The Tale of Marcus Graves (Original Short)

Marcus Graves was the youngest of 5 brothers, the smallest, too, only measuring up to six feet six inches. He was born to Jack and Janine Graves in the summer of 1935, during one of the family's most difficult times, financially. Because of his stature and size, compared to his brother's, Marcus focused mostly on reading and science, quickly climbing to the top of the schools in the area, leaving his brothers to be the workers of the family.

When he turned seventeen Marcus was offered the chance to go to school for free, a scholarship he took with serious pride, and didn't hesitate to say 'Yes.' While the young man, born from Columbus, Missouri, was busy readying his mind; he never forgot his body. He was the runt of the litter, after all, still only at six, six, and now two hundred and thirty pounds. However, Marcus was like no other academic that came through the school's doors that year: Large muscles, square jaw, clean shaven, nearly perfect smile, and atop it all a mane of jet black hair that was neatly kept.

Being away from the farm environment afforded Marcus the opportunity to grow his hair long, keep his face free of scruff and whiskers, but the curiosity never left his bright, blue eyes, no matter what. Because he studied a lot, now, his tan quickly gave way to pale skin, but he preferred to exercise at night, anyways. While he was in classes, and without warning, the war came. The second world war, it was called. Marcus wasn't allowed to go and fight, forbidden by his mother.

His other brothers, and his father, however, had joined and marched on foreign soil, fighting for their country. They died for their country, as well, all five of them. They had left Marcus and his mother alone in the world. Marcus tried to run home, to help his mother heal, to help her grieve. There was a telegram waiting for him when he stepped off the train. She had passed earlier that morning from heart failure. Marcus wasn't aware of much else, not the station around him, or the rain that began pouring down.

It was still raining during the funeral. The young man's bright blue eyes watched his mother's casket descend into the earth. He knew beneath the glossy black wood his mother laid in her Sunday finest, her make up and hair perfectly done, her arms hugging tight five neatly folded American flags. Anger crept slowly through Marcus as he tossed down the first handful of dirt while the minister droned on about heaven.

Marcus had grown bitter and began to hate the world and what it had taken from him, he withdrew deeper and deeper into his studies. All that drove him on was the single idea that he could change the world if he tried hard enough. Close to his graduation in 1958, Marcus received a letter from a man who was trying to do just that: Change the world. There, again, was no hesitation to say 'Yes.' It was an easy choice.

The plane ride was short, the boat ride was confusing. There, out in the middle of the ocean, Marcus found himself standing in a lighthouse, staring at a large brass orb with round windows built into it. A giant glass door hung open and beckoned him inside. He'd come to far to back away, now, so he stepped inside and sat in the chair that was inside the metal bubble. Audio, from some unknown source, began to play and the thing Marcus sat in began to move.

Outside the round windows, and the giant glass door, the world began to change. It all seemed like magic, now, like something out of a fairy tale, or a nightmare. A nightmare written by people that spoke of beings from another world. The ocean water became the air as he descended, the sky became the waves, deeper and deeper he went. Soon darkness gave way to a city, underwater, with lights and all.

Marcus stared in awe as the metal sphere docked itself, taking him inside the colossal structures. The audio had stopped a while ago, but the young man inside hadn't noticed. This time the speakers crackled and a man's voice came through them, speaking words that would forever change Marcus' life.

"Hello, Mister Graves, I am Andrew Ryan. Welcome to Rapture."

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Phil didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember going to bed or even being in his own home. He just knew, now, that he was waking up. The faint sensation of swaying was also disorienting, but even more so was the feeling of being upside down. Thick ropes binded up his ankles and kept him in the air, but what he was swinging from was also a mystery. His vision was blurred for a couple of reasons, missing his glasses, and grogginess from being unconscious. 

The smell of something strange was strong in where ever he was, it was also a little cold, even through his cover-alls from work. Big windows poured in late afternoon sun the color of amber, but the finer details were lost without his glasses. He groaned a bit as he brought his hands up to his face to try and rub the film of sleep away. He froze when he heard a voice. "Oh good. You're awake. Was afraid I'd have gone too far." The voice was familiar, soft, soothing, almost. He tried to turn his body, but only managed to make his head swivel towards the owner of the voice. A blurry figure was standing not too far away.

