and was breathing slowly, her eyes closed, as the nurse glanced at the visitors. 
	“Thank goodness you made it,” the nurse said, her voice tinged with sympathy. “I'm afraid there's not much time left. There's nothing more we can do. I'm sorry.” 
	The man nodded. “Thank you. May we have a few moments?”
	“Of course,” the nurse replied, and left the room without further comment. The man glanced sadly at the girl, who stepped to the bed.
	The old woman opened her eyes, revealing the deep blue underneath. Robert recognized her with shock as his mother.
	She was almost indiscernible in her old age. The strong, confident woman Robert had last seen was gone, replaced by someone new. Her face was droopy and wrinkled, and her arms and torso had gained some weight. Robert was stunned by the change, and glanced at the calendar on the wall to see how much time had passed.
	It was only a week before his heart attack.
	Robert's mother smiled at the girl. 
	“Autumn,” she said, beaming, “It's so wonderful to see you.”
	Tears were welling in Autumn's eyes. “Of course, mom,” she replied, unable to muster anything more. Robert was shocked once again. The girl had referred to his mother as 'mom.'” 	
	Robert had a half sister.
	The man, he quickly realized, was his mother's husband, but not the same man from his childhood. She had remarried.
	The man smiled wearily. “The rest of the family's on their way, love,” he said. Robert couldn't tell if the statement was sincere, but he supposed it didn't matter. His mother nodded slowly.
	“That's... so nice to hear,” she said in between labored breaths. She fidgeted on the bed, turning slightly, then swiveled her head and looked straight at Robert. 
	“Robert... you made it,” she said, smiling happily.
	Robert was astonished. He turned around, but no one else had entered the room. 
	“I knew you'd come,” she continued.
	“Mom?” Autumn said, deeply concerned. “Mom, there's no one there.”
	“I've missed you so much, my dear,” Robert's mother said. Autumn started frantically sniffling, her face a mixture of fear and immeasurable sadness.
	“Mom,” she cried, “Mom, please. There's no one, mom.” The man looked at her sadly and took her by the hand. 
	“Let's go wait outside, honey. Come on,” he said. He looked heartbroken, but determined to protect Autumn from further pain. “Come on,” he said softly, and lead her, sobbing, from the room.
	Robert was alone with his mother.
	“You can... see me?” Robert asked, confused.
	“Yes,” his mother said, smiling. “Finally, I can see you.”
	“Mom...” Robert began, his voice breaking, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for leaving you with dad, and never writing or calling or coming to find you...” his words trailed off as tears streamed down his face. His mother's pleased gaze didn't budge.
	“You're here now, my love, and that's what matters.” 
	Robert shook his head, teardrops falling to each side. 
	“You deserve so much better. I should have been there. I should have left to find you.”
	“Robert,” his mother said, taking his hand, “I forgive you.”
	She smiled once more, and the room flooded with radiant light.
[hr]
	Robert awoke again on the ground. His stone bonds had shattered, and the flames had receded. Synchoron was nowhere to be seen. 
	Across the chamber, a pinprick of white light shone from the rocky wall. Robert propped himself up on his elbow, then weakly rose to his feet, shaking with the effort. He stumbled forward, and as he approached the light it seemed to grow larger, until it surrounded him and everything else.
	Across the vast void, a pair of blue eyes twinkled.[/hider]
[hider=Beating the Heat]
“Oh my god, now I see why they call it a ring of fire...” A young woman says as she looks up at a man with his great dane. “Why do you have Rossa out here in this heat?  It is just too hot.” The man wipes the sweat from his face. “We are going to the pond down the road.”

The man is 29 year old Gabe Hawkins, the head chef for a 4 diamond ramen and sushi restaurant.  The dog is named Barbarossa, he is a very large 2 year old great dane, being almost 200 pounds.  Barbarossa gets behind Gabe and gives him a nudge with his head.  Gabe looks back and smirks. “Alright, we will keep going.” He looks at the woman and says his good byes.  He heads down the road a little.

The town is a sleepy little village in the midwest, Barbarossa is the towns unofficial mascot, having freedom to roam the town since saving the lives of several residents and keeping the retiree's company.  On a day like this day, Gabe and Barbarossa love nothing more to laze about in a pond or in their air conditioned home.  This day they decided their best bet would be to go to the pond.  They walk slowly, taking about 5 minutes to reach the pond just 3 blocks away.

Barbarossa runs and jumps into the pond laying down near the bank his chin resting on the sandy bottom, Gabe finally reaches the pond and dives in swimming out to the center.  He plants his feet, the water coming up to his neck.  He puts his face in the cool water and holds his breath, allowing him to enjoy the cool down.

The pond being surrounded by tree's provides cover from all sides.  Near the center is an old tree that provides great cover and a resting spot if somebody felt like doing a little climbing.  Gabe, content to just float under it rests against the side of the tree, resting his head against a knot in the tree.

“Hey there Gabriel, enjoying the day off I see.” Gabe raises his head looking at his next door neighbor April.  He smiles and nods his head. “Of course, Barbarossa is too.” April giggles. “He could enjoy the day licking a block of ice.” Gabe laughs. “Even better, laying on it.  That would probably be amazing on a day like today.”

April takes off her shirt and pants walking in with just a 2 piece bikini and a water pillow.  She lays down next to Barbarossa and splashes water on his back.  He lays his head on her shoulder while she does this, falling asleep on her.  She lays there splashing him for a while to cool him off and keep him cool.  Gabe watching them from afar enjoying how cool the water was in the center of the pond.

Gabe climbs up into the tree just a little ways and lays down in the center of the tree in the shade.  He lays his head on a mound of moss that had grown on the branch he was laying on and closes his eyes.  Barbarossa, Gabe and April all having the same idea, napping in the coolest part of the village, both physically and figuratively.  After hours of doing no more than napping they finally leave, April first followed by Gabe and Barbarossa.  As they walk the lights begin to fade into night time, another day ends on a very hot note and the coming days only intending on becoming hotter.  Welcome to the dog days of summer.
[/hider]
[Hider=The Watched Pot]
[center][h3][sub]●[/sub]●[sub]●[/sub]

The Watched Pot

[sup]●[/sup]●[sup]●[/sup][/h3][/center]

There was no breeze. The sun gave no mercy or quarter to the filthy sidewalks. The asphalt was hot enough to fry an egg, but instead it baked chewing gum into the stone. Stray dogs panted in the shadows between tall buildings, whining for rain that refused to fall. The hottest June on record––slated already to grow warmer and warmer and warmer. The tourists sweltering in their daisy-dukes with aloe vera slathered on their sunburnt backs might not have felt the misery, vacationing in the heat island of the city.

Sacha did. France had escaped the wrath of the record-breaking temperatures. Grapes ripened to perfection back in sunny valleys, a good harvest promising for local vintners, and a fine-dining restaurant with his name on it raked in the green on The French Riviera. New York City stank of fermenting garbage that hadn't been collected in days, of strikes in the garbage disposal industry, of recession. The family bistro that he had left behind near two decades ago struggled, and in its death throes, a call was made.

The prodigal son returned home. At noon, high noon, he made it to the restaurant on the corner. Sunshine illuminated faults and in it, the building was as dilapidated as any other in the neighborhood. It needed darkness to attract customers. The windows were gritty and opaque, algae-green as they had been since he left after culinary school. A fire escape corroded by time creaked and groaned whenever a smoker upstairs stepped out onto it. Red plaque dotted the hinges of the doors like chickenpox scales.

This was the [i]The Bain-Marie[/i], or so the lurid, neon sign said. It was flamingo pink, a shade so bright even Barbie would think twice before wearing it. A French name.

It wasn't proud and it never had been. A mirage stood in front of the door, smoke and mirrors. A younger Sacha stuffed out a cigarette before turning the sign to 'open'. By the time he blinked the sun out of his eyes and made it to the gasp of cold air that leaked through the door, which was ajar, the illusion was gone. The heat of a stainless steel door handle pricked at Sacha's calloused palm as he pushed inside, and the pain was entirely his own.
   
A beat-up AC unit clunked twice above his head and dropped into a noisy buzz, a wasp that had been trapped inside a jar.

"Hey," he said to the hostess working: bottle-blonde, a passable beauty. A nametag that said, 'Gerry,' like the Spice Girl. Gerry's smile was fake, and Sacha felt like he could relate to that if nothing else in New York City. "I don't have a reservation and, uh, I'm not here for the lunch service either, sorry doll. Can I speak to the owner of the place?"

Sacha was not surprised that the girl's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates –– he was overdressed. Lunch was a curious affair at [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] when it came to dress codes in that there were none. It had always been a place for Hawaiian shirts and board shorts, not Parisian fashion, designer sunglasses and tailored suits sans jacket and tie. Considering he looked like he'd just walked out a modern remake of [i]The Godfather[/i], he could either have been some sort of health inspector; a food critic or a debt collector ready to break the fingers clutching cold, hard cash.

