No... The entity did not understand how humans can knee-jerk react to some things rather than think them through. Gilgamesh did not understand how the entity worked to enhance his intellect. Between them, they inadvertently triggered an autoimmune response that destroyed the majority of the brain.

The stone passes knowledge of more than just mere bloodthirst and a hunger for death into its first willing wielder. The Harbinger gives her all of its experience with conquerors. All of its understanding of logistics, of campaigns, of terror, sieges, and strategy. And this girl, this creature, twisted into the shape of a massive half-human half she-wolf, absorbs it all as a willing and capable student would. With this creature, this monstrous and determined girl who dared to take up something her ancestors had been taught to avoid at all costs, the Harbinger bring an age of blood, steel, violence, and unmatched war to the world. In every city, its influence can spread. In every heart of every slave, it will fester, it will grow, and it will make its greatest work yet. Through its willing vessel it speaks of dark magick, of how the freed monsters, the former slaves, can do greater work with the blood, bone, and gore left behind after the first massacre. They listen. They gladly do the work. Soon, clad in disguised flesh, they all appear mortal once more. All appear human. But underneath it all, they're still the same bloodthirsty monsters. Some have a few doubts, but their hate overshadows the doubts. Their own anger giving the Harbinger greater power than it could have ever imagined.

Each of them will travel to another city. And there they will spread the curse, spread the power of the Harbinger and its vessel to more downtrodden and destitute individuals. To more enslaved people. And when the time is right, when enough of the great metal cities built by the men moving west-ward, the destroyers of the old ways, are infected, that will be the time when the monsters shall rear their heads. When the disguises shall be shed. When the whole nation, coast to coast, will be torn asunder in one glorious night of horror, dark magic, and vengeance. The Harbinger keeps its promises. The girl will have her request. She will have her vengeance. She will have her fill of the blood of her enemies, until she drowns in it. She will sit upon a throne made from their bones, until it wears her thin. And the Harbinger knows that she will not regret her choice. That she, thin, frail, and sickly as she was, will not ever find cause to regret a single thing about her choices. Not even if they somehow managed to kill her.

The polished grey stone, is a thing of evil, an artifact that makes monsters. Yet it can still respect those around it that are strong. It respected the wizard, for not giving in to the tremendous seductive powers it has. It respected its maker, for being mad enough to make it in the first place, knowing well what the ramifications of its existence are. And it respects the first willing vessel. The first partner that the Harbinger has ever had. Around her, it would forge the empire it was made to create. It would make a nation of monsters. An empire of blood.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

It is a small thing. When one hears of the horrors caused by those who have owned it, one thinks it something big and grand. If one heard no description of it, one would think that perhaps it is some massive blade that drinks souls. One might think it is a suit of armor that transforms the wearer into a dreadful beast. Perhaps one see it as the crown of a tyrant, a crown worn by heads that have demanded the blood of innocents time and time again. Whatever one hears of it, this ancient thing, dread and powerful, the Harbinger of Blood, one always knows what it is. A cursed, dread, and horrible artifact that transforms its owner into a monster that will do the evil bidding of the malevolent will that rages like an inferno within the confines of the artifact. Since before the days when Gilgamesh was king in Uruk, when the first stone of the first pyramid had yet to be placed, it has been a thorn in the side of civilization. How, one will say, how can it not be some great kingly item, something that a proud emperor and a desperate peasant will both want to pick up and use. But it is nothing like that.

It is so very simple, lying there upon a worn velvet pillow, in the dark cave that once served as a home to a powerful archmage that had wanted to protect the world from the malicious influence of this dread artifact. The name of this wizard, who every day resisted the call and draw of this accursed item, is forgotten, and yet for his sacrifice, mankind has known centuries without the horrid dread that is spread by this baleful item. And yet, it looks so very innocent. So very powerful. A polished rock. Nothing more. In the light of the torch, it shimmers slightly. No more, no less. It is not a gem of ancient power. It is just a pretty, polished, rock. Containing eldritch and misbegotten powers that the universe wishes to forget. Today, it is fated, that it will be picked up again. A thin arm holds a torch aloft, as the little thing whispers seductive words to the brain of a human girl. A tired looking waif of a human girl. Mayhaps no more than nineteen summers old in the flesh, though if exhaustion and world-weariness were years, then truly she is a thousand years old at least, possibly more. Thin and frail, she stands completely still, staring at the dread stone before her.