"Gone too far with what? And, uh, who are you?" Phil knew his situation was less than ideal, but his curiosity won out. "Oh. Forgive me. These are yours." Phil's glasses were pressed into his palm and he immediately put them on. The world was suddenly clear. He was in an empty warehouse, hanging from a rafter, and the voice belonged to a vampire. A vampire he'd known for a few years, now. "Hi, Michael. What's going on?" Confusion trumped curiosity that time. Michael stepped forward, concern in his purple eyes, "Are you okay? Do you need water or anything?" 

The man hanging upside down tested his lips and mouth, but they were okay, his head hurt slightly, but it was negligible. "No, I'm okay. What's with the hanging thing?" Michael showed relief, but nodded, ready to launch into an explanation, "I'm so sorry about this Phil. I want you to know you've been nothing but a good friend to me these years. Some people know that you supply me with specialized weapons, every now and again, and I had to clean up those loose ends before they lead back to you." Michael motioned to a place where his hanging friend could not see, then turned him to witness it.

Now Phil new that smell, and the source, now, too. Half a dozen bodies were strung up, just like him, their necks slashed, and their faces a mask of glossy red, all their eyes glazed over and sleepy looking. Michael walked amongst the hanging bodies as he continued to speak, "These people were less than cooperative, but, then again, they don't know me like you do. So here's the short and ugly version of it, my good friend: I need direct access to where you get your supplies and weapons from. Due to certain circumstances I'm being forced to cut out the middle man, as it were." 

The hanging man could barely believe his eyes as they went over every gory detail of the way the others had died, some he knew, most he didn't. And now the words of his violet eyed friend were setting in at a rapid pace. Phil knew the violence the vampire could summon in a heart beat. That's how they met, after all. Phil wandering to his car in a drunken stupor one evening, three feral vampires saw him as a meal, Michael dispatched them all with efficiency that would startle anyone not used to seeing that level of decimation. He and Phil spent the rest of the night drinking together and discussing the world that existed beneath human kind's feet. 

The entire conversation was easy for Phil, he'd been a horror movie fanatic for most of his life, and his way to repay his debt was easy, considering he had an engineering degree in eight different fields. His new vampire friend had refused the help, saying there was no debt to pay, but he insisted. He wouldn't have guessed, all those years ago, that an unlikely friendship would have lead to this. He chose his words carefully, knowing Michael didn't like liars or being lead on, "There's no middle man, Michael. I do all the stuff I've sold to you myself. I have a workshop downtown where I build things for various people. And there isn't a stockpile of weapons or ammo, either. I keep it that way in case somebody gets curious and breaks in or the ATF show up."

Phil watched his friend weigh his words in silence. In the meantime he fought lightheaded feelings and a wave of nausea caused by the swaying. The vampire nodded, accepting the explanation, "Well, my good friend. Seems you now have a full time career working for me, than." With in a few seconds the rope was cut and Phil was on his feet, carried like he weighed nothing by his friend, which was odd for his six foot, two hundred plus pound frame. "I was never going to kill you, by the way, I just needed information." Michael offered with a smile and a clap on the shouler.

The nervous laughter that bubbled up from Phil couldn't be helped, "Okay, good! 'Cause you had me going for a second, with the whole bodies hanging thing." Michael laughed in return, about to say something when Phil's world went deaf. It felt like someone had just punched him a few times in the back, taking the air from his lungs. He heard his name called in panic, then other men shouting various orders, but he couldn't make out the words. His eyes went down to his chest and saw four large holes oozing blood. 

Behind him Michael roared with ferocity and men began to scream in between automatic rifle fire. Phil sank to his knees, his hands coming up to his chest to press on the wounds, hoping to do something to help. His glasses were shaken off his face as his shoulder met the wet ground, the world was silent again, but he couldn't draw a breath. As if out of nowhere his vampire friend was now above him, shouting his name over and over. There was panic in his voice, fear and tears in his eyes, as he, too, tried to put pressure on the bleeding holes.

There was no pain, but Phil felt the warm tears fall on his cheek as Michael kept asking something over and over. The world was tunneling into darkness, his lungs ached for air, but he concentrated on his friend's voice. "...I can't do it unless you say 'Yes'! Do you want me to turn you? Phil! Answer me, please!" The answer was easy, but getting it out wasn't. He forced his lungs to take a breath, bringing the pain that had been absent, screaming into his body. He could only manage a whisper, "Yes." 