[i]Clunk-clunk.[/i]

"He's out back for a smoke break––um, can I take your name?"

"Tell him it's Alexandre so he doesn't do a runner and climb the fence out back." It was made of wire and hard to climb, but Sacha remembered getting a leg up from his brother back in the day when they were on the run from Dad after some shenanigans that summoned his frothing wrath. "I'm sorta his brother."

The hostess's brows furrowed in confusion, but she nodded. Clearly, he had never been mentioned. A quick glance around the part of the room that wasn't hidden away behind the frosted glass of the old smoking section informed him that the yellowing newspapers in their original picture frames were still up on the wall. [i]Restaurant of the Year[/i] under the care of the Moreau brothers––under Head Chef Sacha Moreau.

"[i]Sorta[/i] his brother?"

"Probably," Sacha corrected with a womanizing grin that was surprisingly ineffective. Gerry ran her fingers through frizzy blonde hair twice, then thrice, before looking at the door anxiously. "Oh––oh, shit, I'm sorry. I'll watch the stand if you wanna go grab him. I could have picked a better time than the start of lunch rush."

"Not much of a rush. It's probably nothing anyway, just... the Bossman would lay down the law if I missed a customer. Every single one counts, you know?" He nodded sympathetically. It sounded like his brother, and before it was his brother, it was Dad. Tyranny in the kitchen was a hereditary trait that skipped Sacha as the second son. He reassured her one last time, and with a final glance at the empty street outside, the hostess left –– dashing in her high heels as fast as her pencil skirt would allow her.

Front of house, back of house; he'd worked both. Washing pots as soon as he could stand the boiling water, waiting tables as soon as he could fill one of his dad's old uniforms and cooking as soon as the man's hands began to shake from the liquor. When Sacha tired of watching the city through the windows, his gaze turned to the white linoleum he could scarcely see through the archway in the back. Through it, the porthole, he swore once again that in his mind's eye he could see himself: young, blonde and not graying julienning carrots as prep work.

A familiar voice stole his attention away from it, and all of a sudden, there was no clone in there; only thinly sliced vegetables left on the worktop.

"Here I was hoping it was a customer," drawled Luca Moreau, pushing forward through the small barrier behind the counter and hanging up his pinstriped apron. "But no, it's just 'Alexandre'. I didn't think you'd come. Honest to God, I figured, what with your gig on the continent... I didn't think you would."

Sacha supposed he should be offended by the surprise in his brother's voice, but instead his heart was pricked and prodded with needling guilt. "That restaurant runs itself; it doesn't need me. Besides, it's good practice for the [i]commis[/i]," Sacha explained, the implication being that [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] would never run itself –– it needed coddling, a watchful eye over both the kitchen and the front of house. "But, well, it's nice to see you again."

He pushed up his sunglasses to see his brother without the grim black filter. Luca was olive-skinned, like him, but he had a thin goatee that ill-suited his wide face. Gold decorated his neck above the chest hair that sprung out from the top button half-way down his shirt. Sacha was taller, his hair blonder, his tan darker. He had to stoop into the manly, back-slapping hug.

"You too. It's been a while." To ruin the moment, Luca went to grab at his growing gut playfully. Sacha dodged out of the way. "Getting a bit thick around the edges, bro. And you were always the skinny one! What happened to you?"

"Good food and booze," he said easily as his brother led him by the elbow to one of the various empty tables in the bistro. "[i]You[/i] try going to France and seeing what they eat like over there, or––God forbid––Italy. That's worse, with all the pastas and the pizzas. I guarantee you'd be twice the size by the time you come back." 

Luca's lips tightened slightly, then twisted into an easy smile. "I thought they had smaller portions in Europe?"

"Yeah, but it's so good you ask for seconds. Then a doggy-bag to go home with."

[hr]
Sacha refused the first three offers of a meal that came in quick succession, but the fourth he reluctantly allowed to pass. Luca put through a ticket for onion soup – two plates, presumably so he could eat lunch in his own restaurant for once – and soon the noisy clatter of pots and pans reached the diners' ears. Over the din, they spoke of cooking and old school stories; 'How has everyone been?' and 'How have [i]you[/i] been?'; carefully avoided questions as to the bistro's fate.

Even with the AC on full blast, Sacha found himself pushing back his sweat-slicked hair and unbuttoning the top of his black shirt.

"Poor choice, given the weather," Luca said with a pointed nod.

"I don't suit garish colours, not like you do." Sacha unfolded the napkin his knife and fork came wrapped in and stuffed the corner down his collar.  "Don't have the complexion for it."

"Huh."

The stilted silence that followed was timed only the rhythmic [i]clunk-clunk[/i] of the AC unit.

Their waitress, after a suspiciously short wait, came out with the heavy soup that turned Sacha's insides upside-down just to think about. The food at [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] had never been good at the best of times, and he worried over the quality of chef his brother had hired –– if they could even hold that title to begin with. He put it off, struggling to even think of stomaching the grease of his dad's old signature dish even if it wasn't the man who made it, but eventually it would have been rude not to.

Luca dabbed at his mouth already, black eyes searching Sacha's face for discomfort or distress or disgust. All three, perhaps. "It's decent today. Who would have thought?" he said as his brother took another tentative spoonful after the first. "I usually hesitate to keep the kid on after lunch duties––" A pot clattered in the kitchen, "––but he's learning."

"This is good." It silenced Luca. Sacha's brother seemed to be biting his tongue to stop from saying anything else. "Seriously, man, this is good. Better than it's been in a long time. [i]Way[/i] better than Dad's." [i]And yours, Luca.[/i] He recognised the flavours, similar enough to his own award-winning dish that he was instantly skeptical. "My recipe?"

"Yeah," Luca said, licking dry lips. "Yeah, I gave him your old recipe book when he was younger. You know, the one we tried to write and publish."

Sacha grinned, stirring his spoon in the soup before taking another mouthful. "It would have been better if it hadn't been written in crayon, practically. Remember when we couldn't get the photographs developed?"

"When we were too poor to get them developed, you mean."

"Yeah, that––and we [i]drew[/i] 'em instead. Fuck, that brings it all back. Nostalgia up the wahoo." Sacha opted to ignore the grimace on his brother's face in favor of a sepia-toned memory: two brothers sitting on the hard-wood floors of [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] between services, sketching out plans in their notebook of shared dreams. "Why'd you give it to him, anyway? Not that I'm against passing on the family secrets. They aren't so secret anymore anyway."

There was a pause as Luca wiped his mouth on his napkin, shaking his head fondly. "This," he said, stabbing vaguely in Sacha's direction with his spoon, "is why you should answer people's calls. Maybe if you did, you'd know your own blood." Sacha had five excuses on the tip of his tongue, none of them done well and all of them hasty, but he was interrupted before any of them could be spewed prematurely. "Darius!"

The loud, cranky reply: "What?"

"Get out here! Let me introduce you to your uncle!"

"Wait, what?"

Luca grumbled an insult into his soup, and ten seconds later (with another clang of pots and pans that would upset the customers – if they had any) a ghost appeared at the table. Sacha rubbed at his eyes to ensure it was not just another mirage born out of heat and wishful thinking. 

The chef that his brother called through looked like them: the same wide eyes, thick brow and matching scowl. He had blond hair shaved into a mohawk that was flattened down with sweat; piercings on every inch of skin that could be pinched––eyebrows, nose, lips, ears––and a tattoo of a meaningless rose on his neck. Sacha had one of those too, right on his shoulder during a drunken mistake some nineteen years ago. He could see Luca in him, the Moreau genes strong and proud except when it came to his eyes, which were blue.

Darius had his mother's build, tan skin, and her blue eyes.

"Michelle's kid," Sacha said in wonderment. He stood up to shake his hand – ignoring the kid's limp grip; he'd learn to have a good one in time – and when he slumped back down into his chair he had to wipe his brow. "Last time I saw you, you were just born." At the funeral. Luca didn't know his name before, though he knew of his existence. He thought he might be at college, at culinary school if he was interested in the family business, but instead he found another generation trapped at [i]The Bain-Marie[/i].

Luca introduced him as, "My son, Darius Moreau." Darius glanced at him curiously, presumably discerning the same tension in his father's jaw that his uncle could, but he eventually turned Michelle's gaze on Sacha. "This is–"

"Uncle Sacha," the kid finished for him, "the one with the Michelin star. I get what you mean now."

Sacha grinned –– he couldn't help it. "Glad to hear that your Dad's been saying good things about me," he said, and Darius smiled at his shoes. He waved vaguely at a table beside them. "Bring a seat over, bring one of them over. [i]The Bain-Marie[/i]'s always been a family business, and you're part of that, especially if you're cooking in it. We were never allowed at the adult table back when your grandfather used to run the place – it's only fair to change that now." 

He looked to his Dad for approval, who in turn looked to the swathes of pedestrians who did not spare even a passing glance at the restaurant. "You can go back into the kitchen if a customer shows up," Sacha continued, resulting in a terse nod from his brother. Darius took a seat as ordered and sat back to front on it, folded arms on the stiff wood to keep his head up. Purple bags made his eyes all the more blue. He was a good kid for worrying about his duties like that.