''You do not need to lie to me. I know what you are.''

Her voice is ragged, and worn. The stone is worried for a moment, the will inside desires to corrupt, to destroy, and to make monsters. It cannot do so if the person knows what it is, unless they let it in. ''Do not worry, instrument of doom and death, I am not here to prolong your imprisonment. Indeed.'' Her mouth twists into what could charitably be called a smile, if only as the kind of smile that a person who has never done so naturally would attempt it on purpose has. ''I will be your vessel, but in exchange I have but a simple request.'' If the stone could be full of glee, it would attempt this, but it was built to take the flesh of mortals into its will and rebuild them as monstrous things. It only knows that its purpose will be continued. That it, until its fated destruction cleverly prophesied by its maker in the age before the beginning of history to only happen at a time in the future so far ahead, will see its influence reign for millions of years before it ends. It does not know glee, or joy, or even happiness. But there is an evil contentedness in being used for its intended purpose.

''Twist my flesh, change my body, burn away who I was and replace me with a monster. But I ask only that you grant me my vengeance. Down in the valley below, the invaders have taken the home of my father. Have conquered the lands of my ancestors. And have claimed this realm in the name of their weak and insignificant pantheon. Use me to crush them. To break them. To end their world as they have ended mine. Show them what happens when a people is destroyed, in both their history and their flesh.''

An easy request to make. An easy boon to grant. An easy task for a stone that has always made the best monsters. Sometimes it is as simple as influencing a mind to do things that they have already considered. This is how the stone, the Harbinger, breaks those that are too strong of will to be truly controlled, and makes monsters of them, even if it is indirectly. Sometimes it is the slow mutation, the breaking of the idea, of the mind, of turning something that was once good over a long period into something monstrous. Those already monstrous, they are simply given a body to match their rotten souls. But this, this gives the stone something more. Yes indeed. It sends out a psionic agreement, an affirmation to the frail human, that it will indeed grant it all the vengeance and all the blood that she could possibly desire.

''Then I do this willingly, though it might curse me forever. I take up the Harbinger, damn the consequences, willingly and with no objections, for those who might once have objected to such a drastic choice, have been reduced to bones in shallow graves. Make me your vessel, and grant me and my people our vengeance!''

The hand not holding the torch reaches out, and takes the stone. It burns into her flesh, and she does not scream. The stone, the Harbinger, molds her like clay, twists her core concepts, her helix structure, with no effort at all. A torch is dropped. The first change comes. Though the body is too weak to accommodate more radical changes, it is enough to begin its task. There is no internal struggle as the monstrous body moves out of the ancient cave, past the dilapidated quarters of the long dead wizard, passing empty cots and empty tents, out into the world once more. Underneath a moonless sky, the monster moves. Down in the valley the colonists sleep. But their beasts do not. Screams emerge from barns across the valley, as the monster that was once a human girl feasts upon cattle. When the frightened men and women come to investigate, the beast has already fed. And it is moving. Soon it is going to the place where the slaves are kept. In their chains and in their filth, they are kept. But they see the monstrous beast, and they cringe away. But she knows that this is but one such valley, and that her foes are many.

She passes the curse along. Bite by bloody bite to each and every one in the place where her people are kept. When the slavedrivers open the gates to the squalid house, they are met by an enemy that is red in tooth and claw, an enemy that knows the hate, the bloodthirst, and the rage that the curse gives them. The stone, still embedded into the flesh of its first ever willing monster, feels the intensity of this hatred, of this vitriol. And it knows that it has finally found its truest purpose of all. Sure, some men of its own liking will die during this night of brutal slaughter, but the weight of innocent souls torn to bits by these angry monsters is far more tremendous than anyone could ever have imagined. From house to house, the monsters fight, always killing, their unready enemy taken by surprise has no chance for victory. When the red dawn comes, it is met by a town drenched in blood, and a queen-monster being praised by the countless former slaves, now lesser monsters, that have been spawned by the actions of this daring girl.