Ripley's Nightmare (Original Short)

Shouted orders turned to frantic screams and pleas punctuated by gunfire and screeches that were not human. The comms distorted the voices, but they still came through laden with panic and fear. Corporal Enders ran as fast as he could, the steel grates beneath his feet clanking against the boots he wore. His armor was heavy and his rifle tired his arms, his helmet bounced as he went. He was beyond exhaustion, but the screams in his ear kept pushing him on. Hadley's Hope was lost, but they were sent in after the last squad failed to report in, not knowing the full details of the mission. Another sharp turn opened up a new corridor, far from sick bay and command, but pointed him towards the struggle the rest of his squad were having. 

He checked the counter on his rifle and it still read 99, he hand't fired a single shot in this little conflict. Another burst from the comms came in, announcing the retreat of his comrades, he had to get there. Sergeant Mack was up there, but he was newly promoted and didn't have the field experience to lead his troops. Then the door came up quick, closed and secured. Enders popped the panel and began to run a bypass when the solid steel door thumped like it had been hit by a car. His hands froze in fear. Another thump, just as heavy. He didn't bother with the bypass anymore, his hands went to his Pulse Rifle hanging against his chest. He breathed out, trying to slow the panting he'd worked up from running. His feet moved on their own, backing him slowly away from the door, but his eyes were locked on it. 

Another thump, then another. The steel began to warp and bend in odd shapes. The top left corner of the steel bent and a long, black, clawed hand shot through and started slashing at the air. He was already a good ten feet away, mentally thanking his feet for the favor. He didn't know how many of them were on the other side, but the door bent more. Nothing in his training had prepared him for what came out of the blackness beyond the twisted door: An elongated, shiny, black head, with teeth the size of his own fingers. It had no eyes, but the Corporal had no doubt that it was looking at him, then it opened it's maw, another mouth inside the giant one it already had, and hissed. It didn't sound like a hiss a snake would give. It sounded much more horrifying and it worked. Blinking was out of the question. The creature writhed and fought, trying to pull itself through the crag, claws scraping steel and leaving ragged scratches. 

The rifle was at his shoulder before he could even think. The recoil that usually bruised his shoulder didn't even register in the grip of fear. The familiar sound of his Pulse Rifle jump started his training and he yelled into the mic hanging an inch away from his lips, "CONTACT!" The rounds did their job, exploding on impact upon the creature half hanging from the mangled entrance to the corridor, bursting it apart. It died with an unearthly screech and went limp, bright green fluids fountaining from the giant holes. Everything that was touched by the thing's blood began to groan and melt, eating away at the already damaged door. He turned and ran as another set of fingers and arms began to try and make its way through the hole, he didn't wait for it to come out.

Metal walls and grates that all looked the same passed him at blinding speed, his fatigue forgotten. A left turn here, a right turn here. Then the voice of his sergeant came through, "This whole goddamn colony is a contact area! Fall back to the APC!" He confirmed the command as he kept running, mental maps and ways guiding his working legs. A ceiling grate in front of him fell and one of the creatures fell atop it. Enders didn't waste time aiming, he gripped his rifle to his side and let the grenade launcher give his answer to the thing. The shot thumped in his chest and the thing exploded, spraying green blood everywhere. He ducked the few drops sloughing from the exposed hole and jumped over the growing gape in the floor. As soon as he was past he heard more of them crash down behind him. Another turn. This door wasn't locked and slid open with a hydraulic push and then back again. He was close to the exit, now.

A square of floor popped open in front of the running Corporal and a creature leaped out. He was going too fast to stop. He was a big guy, standing six foot four and heavy with muscle, but this thing towered over him. He estimated it at about eight feet high. With resignation he did the opposite of his own instincts and increased speed, putting his shoulder down into a ramming position. He wasn't aware he was screaming in determination when he hit it. End over end they toppled, his arms and legs seeking stability and the creature's the same. The long tail of the thing whipped back and forth, thick and cutting through the air, screeches and teeth flashed by his face, claws dug into the floor and missed him. Suddenly he knew which way was up and so did it. They fought each other for a moment, his hands releasing the rifle and trying to pin down his opponent's. It writhed and kicked and hissed, making his struggle twice as hard. 