The AC blew stagnant, lukewarm air in Sacha's face. The words had dried out.

"So, is this about the soup? Did I do something wrong?"

"Seasoning on it's almost overdone," he ended up saying almost on instinct, scaling back to something he knew well: criticism. "But I would serve this at my restaurant––I'm only nitpicking."

"Thanks?" Bafflement was etched into every line of the kid's face.

Luca, watching with beady black eyes and finishing off his soup, said, "Try not to steal this one from me too, eh, Sacha?"

His brother ignored him. "So what are you? Head chef, sous-chef?"

"Sous-chef," Darius confirmed. A glance towards his brother confirmed for Sacha that Luca held the mantle of both owner and Head Chef – a not uncommon practice. Their dad had been the same. He nodded sagely. 

Sacha's eyes dropped to the watch on his wrist. Armani. The time was early, and assuming the closing times were the same, and the number of customers remained consistently low, he would have time to check in on the kitchen he was going to resuscitate. "Right, that makes it even more important to keep you in the loop. I'm here to help for the rest of the summer, for free, outta the goodness of my heart. I'm guessing your dad's heading up the kitchen right now?"

Luca scowled. He hid it with his napkin but that didn't disguise the sarcasm. "Yes, he is."

"Well, I'm going to steal that position from you," he said frankly, not even looking at Luca but rather at Michelle's son. "You can concentrate on the books, bringing them up into the black. Darius, show me your station – let's see if it's been cleaned since the eighties."

[hr]
For the first seven days of his stay, Sacha kept his mouth shut. He waited. He watched. He lurked around the grotty kitchen, observing Darius as if to paint an accurate picture of his many culinary talents. He saw the kid slow while doing prep work one evening, a strain injury for the repetition of the smooth knife-work, and he saw Luca nudge––

He saw Luca shove him out of the way, force the knife from his son's hands and finish it off himself, muttering "Useless," under his breath in French. Sacha kept his mouth shut.

It was the tail-end of a quiet Wednesday service when Sacha finally spoke up. He waited for Luca to leave for a 'walk' that would surely end near a liquor store and stopped Darius with a gentle shoulder check just as he was about to turn the lights off. He promised to pass on everything he knew, and this was the first opportunity.

"I noticed something during this shift," Sacha said as he scrubbed his hands over the sink––fingers, wrists, thumbs and all. Darius copied his thoroughness clumsily. It had been two weeks since the first lesson and this was the sixth. It should have been Luca teaching this. His brother should have done it a long time ago. "You overcook your pasta. It's the most popular main dish with the customers but they hate it; they send it back."

"Dad says––"

"I don't care what your Dad says," he interrupted before it could go any further. Darius shut his mouth almost instantly, eyes dropping to the ground, and Sacha wondered whether it was because he had insulted the kid's father––his own brother––or if it was because his voice had leapt up in volume. He breathed out deeply through his nose. "Look, he's not always in the right. He's a good chef, but..."

[i]But what, Sacha?[/i]

Luca had lost his way. He didn't know how cook pasta anymore, and that was telling.

Where Darius remained suspiciously silent and folded up his sleeves so they would stay up at his elbows, Sacha filled the emptiness with the quiet clatter of pans, water hitting metal, and the click of a hob's temperature being turned up as appropriate. "You were right, earlier."

"About what?"

"The pasta. It would have been too soft with Luca's method. It was too soft." He moved spaghetti wrapped in protective paper to the center of the worktop, and beckoned his nephew over. Sacha felt the urge to ruffle the boy's hair––or do anything, really, to wipe away the defeatist expression on his face. "You knew that, and you went along with it anyway."

"I was just doing what I was told," Darius said defensively, fingers clenching around the hem of his jacket. "Dad told me to do it, so I did it. It's not my fault the dish got sent back..." He sucked in his lip, biting into the metal ring with a clink. Without being asked, however, he added the spaghetti into the pot with a shaking arm. "Look, I won't do it again. I know how to cook pasta. We don't need to do this––you can teach me something else."

He glanced at the clock nonetheless. Good boy.

"Humor me." Sacha took a step back and relaxed against the station behind him. "Cook it [i]al dente[/i], remember. Not like your dad wants it––[i]al dente[/i]."

"What does that even mean?" He didn't answer. Darius was a smart kid. He'd figure it out.

Cooking in a kitchen that was empty of waitstaff and trainee chefs and dishwashers and the owner was cold. There was no need for his hands to be constantly in motion, for his eyes to be scanning tickets or his voice hoarse and crackled from barking orders. The AC unit blasted enough of a chill into the room to counter the single active appliance and the steam that rose from the boiling pot––in a proper kitchen during dinner service, it was never enough to stop sweat from trickling down the back of his neck to the base of his spine.

Darius's face was red, his lips trembling with what must be fear and his shoulders brought up as if expecting Sacha to step in at any moment, shove him out the way and take over his station. Used to following his father's orders to a T, Sacha thought, and being punished for it either way. He recognised it, recognised Luca not at the older brother who had taken the worst of the lectures but as a clone of their father with his mother's face.
 
His son looked like Michelle, and acted like her too. Skittish in the kitchen, but with the potential to be brilliant. He remembered her  slaving away at the same dishes and turning for approval––a smile on her face. She wanted it from him, not Luca, because nothing was ever good enough for Luca.
 
The difference became apparent when Darius plated up the pale pasta without sauce or seasoning and presented it to him––but presented was a strong word. His eyes were cast to deep grooves on the floor where dirt and crumbs collected. His hands were folded behind his back, though he rushed to the trays, near tripping over his own two feet, when Sacha jokingly asked where his fork was.
 
The verdict: "Al dente, without knowing what the term means. Perfectly done. At least we know someone in the restaurant has mastered one of the most basic techniques they teach you at culinary school."

Sacha turned before seeing his nephew's blinding smile to set the plate aside and turn off the cooker. A new pan left the racks to join the other one.

"I don't speak French," Darius admitted. "Not proper French." His voice was soft when he was speaking to him, Sacha realised. It didn't have the bite of rebellion or the attitude that attracted negative attention from Luca. He didn't need to fight to have his words be heard. "When I was younger I had a couple of textbooks and, well, I tried it myself because... that's what they use in Paris. But I don't even speak good English, all things considered."
 
"My brother should have taught you that, too," Sacha mused, though more to himself. It rang out sadly amongst the low murmur of the kitchen appliances. "If he had, you'd know that [i]al dente[/i] is Italian, not French."

He couldn't stop the wicked smirk that crossed his face as Darius's thoughts raced to catch up. The kid pointed accusingly at his uncle. "You're fucking with me. Julienne, though. Macédoine. It sounds like those; like French!"
 
"Well, it's not." He nudged him, gesturing to the cookware out. "Do this one yourself––the full dish. I'll help you with the sauce."

And he did.
 
"Pop quiz," Sacha said out-of-the-blue as Darius was preparing. "Where do you think the name 'Moreau' comes from?"

"America?"

Sacha laughed into the white sleeve of his chef's jacket, grasping Darius by the shoulder firmly despite the kid's obvious hesitation. "It's so much more than that," he told him. "We're Americans with a French surname cooking Italian dishes in a restaurant––we're so much more than that."

Confusion furrowed Darius's brow, and his eyes narrowed. They scanned his uncle's face as if trying to discern answers from it. He doesn't understand, Sacha thought as the divide between himself and his nephew widened. His mother had spoken French to him (or rather sang it at him) from the womb right up until the day she died. 

Sacha was willing to bet that Luca hadn't passed it on to his son as she would have wished. He took too much after their father who knew only one language and that was violence. [i]Michelle[/i]––if she'd lived, Darius would have been a much different boy. He wouldn't have had those piercings, the tattoos, the bleached hair. He would have had an arsenal of his mother's beautiful, melodic Italian.

But then again, he wouldn't have made Sacha chortle again with the sincere question he posed next. "More than that... like, New Yorkers?"

His second attempt at the full dish under his uncle's guidance was exquisite.

The next day when he tried it out, Luca hated it.

[hr]

His brother kept his mouth sealed shut, though Sacha could tell he was chomping at the bit to say something – anything – about the temporary apprenticeship Darius found himself with under his uncle. Completed dishes during dinner service were viewed with a sigh as they had Sacha's signature flair instead of Luca's, and by proxy, their father's. There was no traditional passing down of [i]The Bain-Marie[/i]'s trade secrets, something that Sacha could only see as a good thing.

Dad's recipes had dragged his dreams down out of the black and into the red. They didn't need to be inherited.

Luca dragged him aside one night as the diners were winding down and slowly filtering out, one table at a time. He propped open the fire escape with a bucket of greasy water and guided Sacha around it by the crook of his elbow until they were both under the dimming sky of the endless summer days.

They shared a lighter.