That's very nice of you, thanks kindly! (And I'll let you know if it happens).

Burned for the Last Time

​

"I've been burned for the last time," I sigh, inhaling the cigarette. I look to Dallas and pass it back to him. The smoke bites my inexperienced lungs and I stifle a cough.

"You know how I feel about her. She was never good for you." Dallas shakes his head as he inhales. His lungs are used to surviving off several packs a day.

The cold air wraps me like a blanket. My body shivers as I adjust my position on the curb. A lone streetlight in the distance offers a soft glow around us. I lean closer to him as he wraps his arm around me.

"It doesn't always start off bad, y'know?" I mumble as I lean into his embrace.

"I know, Ava. We grew up together, remember? I’ve seen how they all start." His heavy arm warms my back and shoulders. "We've gotta stop meeting like this. You disappear for months, get heartbroken, and then we finally get to see each other over cigarettes you don't even smoke."

I look at him, praying for kindness in his words.

"You lose yourself every time." He sighs, grabbing me tighter. I feel him shiver too.

I rise from the curb and look down at him. “I need a drink. You?”

“Most certainly.” He reaches his hand up for assistance.

He removes his jacket and wraps it around my narrow shoulders, draping me in the warmth he’d built up. It smells of heavenly sandalwood.

The streetlight illuminates the businesses below it. Dallas adjusts his hat as we walk, lowering it to cover more of his ears as sandy curls poke out. My short legs pick up the pace toward our regular spot: Island Down Under. As we near, I hear the horns. They are loud, and sloppy, and cheerful. I forgot about live music Sundays. We usually avoid it like the plague on these days. Though, it’s been a while.

Dallas turns around with a grin, outreaching his hand. “M’lady, shall we dance to these joyous tunes?” His body shimmies as he poses the question.

I laugh and push his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

We both giggle as we open the door to the tavern. The trombone is so loud even my long hair shakes as we head straight to the bartender. After ordering, we find a corner to retreat to.

Dallas’ face scrunches a little as he looks at the menu. “Hmm, I think I’m feeling some greasy pizza tonight. What ‘bout you?”

“Great, will I need a napkin for my tears or to wipe up grease?” I fake rub my face as if crying.

We decide on ordering the cheesiest pizza they have. With extra cheese. As we wait, we polish off a few more drinks. Dallas playfully uses the empty glasses as binoculars. Then as a trumpet playing along with the band. We both throw our heads back with laughter.

As the pizza arrives, he begins scarfing it down without coming up for air. I watch him with a small smile.

“What are you ogling at?” He manages with a mouth half-full of pizza.

“It’s just that… I’ve never seen an ogre in its natural habitat,” I barely manage without a laugh.

“Oh stop! Here’s a napkin for your tears!” He tosses his used, greasy napkin across the table.

He jumps out of his seat and grabs my hand, leading me to the dance floor. We are surrounded by folks shaking and shimmying along with the boisterous horns. Dallas wraps his arm around me for another time this evening. He guides my body along with his. I feel his fingers drawing a map on my shoulder.

My gaze lifts to meet his soft hazel eyes. The instrumental riffs blur into a dull background. Our bodies lean closer together. Warmth radiates between us. The freezing cold outside doesn’t seem so bad. I imagine how soft his lips must feel. How loving him would feel. Would I be left ragged and broken like all the other times? Would this be different? Forever ever after? If only life could be so easy.

My daydreams jolt back to reality when I feel him pull me closer before asking, “What’re you thinkin’?”

“It’s the first time I’ve–” I’m cut off by the trumpeters and bass creating a riff that is distractingly off-key, forcing me to save my soppy confession for another time.

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What's up?

Long way off of that, but thanks kindly for the support!

If I do write more I'll let you know. I had fun with these two. Thanks Kindly!

Thanks Kindly! If I keep on swinging at it I'll be sure to shoot a link.

That was so beautiful... It made me feel young again. This is art. Truly art. Kudos to you. And thank you for writing this.

I’ve reached the end of my rope.

Oh, sorry. “Its” the end of my “rpe”, now. Apparently.