"And stop – stop teaching my son this [i]shit[/i]. They might like it in Europe, but here in New York it – it doesn't sit right on the palate. These are regional dishes. National dishes. Whatever, you know what I mean." At Sacha's quirked eyebrow, a gesture that said no, he didn't know what his brother meant at all, Luca elaborated, "Just... let the kid cook what he wants to cook."

"And if he wants to cook like me? Like Michelle?" Sacha challenged. There was nobody on Earth, he was sure, who wanted to cook like Luca Moreau – a culinary school drop-out who couldn't keep his own restaurant afloat.

"He doesn't." Luca's eyes darkened, and he stuffed out the cigarette with undue force against the crumbling brick wall. "Look, if what you're doing is about what happened between us and Michelle, just don't. Stop. Don't bring my kid into this."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about her. You said, at the funeral––"

"You brought her up first, Sacha. Don't turn this on me." 

"I'm just saying! Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind. He's my nephew, he's your son... I'm not shit-stirring here, Luca – I'm not reopening old wounds to douse salt into them. Michelle did love you."

The lie was acrid on Sacha's tongue.

"Yeah. I know that. Remember that I was the one she married – the one she chose to spend the rest of her fucking life with, even if she made one mistake and slept with you." Luca snorted his sceptical laughter, cutting it short. "Remember that when you make the decision on whether or not you're going to ruin Darius's life for something he didn't even do." 

With that, Luca turned on his heel and departed, one last, tired glance at his brother that spoke volumes. [i]Stop[/i]. There was nothing to stop, Sacha told himself. He was doing the kid a favour, giving him a proper role-model – the one that his mother would have wanted for him. He was here to save [i]The Bain-Marie[/i], to pull a miracle out of his ass and bring the restaurant back from the dead.

He laughed off Luca's words, but later on when he couldn't find even an ounce of sleep to steal, he followed a well-worn path from his hotel room down to the nearest bar and took a lesson from his brother's book.

[hr]

Three weeks later, the heatwave assaulting New York City reared its ugly head and bit down. Scorching temperatures during the day held off all but the bravest of tourists, but the nights – more temperate, tolerable in places with air conditioning – brought forth a boom of customers that Sacha had to race to come up with. Dishes weren't returned to the kitchen; diners didn't leave unhappily; and [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] was making a profit, even if they were still in the red and it was only for one night.

At seven o'clock in the evening, the AC unit gave one last [i]clunk[/i] before giving up the ghost.

The kitchen turned into Hell.

Darius melted into a puddle of useless flesh when he was supposed to be cooking Table 12's [i]bœuf bourguignon[/i]. A plate slipped out of a waitress's clammy palm. Sacha's hair flopped in front of his forehead limply, and he was moving on exhaust fumes, the heat having sapped the life from him. One of the younger chefs, the part-timers, fucked up a dish – truly eviscerated it – and Luca's ire was turned on him.

Sacha's brother didn't have an apron on. He was wandering between front and back, pushing his way into stations that were struggling and taking over, leaving cooks as headless chickens in an already hectic kitchen. "This is how you cook chicken, alright?" he heard him say. "This is how you cook a [i]fucking[/i] chicken. Even a twelve year old could do that. I could do that when I was eight, what are you, thick?"

Luca kept going at it and at it until Sacha had to warn, "No backseat cooking!" It produced only angry French mumbling, toothless threats and the complete alienation of his brother.

He turned back to inspecting the meal that Darius just plated off and allowed himself time to pat his nephew on the back. Sacha would have to deal with his brother later. "Good job – better than anything Luca could serve up."

Darius grinned wickedly and wiped at the dripping condensation on his brow, and they almost shared a moment – a moment of father-son understanding – when Luca interrupted, moving into Sacha's space as if he was entitled to it.
 
"Outside, Sacha," Luca said, murder hot on his breath. Deja vu struck Sacha as his brother jabbed at his shoulder with one longer, digging in just enough to cause pain but avoid bruising him like a peach. There was force behind it; deliberate, premeditated force enough to penetrate the stiff, white material of his chef's jacket. "Right [i]fucking[/i] now. We're taking this outside."

Intimidation didn't work twice. Sacha ignored him.

Darius was watching. He was trying not to –– his eyes focused entirely on the rubbery fish that was overcooking before his very eyes –– but Sacha knew. His gaze flickered up to him, relieved that it wasn't him on the receiving end of his father's sharp tongue but instead worried for his uncle's safety. An empathic kid. A good one. Sacha wondered whether the worry would translate into mind-numbing, self-depricating guilt at the end of it all, just as it had for him. He hoped not.

Sweat dripped as if from stalactites on Sacha's hairline. "Luca. [i]Luca[/i]. Shut up, turn around and get cooking, or get the hell out of my kitchen."

A pot boiled over, unwatched. A kettle sang, huffing and puffing out silvery steam to add to the miasma of warmth clouding their heads. There was no air to breath in. Nobody spoke. The diners in the restaurant carried on in their low tones as Luca's mouth twisted grotesquely into a grimace on his cherry-red face.

"Your kitchen? Look at me. [i]Look at me[/i]." Sacha put the final finishing touches on a dish before sending it out, and only then he turned around to face his brother. "[i]Your[/i] kitchen, did you say?"

"Yes, my kitchen. For as long as I'm here it's my kitchen, unless you want [i]The Bain-Marie[/i] to be some grimy shit-hole forever."

Thirty seconds later, Sacha thought he was good – that Luca had put his anger management to good use and counted down from ten, from a hundred. Forty seconds later, two large hands grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and slammed him into the side of the nearest workstation. The pans overhead rattled like bone-charms. Behind Luca, everyone had stopped: the cooks, the waitress who came in at the wrong time, the sous-chef. Sacha barked orders at them all to, "Keep working!" and, "Let me handle this one!"

Fuel to the fire. Sacha stared Luca down, hands on his hands that were dangerously near his neck. "We gonna do this brother? We gonna throw down?"

"I'm not gonna throw down," Luca said, but Sacha didn't believe him. His voice was defensive –– defensive about [i]being[/i] defensive. "I'm not gonna throw down, unless you're gonna repeat what you just said." His brother's grip loosened slightly, expecting submission as was tradition.

Sacha's lips pressed into a firm line. "Luca, you heard me the first time. It doesn't need repeating." But he did anyway. Brown eyes met brown, both sets aflame. "Calm down, or get the hell out of my kitchen. Cool your head."

[i]Don't be like dad.[/i]

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm cool," Luca said. He held his hands up in the air, empty, and released Sacha from his grasp. "I'm cool." They were baked slowly in the kitchens of [i]The Bain-Marie[/i]. Sacha himself was tempted  by a smoke break and threw a hand-towel over his shoulder on his way towards the back door. That was when when his brother attacked with a cast-iron skillet, hot, straight off the ring.

His flesh sizzled; the other white meat. The skillet roasted every inch of forearm it touched, from half-way to his elbow to the fingers of his dominant hand. Luca held it, deliberately and in full knowledge of his actions, and it wasn't until Sacha struggled and kicked that he managed to push him back. Pots and pans fell from their racks as Luca staggered against it, but the sound of it all was muffled to Sasha by his own wordless yell of horror –– the shock that hit before the agony.

And the sick tune of stuck skin separating from the skillet was all that Sacha knew.

Luca fled out the fire escape.

Darius was at Sacha's side, prayers like, "Oh my God," and "Holy fuck," on his lips. Sacha's head lolled towards him –– he was suddenly light-headed, high on adrenaline and the white-hot lances dancing up his arm a like lover's fingers –– and he was suddenly hefted up by his much taller nephew, dragged towards the sink. One of their waitresses brought him an ice-pack but instead he thrust his own arm under the freezing tap.

"I didn't think he'd do that –– Uncle Sacha, he's never done that before, why –– why did he do that?"

Sacha could think of plenty of reasons but they all filtered down into one: Luca wasn't being watched. He'd spent all his attention on Darius, on the restaurant's ledgers and little black books, and Luca's frothing rage had boiled over like scum in a pot. Through ground teeth he tried to explain this to his nephew, and he almost managed it. 

"He's a mean fucker," Sacha said, punctuated with a groan. "He always has been."

"Do you need anything? I – I can call 911. Gerry, can you –– can you get all the patrons out, say there's been an accident––"

But Sacha grabbed Darius's wrist with his good hand, squeezing. "Keep going. Keep cooking." His arm was turning shades under the icy water – red, the colour of a burn before it blistered. It matched his sweating face. "When my dad was having a heart-attack, we kept serving customers in this very restaurant until the ambulance arrived. I. Kept. Cooking."

"R-right, okay."

Sacha's nails dug half-crescents into his own shoulder after he released his nephew's hand. "Let me handle this." His voice wavered with uncertainty, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going to let them close early on the restaurant's last night on Earth. "If this is the end of [i]The Bain-Marie[/i], she's going down in a blaze of glory, I'll tell you that much." 

The ambulance came at nine o'clock at night, and it parked around the back of the building for Sacha to leave that way rather than disturb his nephew's moment of glory.
 