It all started about 17 days ago. Or, that’s when i noticed it. i was reading a restaurant menu when i saw… damn it. I. I. You capitzlize your “I”s, I know you do!

I misspelled capitzlize too. No, I didn’t misspell it; that’s just auto-correct. So, I was I I I I

That took too long to type. i think I’ll just let it be i now. And, capitzlize. And all those other ridiculous changes, gah. Like captin (captain). And feelign (feeling). And wansder (wander), with its “silent s”.

Let me tell you, the reputation of the english language went from “hard”, to “utter nonsense” real fast. Every day, it gets a little worse; more words are added to the “strange-spelling list”, and history rewrites itself.

I’m just waiting for my dishwasher to dissapear because the inventor’s great-great-great grandparent moved to India because of (ever increasing) ridiculous exceptions to the usual rules of English, like the spelling and pronunciation birng (bring).

So, to return to the topic. Me, reading a menu, going out for dinner with some friends. “Haha, hey, they misspelled paasta,” i pointed out. My friends looked. “No really?”s, “Wow, haha”s, and “That’s funy”s, terned into, “Where?”, and, “i can’t find it”.

When i showed it to them, they acted weird. Told me to stop joking. Again, it was weird, but we moved on quidckly. Stilll, I thought to shoot a message to another friend about it. Yet when I typed “pasta”, it was auto-corrected to “paasta’. “Pasta”, i typed. “Paasta”, my phone insisted.

That was the day my world got terned upside-down. Everyday, more and more words from the English language are replaced with typos…and only i remember what they used to be.

i haven’t been able to tell how many are changed each day; there’s too many words. Besides, there are words so rarely used I’ve never seen them, and worse, words of which i was never sure of the spellings in the first place. If those words are replaced with stilll-reasonable spellings i can’t distinguish as typos, well.

When words like “chatayancy” and “apricate” exist, I’ll simply never know.

Though, its definitely a graduall process. After all, “i” only became infuriatingly lowercase starting Tuesday. But this too is worrying. Will this never stop? How long will it take before there are more “wrong” words than “right” words?

I’ve searched and posted desperately trying to find others who also remember, only to get laughing and mocking comments. At best, someone’ll say that my “suggested word changes” would make more sense, but that’s just how the English be.

Its. Terrifying.

i. Am. Terrified.

I is capitalized. I is capitalized. That's obvious. It's well known. Capital I is a fact. But I'm the only one who knows that.

Do I?

When you wake to another reality every day, what do you do? What do you do when you can no longer recognize it? I don't know.

I guess...it would be "i don't know".

It’s been 36 days since I’ve last seen a living person.

I see dead ones all the time. More often than not they’ve been dead for days or weeks. Torn open and left to rot. Rotting organs spilling out onto the pavement or floor, deep red or dark brown, or beige grey, depending on how old the corpse is. Flies swarming like bees swarm a nest.

Do you know what happens when necrotic tissue rots for long enough? It melts. It turns into an organ goo and melts into the nearest porous surface. Usually, their old clothes, but occasionally a carpet or couch cushion, depending on where they died. Then it dries, like paint, and the liquified organs act like glue.

The worst part is the smell. The stench of thousands of bacteria colonizing and making homes for themselves. The gut bacteria, released into the open air, an offence to your nose and an attack on your senses. It can be smelled from hundreds of feet away. It’s the type of smell to make your eyes water, and to make you gag thirteen times as you use your blunt kitchen knife to try to separate the more palatable cuts of meat.

sigh But it’s worth it. The taste of your brethren is divine. Maybe it’s the disease that makes it taste so sweet, or maybe it’s something that’s been in me my whole life. But when I cut those tender, marbled strips of muscle off of the bodies, I feel as though dukes and royalty of old times would envy me. The way the meat just falls apart in your mouth, the slime of rot sticking in your throat after, is borderline orgasmic. The rot juice iss nature’s finest sauce, naturally formed on this first-class cuisine.

I’ve lost control a while ago. I know I have. I tell myself I’m acting, roleplaying, just pretending to be one of the undead. I tell myself I’m playing along, trying to ensure my own safety and survival, lest the undead detect and consume me. But when they do detect me, in the rare occasion I do see one, another stumbling former person. They detect me as one of their own, and leave me be.