[hr]
It finally rained. The wind caught in Sacha's curls as he pressed his side against the bus stop for shelter, a cigarette between the fingers of his good hand. The other was wrapped up in gauze and bandages, and no matter how many times he reassured the kid that it wasn't his fault, he kept noticing Darius's eyes flickering down to the oozing pus of the healing burn.

"Kid," he warned when it happened again. The wounded puppy look worked on Sacha – it always had tugged on his heart-strings and made him to stupid shit like antagonise Luca. "Stop staring at it or it won't heal. You know what they say about watched pots? Same damn idea."

"Sorry," Darius said for the umpteenth time. He looked up again, head held stiffly facing drenched asphalt. Thunder rumbled timidly overhead, not quite a growl. Sacha put out his cigarette and let his hand fall onto his nephew's shoulder, a comforting pat that had the kid's fingers turning white-hot with guilt around the handle of his suitcase.

The bus hadn't come yet, but they had already ran out of things to say. Instead they watched the dull pink glow of [i]The Bain-Marie[/i]'s neon lights from the other side of the road. The doors were boarded up. The tables and chairs from outside stored inside with the rest of the now-useless furniture.

"You going back to France?"

Sacha smiled. "Not for another couple of months. This was meant to be a vacation for me!"

"You know what I mean, though."

[i]Can you still cook?[/i] The answer was, 'Eventually,' Sacha was certain of it. The toughened, cracked and flaking skin of his right hand prevented him from holding a knife, but only in the short-term. "Yeah. I do. Don't worry about it, Darius," he said. "I'm looking at real estate in the city right now. I could set up a nice New York City restaurant, you know."

"Going to buy [i]The Bain-Marie[/i]?" Sacha didn't even curse the boy for sounding so hopeful. An old part of him long since buried, the corpse of it set on fire for good measure, cried out that this wasn't the end, that family had to stick together so they could all pull through.

"Fuck no. The place is haunted and it's [i]been[/i] haunted since before Luca took it over. It was my dad's." He needed another cigarette. A passing car splashed filthy rainwater his jeans. "He never the left the place. Look at it."

Sacha could still see him, the grandfather that Darius had never met, standing outside the door to the restaurant, flipping the bird at passing cars. He could still see Luca beside him, the celebrated chef that never was and never would be, spirited away as if he'd never existed in the first place with all the money he could stuff in his pockets. The cops wouldn't catch him, but Sacha didn't need reparations – from either of them.

He snapped out of it as the bus rolled up to their stop.

"Thanks for the letter of recommendation, Uncle Sasha," Darius said quietly, tugging at his earring. A blast of warm, stagnant air hit them as the doors to the bus opened.

"It's nothing. You deserve it, more than anyone else." Twin smiled spread across their faces and Sacha pulled Darius in for a one-armed hug before he stepped up on his way out of the city and its ghosts. "Call me if you need anything, okay?" He stretched out his thumb and little finger for good measure and put it up to his ear.

"You don't answer!"

"I will this time," Sacha said. "I swear. We're family."

[hr][hr]

[hider=Author's Note]
Word Count: way, way too long at 6,697 words.
Rushed, my apologies - but it's done! There would be more French lines if I could actually speak it beyond [i]Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?[/i] so don't hold that against me! :)
[/hider]
[/hider]
[hider=The Springs Gone By]
by [@KeyGuyPerson]
[center][h1]The Springs Gone By[/h1][/center]

I honestly don't know what I was doing.

I was a patriot, yes. Proud of my country, my people, and my leader. Willing to defend them if it meant my death, even if it meant that death would come by my own hands and a glorious explosion. But deep down? I always had my doubts. Was the Emperor really divine? Were our actions in the rest of the world justified? Had our decision to awake the great sleeping bear been the right one? Was all the killing worth it? I never lived to see the answer, but if I had, I would have surely been found with a sword stuck through my open stomach.

Because the answer is no. To every single question, the answer was no. All we had won in the war was a death toll in the millions and the honor of being the testing ground for a device that could one day destroy the entire world and us with it. All because the men in charge told themselves a lie. They said that we, as a people, were superior to the others. That we deserved to rule them, and that if we did not take control of them then evil men from other lands would. When in reality, we [i]were[/i] those evil men.

At the very least, my writing-the only thing that remains of me-is still read. That people can still see and understand the one poem of mine that has survived the horrors and ravages of the war I was forced to fight in. People no longer know my name, nor do they know my story, but some of them know my words. Even the men from the country I was ordered to fight to the death know my words. And that simple fact is enough to give my soul peace. Not the fact that I died an honorable, warrior's death, but the fact that I am survived by something that proves a truth far greater than any my government could ever fabricate.

The truth that our souls are all human.

[hr]
I could put my finger on many dates to pinpoint when my story begins. I could choose my birth, but a full biography would just bore you. I could start with April 1st, but then you would not know of my work. I could start on the day I realized that we had lost the war, but then you would miss the most important parts of the story. So I shall start with a hot day in March, the day that the canvas upon which I recorded my work arrived at what was to be my final home.

A hot day in March, of course, may sound rather odd to you. Spring came early that year, and by the time it officially started it was already in the early 20's. Celsius, of course. If you're an American then it would be in the mid 70's. Though that may not seem like much depending on your location, I must inform you that I was born in Hokkaido. Which isn't a place that ever gets very hot at all. I wish it did, honestly. I only got to experience true summer heat on my deployment.

But anyways, it was a relatively hot day. Very uncomfortable for us, since it was humid as hell and we didn't have any air conditioning. We could have theoretically gotten it, but all the cool air would escape anyways because our buildings had no insulation. Fun fact, half of them still don't. More than half, honestly. It's a good thing fans are more affordable now, because if they weren't then we might as well just all go and live in the forest.

On that relatively hot day, we had some new airplanes flown in. We needed them too, what with the American fleet constantly getting closer and closer to our little garrison on Okinawa. Luckily for us, they were damn good airplanes too. Latest model fighter aircraft, shiny new Kawanishi N1K-J Shiden-Kai land-based fighter. Land based as opposed to it's earlier variant, which had a giant float on the bottom of it which made it fucking useless in combat.

Seriously, those engineers need to go back to school. A five year old could tell you that putting a giant float on a fighter plane is a bad idea.

Well, that's neither here nor there. The earlier model was worthless, but the land-based version? Best plane Japan ever built. Hands down. The generals could finally start taking technologically superiority into account when calculation [i]our[/i] advantage. I mean, it was too little too late, but I'll never forget how wonderfully that plane handled. Unfortunately for me, the handling of a plane doesn't help you if it isn't moving.

So I was doing a walk-around of the poor plane that got assigned to me, apologizing to it in my head for the countless future mistakes I knew I would be making in it. Most other people wouldn't have thought of me as such, but I actually considered myself a rather bad pilot. I'd lost too many wingmen to call myself a good one. Being from up in Hokkaido (okay, so I moved to Tokyo when I was five, sue me), the heat was really getting to me. I ended up splashing my face with water from a nearby bucket. Some got into my mouth and tasted shit on account of the grime that was mixed in with it.

At least I knew the maintenance crews were keeping our planes nice and clean.

A boy was running around the hanger, he couldn't have been older than 16. Not the youngest boy that would be fighting in the hellhole that was Okinawa in 1945. Kid was looking for something, tearing up the whole hanger for it. He was clearly new on the base, so I assumed he just didn't know where whatever he was searching for was kept. I decided to help out, and walked up to the guy. His imminent-and very energetic-snap to attention told me that he was new to more than the base.

"S-sir!" He yelled, saluting. Nobody who had been on the ground crew for more than a month would respond like that. They'd stand at attention and salute, sure, but not like he did. It was like some guy had stuck a live electrical cord up his ass or something.

"What're you looking for?" I asked. I returned the salute, too. Obviously. I was a pilot of the Imperial Japanese Army, if I didn't follow all the regulations it would be as if I was a German engineer who couldn't build anything right. "Cleaning supplies or something? Not much else that's hidden around here."

"No, a tool." He said, lowering his hand but still standing like he was a scarecrow. "It's like a wrench, but used to-"

"Who sent you to get it?" I asked. I'd heard this one before.

"Sergeant Ihara, sir!"

"Of course it was Ihara." I said after a sigh. "This is something the higher-ups like to do. Y'know what slipstream is, right?"

"Y-yes, sir! It's the spiral slipstream of air caused by an active propeller, sir! But I fail to understand-"

"The Americans call it propwash. And in English, 'wash' means 'to clean'. Prop, of course, is their abbreviation for propeller. So American officers and trainers like to tell newbies to go get them the propwash, which the newbie assumes is a cleaning solution for aircraft propellers. The guy looks for hours on end for something that isn't a tangible object."

"So, what you're saying is..."

"Yeah, Sergeant Ihara is a total pain. He always sends new meat like you to look for that tool, but it doesn't actually exist."

"Ah... understood sir. Sorry for wasting your time, sir!"

"Hey, you know what it looks like. At least, what he said it looks like. So you were willing to admit that you'd never heard of what you were led to believe was an essential tool, which means you're braver than at least ninety percent of new recruits. Ihara won't be expecting you back for a while, this sort of thing usually goes on until dusk. You up for a drink?"

"S-sir?"

"I said are you up for a drink? I'm a pilot, I've got plenty of time off until the Americans bring their fleet here. And you've got an excuse. So how about a drink?"

"I think that goes beyond bending the rules, sir."

"Okay, then you're going into town to look for the tool and I'm coming with you. The bartender always denies that soldiers came in anyways, or he says they stopped in to ask where to find something important. Nobody'll know any better."

"I'm sixteen, sir!"

"Bartender doesn't care. Gives you a nice alibi too."

"But sir!"

"He stocks German beer. What happens if the Americans bomb us and you die tomorrow? You'll never get to drink that German beer. And I'll be damned if I let you miss out on German beer. Come on, let's get going."

I don't know what was going through that kid's head right then, but it didn't matter because I grabbed his arm and dragged him along with me. He didn't offer any resistance, so I assume he was okay with it. Or maybe he just gave up and realized I wouldn't shut up until he came with me. Which I would have done, by the way. I wasn't joking about not letting him miss out on German beer. He had to mysteriously "Catch a stomach bug or something, honestly, I have no idea, Sir!" the next morning. Even so, while he didn't tell me whether or not he had wanted to come, he certainly did tell me that he was glad that he came.

Oh yeah. I did say something about following all the regulations, didn't I? Well I was referring to the Imperial Japanese Army regulations specifically. And the Imperial Japanese Army regulations don't say shit about underage drinking. Not specifically.

[hr]
"This is a terrible idea."

After stating the incredibly obvious, the kid took a swig of the beer that I bought for him. I don't actually remember what brand it was or where the hell in Germany it came from, but I'm pretty sure it was from some eastern part of it. I wonder if it still exists, what with those handful of decades where that part of Europe was communist. I hope it does, because it made some damn good beer.

"Wow. This is-"

He took another swig.

"Not at all like sake."

And another.

"Don't finish it up too quickly, kid." I said. "You're not going to be able to handle too much of anything, especially not anything from Germany. The stuff they make is way stronger than even the American drinks."

Huh. I didn't really think of it before, but yeah. He [i]did[/i] say that the beer was different from sake. I had assumed that he'd never had a drink before, but I guess he must have. That would be a lot less odd now than it was then, though. The entire legal age law basically doesn't matter at this point. Of course, back then it was a lot easier to get around. I guess people were just better at following rules in my time. Or maybe I was just a giant stick in the mud who didn't figure out how to have fun until two decades after he was born.

"Well, beer was their main source of drink during the middle ages. It makes sense that they've built up a resistance to it."

"Really?"

I'd never heard of anything like that until he had told me. Hell, I'd never heard much about European history anyways. The extent of my knowledge about the continent was that they thought topknots looked stupid. And that I only knew because my grandpa told me a story about a time he went to the Netherlands and attended a play there as a part of a diplomatic function or something. When they all took off their hats, the theater just started laughing. They had to cancel the play because nobody could take their eye's off of the topknots.

That's probably the most pathetic thing that ever happened regarding Japan. Not because I think my country has had very few pathetic things happen to it, but because that beats out everything else.

"Yeah, brewing beer was an easy way to purify water and give it some taste. So it became a common drink all around the country. I guess they built up a resistance because of it."

"How do you know all that?"

"My father's a professor in Hiroshima, I picked up on some things."

"So, are you thinking about going after the war? To university, I mean. With your dad working there and all I'd think you could get in pretty easily."

"I was planning to, but then we started losing islands and the next thing I know there's an Army officer at my front door."

At the time, none of us really knew what would happen. While the Americans outnumbered us massively on the ocean, as long as the Yamato was afloat we felt invincible. Perhaps, we thought, it would end in a stalemate. The Americans would move in, but be unable to make any progress when facing the might of our remaining fleets and the impossibility of an invasion. It would all end in a white peace, since the Americans wouldn't dare invade the home islands.

"It must be nice, being from Hiroshima."

"Why?"

"I'm from Tokyo."

"Ah."

I didn't need to explain, we had newspapers after all. My hometown had been completely obliterated just a couple weeks ago. Well, a little over half of it had. Unfortunately, the half that was gone was the only part of it I really knew. My family had made it out, but we didn't have anything left. They chose to run away to the countryside instead of staying in a refugee camp, for fear of being bombed again. The last letter I got from them said that a farmer and his family had taken them in. Another one arrived the day after I died, an Army officer offered to move them to a city, but they refused and chose to stay in the country.

It's good that they did, because the city was Nagasaki.

Their descendants still live there, one is a fine young man who wants to join the Self-Defense Force as a fighter pilot. I'm glad to say that while my semi-omniscience almost always ends up just souring my mood, in this case it doesn't. He'll have a few close calls, but in the end he's one of the ones that gets out just fine. He makes a friend along the way who makes it through too, an American friend. It's rather funny, honestly. We fought on the same side that time, even after what both of our nations did in my generation's war. I mean, a good chunk of the American populace back then said they would rather see my entire people wiped out forever. If you had told me that my grand nephew would have an American friend back when I was a pilot, I probably would have just laughed at you.

I'm going off on even more of a tangent now, but I really wish I still had a body. Not for any reason you might think, though. I got over never tasting mom's cooking again a long time ago. It's just that I'd really love to fly one of the fighters you use now. I mean, back in my day we were trying to figure out how to prevent the plane from instantly going into a spin. You're trying to figure out how to make your planes more invisible to RADAR. Did you never stop to think about how amazing that is? A technology that was thought of as something almost akin to a secret trump card in my time is something you've figured out how to counteract. And it's been a little under sixty years. That's just impressive, honestly.

"Yeah, you'll get to have a home to come back to after the war. Unless my family somehow manages to get a house built by the time it's over, I'll just be imposing on some poor farmer."

"Well, at least you've still got your family."

"Yeah, but I doubt I'll ever see anyone else I know from back home. You've still got your city and all your friends, at least the ones that survive the war. I'll have to start all over again."

"They might bomb Hiroshima too, you know."

"I doubt it. The war's coming to a close now, and the Americans probably won't bomb many more cities. Not much it could do for them, anyways."

That was the end of that conversation, and rather soon it would be the end of our sober conversations that day. I wasn't drinking, mostly because I'm a sad drunk and probably would have ended up reversing my position on Hiroshima not getting bombed. Which, while actually making me correct in the end, wouldn't make things all that enjoyable for the kid. There was one more part of our time at the bar that I really remember well. I could honestly go and tell you the full story, since my memory being bad doesn't change the fact that I can see every part of time and space now. But I generally prefer to hold onto that part of my mortal existence, thank you very much.

"So, what's your name? You never told me it."

"You go first, kid."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"Masaru Sasaki, I was going to be in one of the tank divisions but the steel went to an aircraft carrier. So instead I got assigned to the infantry. Now it's your turn."

"Mitsuo Hori, 343 Naval Air Group."

[i]Here it comes.[/i] I thought. [i]He's either going to make a joke about us stealing all the Army's metal or be amazed that he met an ace.[/i]

"Huh. I'm not sure whether to crack a joke about steel or ask for an autograph."

[i]Knew it.[/i]

"I'd honestly prefer the first one. It's not like I fly off of aircraft carriers anymore, after all. In fact, my new plane can't even land on one."

"Oh, so that's why you were at the hangar. That Shiden-Kai was yours?"

"Yeah, it seems like a damn fine plane."

"They say it can best even the newer American planes."

"That's right, it's got better maneuverability and matching speed. It'll be hard to get shot down in it."

"Well when the Americans get here just do me a favor and make sure they can't get any boots on the ground, because I'd rather not get shit."

"Sure thing, you shouldn't have been drafted anyways."

I said that, but things were about to get a lot worse and the soldiers were about to get a lot younger. Even the most loyal of us found a bitterness in our mouth when they started handing out sharpened poles to little kids, some younger than ten. The worst thing was that we told them that we would win, and they could all go back to school soon.

Most of them never did.

[hr]
So, with all my talk about "my work" you've probably been wondering what it actually is. At least, I hope you are. If you're not then I'm a really shitty storyteller, or you're just a really dull person. I'm going to say that, if you aren't wondering, then it's the former because it would just be rude to insult the person who voluntarily sat down to listen to me ramble on about a war they probably didn't live through. Thanks for that, by the way.

Well I guess I'll go ahead and explain that to you. I started and finished my work on the final day on March, which was actually much hotter than the day on which I brought Sasaki out for his "first" drink. I told Ihara that I'd just taken him to look for the tool, then smirked. The guy assumed that I decided to help him out with his little prank and just laughed, not taking the time to notice that Sasaki was very much a drunk man.