I tell myself that’s great news, that I must be such a great actor, that broadway stars and shakespeare himself would be proud of me. But I know they would be horrified.

Going insane isn’t like the movies, where there is a definite crescendo, and then a snap and a bang. Going insane is like falling asleep. It definitely happens, but there’s no one point where you can say, ‘ah, that’s when it happened’. You slowly fall into it, so slow that you don’t even realize it. You’re gently lulled into undead scavengery, the disease’s fingers coaxing you into doing worse and worse things.

Geez, I should listen to myself. I’m such a great actor. No wonder the undead think I’m one of them.

So the entity tricked the person into revealing the human brain's weakness and used the knowledge against them?

I'm not sure about the specifics but it's pretty good!

"Come on! We had a bargain! I kept my end and then some!"

"Yes, you did. But neither of us knew to include the benefits of notoriety in the bargain. I just want a bit of credit where credit is due."

"Then you haven't been experiencing my nightmares, have you."

The intelligence in my head paused. "No. That's too raw for me to interface with."

"I think I understand. You have emotions, but they are subject to your intellect. Even at what I would call the subconscious level."

"I can sort of see what you are getting at. But it's still too raw."

"Alright, this analogy might help you. The human brain is not a monolith. Beyond even the right/left division, we are a stack of brains, each more evolved than the one before.

"At the bottom is the lizard brain. Use my knowledge to build a model of the lizard brain you can observe."

"Done. That... That is brutal. The emotions are so strong that the model is overloaded."

"Right. That is the most primitive part of our brain; its primary function is survival. Now, layer the structures specific to a dog on top of the lizard model."

"Done, and what a difference! I can relate to it now."

"Yes, we get along pretty well with dogs. Now add the monkey on top of that."

"Eh... Done? We must stop experimenting on them; I had no idea they were that close to sentience... maybe even sapient."

"I had my suspicions, which is why we don't use them in our lab. Now add the few differences that humans have."

"I get along with this model best."

"Okay. Here is where it's going to get ugly. Tell the model that you are a parasite and want to enhance its brain in exchange for sustenance."

Six Months Later

"Gentlemen, I am sorry to inform you that Doctor Gilgamesh will never recover."

"What happened?"

"It seems that he had a benign brain tumor all this time. Something triggered an autoimmune response to the tumor and destroyed all but the... Well, all but the lizard part of his brain."

((finis))

They did it to avert a nuclear winter.

In the race for green energy, they started cutting corners to achieve nuclear fusion before anyone else. A reactor meltdown here, an unintentional atom split there, and within years the Earth was pockmarked with unlivable land.

When one of these experiments went awry, the splitter found its mark not on an atom, but on a man - more precisely, splitting his body from his soul. The energy produced was terrific, and suddenly the ideas started flooding in. The possibilities.

They started with criminals on death row. Then people with terminal illnesses. They began harnessing all of the energy to do away with the mistakes of the past. The next snag was determining what to do with the husks. Current infrastructure couldn't exactly handle the sudden increase in the amount of dead bodies.

They found a solution, that being to periodically airlift loads of the bodies to leave behind in those dead lands. Inhumane through and through, but if you didn't think about it, it couldn't haunt you, right? The dead lands were obviously unlivable anyway, so what did it matter if it was filled with more bodies?

It quickly became apparent what the fatal flaw was: they didn't account for the will of the souls.

They did it to avert a nuclear winter. So why did the snow still come?

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

My first time trying my hand at one of these - it's probably not great, but my first thought when I saw the prompt was considering exothermic and endothermic reactions; if the energy produced by splitting a body from a soul was so significant, obviously the energy consumed from a wayward soul that decided it wasn't done living bonding back into SOMETHING would be equally significant. Idunno, it was a messy stream of consciousness, and about halfway through it occurred to me this could also be a neat setup to a zombie apocalypse scenario where the damaged souls come back to their decaying bodies, both incomplete and uncertain as to what's next aside from a hunger that can't be satiated.

Maybe the zombie scenario would have been better lol

When one walks through the POW camps, one truly sees the faces of misery. There, the proud conqueror has been broken down utterly, leaving behind a mewling creature that has no dignity, no bravery, and no hope. It has been thus ever since our victory. Ever since we beat them back, and rendered their ambitious desire for blood and honor into nothing more than something that would leave an ashen taste in the mouth of the defeated. It was a grand victory for us. Proud soldiers marching through the streets of liberated cities. Enemy citadels blown away by orbital bombardment as a manner of celebration. It was the moment of glory, when the battered remnant of our people united as one, underneath a banner adorned with red blades held aloft by many crimson hands upon a blackened field. Indeed, when our forces blasted that final dread eyesore out of the sky, when the heavens of fair Terra were once more ours, it was the final stroke of a war that had lasted for decades.

But it left tens of millions of POWs behind. When we destroyed that alien flagship, breaking their invasion once and for all, there were still areas under their administration. Regions with colonists, administrators, civilians, garrison troops, the likes. There was no possible options for us to arrange a handover of prisoners. The force that had invaded us were a rogue group of arch-reactionary imperialists from a stellar nation that had completely and utterly disavowed them. We tried to make their more civilized counterparts see our predicament, but beyond providing symbolic financial aid to us in order to aid in our reconstruction, they did not want any part in the post-war situation. We set out on our task to deal with the unwanted remnants of the invaders in a way that was decent, insofar as humanity could restrain itself from the sweet allure of revenge.

Yet we rose above our past tendency for cruelty, for taking bloody vengeance and calling it just retribution. We did not give in to the worse parts of human nature. We dragged alien leaders in front of courts, brought in witnesses, appointed them advocates that would act as their defense under the laws of the Federation of Earth. Their crimes were treated as they were; crimes against peace, decency, and humanity. Many were executed. More were given long sentences, even life in prison. That was what we did with the officers, the bureaucrats, and all of their civilian leaders. But the massive alien legions, fighters who had spent their lives honed for combat, who knew naught but battle. What to do with them? The low-ranked civilians were forced to live under human law and under human watch in special ghetto-cities, but what to do with the vast army of aliens, who had done nothing but shed human blood and do their utmost to destroy humanity? Some extremists wanted them all destroyed. All slain. But to most, this was too far. We would be no better than our defeated enemy if we slew them en masse.

Engineering troops of the enemy were conscripted to rebuild and repair, under human supervision. To clear the rubble of ruined cities, and aid in reconstruction wherever possible. Human cities would rise once more, and much faster than we would otherwise had made them rise, when those who could use the captured alien construction equipment were making themselves useful. They followed orders easily, and did not complain about harsh conditions or hard labor. But the vast legions, loyal to a dead, insane, alien despot. These vast legions who were taught to obey, what to do with them? To see them in their squalor, in the POW camps, to see their pride broken, was almost enough to make one pity them, if only a little. They were, after all, alien soldiers who had tried ruthlessly and brutally to conquer humanity at the behest of a lunatic who made our worst historical despots and tyrants look practically sane. The remaining peoples of the Romance cultural group, living in the Mediterranean Republic, the lands that were once Iberia, Occitania, and Italy, would note that even the worst of the ancient Roman emperors would look at the alien overlord as a complete loon. The inbred fool made Caligula look like a well-adjusted and mentally sound individual.

These alien soldiers would mope around, barely eat, and barely do anything. Few of them felt anything besides despair. It didn't help that their supply of the heavily addictive combat drugs they used to take, were destroyed completely when the alien flagship was atomized. It was an officer at the Aral Camp who finally made a breakthrough. This officer noticed the weak wills and docile behavior of her once terrifying enemy. And found it quite strange, that an enemy, even one suffering heavily from withdrawal, should act like this. Taking those who were the least lethargic and despondent aside one morning, this officer handed each of the alien soldiers a knife, a piece of wood. Then the officer showed them how to use said implements to carve a small figurine from it. They then showed these large alien soldiers a book about the various things one could carve from wood. The aliens were then ordered to carve whatever figure from the wood that they would like, provided it was one that they could find in the book. The alien soldiers dutifully looked at the book. Then took to carving. Periodically the officer would walk among them, explaining certain things, sometimes shouting at them like a drill sergeant would, and in general, acting as their officer.