I had wanted to just not wear my uniform that day because of the heat, but we knew that the Americans were coming with a fleet and they wanted me to be ready to take off at a moment's notice. It was much better than that freakishly hot day earlier in the month, though, and I was rather glad that I was getting to experience it. You see, I do actually like the warmth. Just the soft warmth of spring, and not the oppressive heat of summer (or of freak days in March, of all times).

So there I was, sitting just outside the hangar staring at my plane hoping I wouldn't need to start its engine any time soon. And that was when I had the idea. Of marking the plane as mine somehow, making it personal rather than just a tool. I'd done it before, it was something I just sort of liked to do. I'd always write something on it, the first time it was just my name on the wing. The second time I scratched a cliche poem about cherry blossoms and such into my Zero's propeller blades. I rather liked the idea of writing a poem, so I though I might as well try my hand at it again.

I went and picked up a table knife some engineer had left out, most likely after taking his food with him to work on the planes, and walked over to my plane. On the right side of its fuselage, just under the tail and behind the iconic rising sun marking, I found the perfect place for me to begin my work. I actually touched the knife to the metal and almost began writing another cliche piece of shit about cherry trees, but the memory of the absolute atrocity that had been my last poem stopped me just short of starting. Sure, it was theoretically possible I could write a good poem involving cherry trees, but it felt like stealing. After all, there's nothing unique about a poem extolling cherry blossoms. 

Being me, I decided to wing it. After all, to truly make the plane mine it would have to be a poem that truly represented me. Not just another traditionally styled piece.

[i]Although my life may end over the South Pacific Ocean, my thoughts turn to the many springs gone by and those yet to come.[/i]

Looking back on it, that's a really bad way to start a poem. And it reflects pretty badly on my mental state, given the fact that the first thing that came to mind was getting killed. I noticed that at the time too, I think, because I stood there feeling like I'd really screwed up. But I kept going anyways. In the end... it wasn't quite a glorious work of art. But it felt very much like something I would write, I was proud of it. I still am, but for somewhat different reasons.

I'm so very glad I chose to write that, because that work is all that has survived of my life.

[hr]
The day was April 1st, 1945. I was awoken by the ringing of an alarm and the roaring sound of the flak guns, tracer shells working in concert with the sun to bring light to the world as the day began. As I had expected, the peace that we had on Okinawa didn't last. Still, I held out hope that we would win. The allies, after all, were assaulting a heavily defended island. It was as if the Nazis had attempted an assault on northern Ireland, completely unthinkable. Up until now, at least.

I rushed to my plane, of course, and took to the air to defend the island. There's not much to tell of the battle on that day, but it's still worth a mention. I was put on anti-fighter duty, not surprising for an ace, and sent over to Higashi beach. It was supposed to be an easy mission, just provide escort for air support and keep the beach held. Of course, that was easier said than done. We couldn't have imagined the sort of force we were going up against.

The carrier fleet the Americans had brought with them was simply incredible. It was as if they had taken a dozen airfields from their own country and moved them over to Okinawa, planes and all. At that moment, I knew that we weren't going to hold Higashi. And I was right. That day, US Marines stormed Higashi beach and established a foothold on Okinawa. As I flew above them in the sky, trying desperately to whittle down their fighter force to allow our own planes to strike at their ground forces, they started landing tanks beneath me.

When I saw those monstrous hulks of steel drive off of their transports, I wished that our Navy had left some good metal for the Army. Our light tank designs were the best, but they're like our flintlocks. We built the best flintlocks in the world in the latter half of the 1800's, but by then everyone else had already stopped using them. Just like light tanks.

I was ordered to turn back before we could even make it to noon, and by the time I made it back to the airbase I found myself being shot at by flak. My unit had been based out of Yontan Airfield, which by then had fallen to the Americans. So I had to fly even further back to another airbase, where I got more fuel and more ammo and got sent right back up again. It kept going on like that until nightfall, at which point they just gave some other pilot my plane and told me to sleep.

Sleep my ass. Bombs were falling all over the island, anti-air guns were roaring, and planes were flying right above us. How the hell was I supposed to sleep like that?

In the days after, it was the same. More sleepless nights, more fighting during the day, and more losses to the Americans on the ground. But none of that is important to my story. Because it really begins six days later, on April 7th. It was on that day that we lost the war, and I got it watch it all happen right before my own two eyes.

[hr]
I was flying over the ocean, having been ordered to leave Okinawa behind for the day to "ensure our victory". The rest of my squadron was flying beside me, and besides us there were over a hundred Japanese planes in the sky. And most of them were packed full of explosives. The vast majority of our force would be killed by our own men if they turned back. Even so, desertion was in nobody's mind. Every breath we took, said the men who commanded us, was for the glory of the Empire. In hindsight, it was a waste of our breath.

Back then, of course, we swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Our Emperor was a god, and our Empire would last ten thousand years. And we had been sent to protect the physical symbol of Japan, the IJN Yamato. The largest battleship ever constructed by human hands, armed with the largest naval guns ever constructed by human hands and armor that was built to withstand any amount of anything at any time. It was an invincible warship, capable of taking on multiple of its American equivalents and winning. No other warship could ever sink it, or even heavily damage it.

So the Americans didn't send a warship after it.

When my squadron reached the Yamato, it was sending up a massive wall of flak and machine gun fire into the sky while dive bombers harassed it. We had orders to do whatever it took to defend the enormous battleship, so of course we went after the dive bombers. The Yamato didn't have a large surface escort, only a single light cruiser and eight destroyers. The battle could never be anything but a skirmish, and the Yamato would win a skirmish. At least, that's what I assumed.

"There's gotta be at least sixty of 'em!" Screamed a panicking voice in my radio.

"Please clarify that." Said another voice. "Sixty planes?"

"Ships! Sixty ships!"

I refused to believe that. The Americans couldn't send sixty warships to fight against ten. They needed them for other operations, surely. Then I saw their first artillery volley, and I knew damn well that they had the ships to spare.

Their shells sailed through the sky for a good half a minute before impacting, and I watched as at least forty immense plumes of water a good three meters tall erupted from the surface of the ocean. Every naval pilot knew those plumes, the result of sixteen-inch American battleship shells slamming into the ocean's waters. Off in the distance, with a quick glance, I could see the fireballs that burst out of their main guns still lingering in the air.

When I returned my attention to our own fleet, one of our destroyers was on fire and half underwater. Nobody aboard it would survive, nobody would ever come to rescue them. As I now know, when the rest of our force saw that magnificent display of firepower everyone's spirits hit the bottom. It was now just nine ships against sixty, of which at least five were battleships. Now I know there were six in total, six massive floating fortresses sent against the flagship of the Imperial Navy. They knew exactly where we would be, and exactly what would be with us. And they wanted to make sure that the symbol of our Empire's glory would never see the light of day again.

The [i]Yamato[/i] herself fired her guns then, a futile attempt at retaliation against the American fleet. I would be lying if I said that display wasn't the only thing that kept me from just running away to the Home Islands. A gigantic plume of fire and smoke erupted from the nine massive naval guns that were kept three to a turret on the [i]Yamato's[/i] deck. The sound was earth-shattering, enough that I could hear it even up in my plane with my engine roaring. And even though it shouldn't have been possible, I swear to this day that my plane shook when that awesome warship fired.

Even so, that tiny drop of hope I had after watching the [i]Yamato's[/i] performance evaporated when I saw the American planes fly in. There were hundreds of them, and of our mere hundred planes all but a handful had kamikaze pilots behind their controls. I spent most of the battle just trying to dodge enemy fire, almost never getting the chance to fire at one of the countless bombers swarming the [i]Yamato[/i]. 

[i]Maybe something will save us.[/i] I thought. [i]Maybe the Americans will think we have more than we do, maybe they'll be attacked by submarines and retreat.[/i]

Below me, the [i]Yamato[/i] was on fire and listing to port. She was still alive though, and still fighting. That damaged ship could still survive the battle and make it out, but I had to wonder if even the symbol of the Empire could save Okinawa from being captured by the Americans. The answer turned out to be a no, as I could see that it was listing more and more to the port with every passing moment. And suddenly, it capsized. Yes, capsized. The greatest battleship ever built capsized like a fucking rowboat.

Moments later, its hull exploded. The sound was deafening even in my plane, and the force of it almost sent me into an uncontrollable spin. A gigantic pillar of fire leaped out of what had once been a great warship and launched itself into the sky. I watched as American planes were caught in the detonation, their pilots being killed by the sheer force of the [i]Yamato's[/i] death throes. A mushroom-shaped cloud took the place of the massive explosion, which had been caused by the detonation of the battleship's magazines. 

I turned back to Okinawa, and searched the sky for other planes that had survived the battle. I saw fourteen friendly planes in the sky, out of a total of a hundred and fifteen planes that had been sent to escort the [i]Yamato[/i]. As the day turned to dusk and the sun set to my right I couldn't help but watch it. That red orb, slowly disappearing beneath the horizon as night began to fall. It reminded me of our flag, and our name. The land of the rising sun, an empire that had before the war been rising to the heights of even the greatest European ones.