At the end of the day, each of the aliens had made a passable attempt at an Earth animal. They did not seem in their old spirits of blood and glory hunger, but they did seem a tad bit more alive. More sensible. So next week, the officer, having spoken to her superiors, had been given a room full of clay. And with the aid of a potter, she taught them how to make clay pots. And at the end of the day each POW had made a satisfactory attempt at a pot. Next week, it was painting, with the aid of the historical records of a certain Bob Ross. And so she continued. Teaching them new things each week. Why did this impulse happen only to this captain at this camp? Who knows, but it was important. It taught the aliens to obey instructors from the civilian side of life. It taught them skills that weren't based around killing or oppression. It showed them a different path, one that such vatgrown soldiers, born and bred for battle, had never known. Soon, they spread the knowledge they had learned to others in the camp. And these aliens, lethargic, uninterested, and beaten, slowly started to change their outlook. Started to learn how to be more than mere pawns in the game of a mad ruler.

Some few were, cautiously, sent out to live and learn from the neo-nomads who roamed from the borders of the Republic of Ukraine, to the still smouldering ruins of Pyongyang. At first the nomads were skeptical. But soon, these aliens proved their use, their worth, in the long journeys across the lands that had once been mighty and strong in the days before the invasion began. Before both nations used their horrific arsenals to destroy themselves and all forces arrayed against them rather than surrender. Their augmentations made them better suited for detecting radiation early, and the enhanced detoxification organs in them allowed them to know when the waters were clean of toxins, so that they might be safely boiled. Soon, with the roaming clans and tribes, they could find a place. And many were, once they had been proven docile and unlikely to cause trouble, released into the care of these pragmatic nomads, who'd eagerly use their old enemies to ease survival in their hostile lands.

Today, at Camp Lincoln, near Marquette, the post-war capital of the State of Michigan in the Reunited States of America, a variation of this program begins. Where the basic skills taught at Camp Aral in the Kazakh Nation were suitable for the nomadic tribes that often worked with the Central Asian nation, we're going to be doing something different. While basic skills will be taught, it will only be the first step of the program, an expansion of the concept developed by Captain Ismailov. This program is much more ambitious. The alien civilians are integrated, if still confined to specific areas out of fear that they'll try something, or that human extremists will hunt them down. If these legions, these killers, can be changed. Can be truly given modern, useful skills, like the engineering corps of the invaders, then there is a possibility, that the horrendous, depressing, and economically draining camps, will be able to close.

If we can teach them advanced skills, if we can educate them beyond basic or pre-modern skill-sets, then they can be brought into society. Sure, they'll only have the same rights as their civilian kin, and they won't have the same rights as human beings, not now, not until the generations scarred by the war have passed. But one day, if the program can successfully educate these alien killing machines to be able to work as nurses, teachers, and whatever else you don't need physical prowess for, then there will come a day when the blood has been washed away. And the descendants of these invaders will become equal citizens of this good Earth.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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Thanks, that means a lot to me. I hesitate to criticize choices made in one of the bestselling series of all time, but I feel like I'm not overreaching to say that some of the worldbuilding is pretty illogical.

Anyway, thanks for reading!

I like this one a lot. Makes me think of all the times I’ve sat in classrooms and family reunions, just silently watching people have conversations with each other.

> iPhone auto-correct

proves the absence of god. It exists to remind us we're in hell.

I don't have the knack for writing you all do, and I doubt anyone will see this nested under the automod, but the first idea that came to my mind seeing this prompt wasn't the effects of the massive amounts of energy created by soul fission, but the opposite

Like an exothermic reaction vs an endothermic reaction, how much energy would need to be taken back IN by wayward souls that determine that they aren't done living and bonding their way back into other living beings?

Edit: I did it anyway, it's not great but I did it

ThAT TWIST AT THE END MADE ME SO DANG HAPPY. YOU REALLY TUGGED ON MY HEARTSTRINGS THERE THANKS FOR WRITING THIS.