On that day, I knew that the sun had begun to set.

[hr]
Well, now we're almost at the end of my little story. It was well into the night when I finally sighted a light out in the ocean, which was rotating rhythmically. A lighthouse. Someone down there was keeping their lighthouse's light on even though the island was supposed to be under total blackout to make it harder for bombers to find their targets. I'm not going to tell you the entire life story of the guy that ran that lighthouse, but he was crazy. The only way he could have made himself more likely to get bombed would be if they poured gasoline out on the ground that spelled out "Right here, Americans! Right here!" 

I will tell you, however, that he saved many a ship that would have otherwise smashed into the cliffs below. Crazy as he might have been, I shudder to think about what would have happened if he had obeyed the military and closed up shop. It would have been all for naught if he had too, since he was never bombed. Plenty of bombers flew over him, but none of their crewmen were willing to bomb a lighthouse.

Unfortunately, there was another light out there that I saw out of the corner of my eye. A tiny, faint glinting of the moonlight off of polished metal to my right. I at first thought it was one of those odd orbs I had seen before, the ones that the Americans called "Foo fighters". But then a burst of significantly faster-moving lights flew past me and I realized I was being fired upon by an enemy fighter. It was a Hellcat, by the way. Which I shortly found out.

"And right when I'm so fucking close, too!" I said in anger, yanking my stick back in an attempt to gain some altitude for the engagement. Not to mention avoid the tracer fire that would have otherwise downed me instantly. I could practically feel the blood evacuating my head as I made the maneuver, and I had to level out just as soon as I knew that I had avoided the volley.

There was no longer any sign of the enemy fighter, so I banked my plane to the left. Sure enough, there was that faint outline of an American Hellcat fighter plane. A small hailstorm of bullets flew towards me from the enemy's guns, and I made sharp turn further to the left to avoid them. I knew I had failed when I noticed my fuel gauge start to steadily go down. I'd let him hit my fuel tank, which was already running low. The fight had to be settled fast or I had to get out fast.

My plane had a higher top speed than his, but some quick and crude mental math told me that my top speed meant nothing because my fuel wouldn't last long enough for me to get back to a friendly airbase if I was gunning the engine. Behind me, I could see the Hellcat tailing me and trying to get me in his sights. In an attempt to get him off of me I jerked my stick back and to the right, assuming he wouldn't be able to react to my evasion quick enough. Instead, his bullets streaked through the sky above me.

Without even thinking I slammed my stick forwards and put the plane into a dive, narrowly avoiding his second volley that surely would have struck my cockpit and killed me. It was a move I instantly regretted. Never, [i]ever[/i], try to outdive a Hellcat. As an American pilot himself said, the Hellcat is like a piece of lead. A pilot could outdive anything in it.

He fired again, and I tried to evade to the right. Nothing happened when I pulled the stick. I tried to pull up, still nothing. My control surfaces weren't responding. I braced for another volley, which I had to assume would kill me, but it never came. Perhaps he didn't want to waste ammunition on a fallen plane, or perhaps he thought he had already gotten me. Whatever the case, I saw him pull off above me.

As my plane plummeted to the ground I kept trying to try to pull out of the dive to no avail. I thought for sure I would die crashing into the ground, and with it growing closer and closer every moment it seemed like the only possible option. Then I slammed into a tree's branches, one of my wings being torn off in the process. The impact tilted my plane upwards just barely, and it slid to a stop in the middle of the forest.  The cockpit's glass was shattered in numerous places, shards of it were sticking into god knows how many wounds in my skin, and it felt like someone had stabbed me in the neck, but I was alive. I was still breathing.

Before I could even get a chance to laugh in relief at my survival, a loud bang echoed out through the forest. I felt a pain unlike anything else I had ever before experienced, and looked down to see a hole in the side of my cockpit and blood pouring out of my stomach. That's something about planes back then, they weren't designed to take hits, they were designed to not [i]get[/i] hit. Especially Japanese ones, "Maneuverability over survivability and firepower" was practically the motto of our aircraft designers.

And that meant that if you had a good enough pistol, the bullet would go straight into the cockpit.

Generally, it would be considered disgusting to shoot a downed pilot. But the war in the Pacific wasn't like the war in Europe. When one side is forced to fight until their death because their Emperor is a god and the other is told that their enemies are subhuman vermin, this is what you get. Men who ought to surrender being killed out of fear that they'll try to keep on fighting. At that point, though, I would have gladly waved the white flag. After watching the [i]Yamato[/i] sink, I knew that all the lies the government told us had been just that.

But the American that shot me didn't know that.

All that he knew was that a Japanese plane had just crashed in front of him, that the pilot could still be alive, and his friend had told him that a .45 could pierce the armor of a Japanese cockpit. The guy had been through hell before that, and now he thought that if he didn't shoot me I would try to kill him. I can't blame him for that. I can blame his government for making my people out to be monsters, and I can blame my government for trying their best to turn us into those monsters, but I can't blame him.

Perhaps I could tell you what happened after that, what got me to this point where I can effectively see everything that happens and has happened, but I don't think that would be right. Nobody should know what comes after death before they themselves have died. All you really need to know is that I bled out in my cockpit and died there, which is a death I can be happy with. 

My work survived, as I told you at the beginning of this story. And with it my plane did as well. It was a long and complicated system of ownership changes and people finding it in unlikely places, but in the end my plane somehow made it all the way across the pacific ocean to an American museum in Florida.

And that's why I'm glad I didn't make a more traditional poem. If I had, my work would have said nothing more than "Some pilots were wannabe poets". Instead, it was a work of true art. Perhaps not very good art (you ought to be the judge of that), but it was an expression of myself. Which is, you know, the definition of art. It shows that I was a person, not just some enemy pilot that got shot down during the war. As long as that plane still sits on the museum floor, my story will never end. People will continue to walk up to it and read the translation of my poem and wonder just what sort of person I was.

Maybe you'll come visit someday, and you might get to tell someone the story behind the plane.

[hr]
[hider=Author's Note]
This is based on a true story. So, as usual, I'll start by telling you about what's true and what isn't.

Mitsuo Hori really existed and really was an ace, with 11 victories to his name. He did, in fact, fly the same Shiden-Kai fighter that features in this story. He also didn't die until the 90's, and flew the plane in combat on April 16th instead of April 7th. Whoever really flew the plane in his final days likely did so much closer to the surrender of the Japanese Empire, and likely didn't experience as violent a landing as depicted in the story. However, they were killed in the same way.

That's right, the pilot really was shot through his cockpit by an American with a pistol. That's one of the more unbelievable things about the story (you'd think that the armor would stand up to a pistol) but it was actually not uncommon for Japanese pilots who had landed or crashed in American-held territory to be shot through their cockpit with small arms. The only reason I know this is because the plane really is in a Florida museum (The National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, specifically) and I went there and saw it myself. There's a bullet hole int he cockpit, and one of the museum staff-a man who had served in WWII himself-explained that it was probably a .45 caliber pistol round that made it. The poem, too, also exists and you can see it on the plane at the museum. I made no changes to its wording in the story. The plane at the museum is essentially entirely original, since when the museum acquired it the plane had almost all of its parts with it and in good condition. 

As for what I made up, the IJN [i]Yamato[/i] fires her main guns in the story on April 7th, 1945 during Operation Ten-Go (essentially a suicide mission made by the Japanese Navy to not appear cowardly in the eyes of the Emperor) on her way to Okinawa. This never happened. The [i]Yamato[/i] only fired her main guns once during her entire operational life, and it was in 1944 during the Battle of Leyte Gulf. She retreated because the Japanese Admiral assumed that they were facing an entire American carrier fleet, when in reality it was a handful of light cruisers. The sinking of the [i]Yamato[/i] in the story is, however, entirely accurate (if somewhat accelerated). The detonation of her magazines was powerful enough to result in a mushroom cloud, and planes were said to be caught in the explosion by Japanese pilots (though it is entirely possible that said pilots simply wanted to believe that the [i]Yamato[/i] made some sort of poetic final strike against the enemy in her death).

This story has actually been sitting in my head for almost exactly a full year now, but I actually ended up winging this entire story because up until I started writing it I wasn't sure whether to have it take place in my fictional Sci-Fi Galactic-Scale WWII that I've used to tell stories from WWII in these contests before or to write about the actual war itself. In the end, I decided to write about the real war since I haven't done it before and it just felt like it gave a sense of reality to the story that I otherwise wouldn't have had.

Just as Mitsuo Hori (the one in the story, not the real ace) suggested, I would definitely urge you to visit the museum in which the plane now resides if you ever get the chance. There really aren't words to describe just how well-done everything is, and it's those interesting little things you discover (like the poem on the Shiden-Kai) that really make the experience worthwhile.

No, I wasn't paid to say that.[/hider]
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This concludes the entries. Submit your vote by August Twelfth. Competitors, feel free to yell at me if I screwed up the formatting on your entry or compromised anonymity.