The thing got the upper hand and reared up, exposing its slick, black chest. Enders seized the opportunity. With all his strength he put both booted feet against it and pushed. The creature flew back and he was left on his back. Faster than he'd ever moved before he pulled his sidearm and took aim, emptying the clip at the upturned monstrosity, blowing holes in it, as well as taking off its jaw and a large part of its head. He came to his feet as the creature flopped around on the floor and screeched its earsplitting cry. He resumed his run, jumping over the thing on the floor and avoiding the toxic pool hissing around it. The giant doors leading out of Hadley's Hope were within spitting distance. And they slid open, into the night and pouring rain.

His breath was ragged again as he ran down the ramp. The doors behind him slid closed and he saw the sight that took his breath away: The last six members of his squad in a circle, shooting and cursing at the ring of creatures that surrounded them and the APC. Screeches, Pulse Rifles, Smart Guns, flamethrowers, pistols, hissing metal and ground, all played chaos in his ears. His sergeant was screaming into his comms mic to who knows whom on the other side, relaying commands and their dire situation. It was too much. He numbly took his place amongst his squad and began to fire at the writhing, hissing, slick, black creatures coming for them. He hadn't prayed since his first day of basic. Now prayers flowed from his lips like the rain from the sky above him. The counter on his rifle finally dropped to zero and he reached for another clip.

Suddenly the doors Corporal Enders had just exited opened. And a countless number of the nightmare creatures that had turned this colony into a living hell poured out just as a prayer left Enders' lips, "God help us..."

An End To An Eternity (Highlander Fan Fiction)

167 years had passed since he had seen his brother. Time was measured differently for him, it passed quickly and without event. Most of the time. He'd had his challenges and for the most part had come out unscathed. A few scars decorated his well built frame where he had let his opponent get too close. From what he had heard his brother had become a plague upon their immortal race, but he knew the truth. His brother was an incredible fighter and an even better swordsman, and others sought him out to prove their metal. They always lost. Jessie looked around the plane and took in the people around him. Families, salesmen, business people of every walk in life, not a single one of them would live what he'd lived. Not in their own lifetimes. The things he'd seen and done would sicken some and disturb others. But now there were only two left that had a chance at the prize. Him and one other: Miguel.

Some would ask him what made him so sure that Miguel was still alive and he had an answer. "Nobody beats my brother. Nobody." He couldn't help but smile a little at some of the answers he'd gotten from some of his peers and opponents alike, the mockery, the questions, and in the end, their quickening. Jessie understood the rules like the rest. No woman could become immortal. Only two of them per fight. They could not fight on hollowed ground. And most importantly: There can be only one. Below the belly of the plane London passed silently, his final destination close by. It was the gathering. Every one of them felt it, a pull that summoned them to others of their kind to do battle on the stage of earth before God himself. Jessie had resisted the call for as long as he could, but he finally went, knowing others would be there before him. If they faced Miguel, they would lose. Oh well. Means less competition for him to take care of.

His newly sharpened sword was in the overhead compartment and it made him nervous to be talked to or questioned, but he remained cool. Soon the highlands would be under his feet again. For some reason it just felt like home. He decided to sleep the last two hours of the flight. It was dreamless, just the way he liked his rest, and he woke when the pilot announced the entire landing principalities. Jessie had been in a plane crash. He survived, of course. It didn't really matter how much you prepared, it was utter chaos. Now the plane was safe on the ground and he collected his only piece of luggage and left the airport. It was Miguel's style to pic a place so dramatic to end this all, the highlands of Scotland and the hill of the McLeouds. Now the last leg of his journey had begun as he stepped into the car he had paid to pick him up and take him to the final showdown. There was no music, no dramatic speeches, no cinematic montage to commemorate the occasion. No. This end would go unnoticed to mortal man, unknown to those outside. He smiled solemnly to himself, remembering what his master said they were all doomed to: A swing of a sword, a fall of a head, and there we end. Parts of him wanted the drive to end with his brother already dead, to avoid the fight that would inevitably happen. Another part wanted to see him. To give him the death he deserved: A warrior's death.

The dawn was barely breaking the horizon as he neared the spot of drop off, the day would be beautiful and overcast. Jessie wore his best suit, navy blue with a black shirt and tie, and a long black trench coat. It was the beginning of spring and the foliage was green, the weather was chilly and crisp. The car slowed and his ride was over. After handing the driver his fee Jessie began walking to the hill, taking in the remarkable scenery that had never failed to take his breath. And before he could finish taking it in he came upon them: The last of the immortals. They were standing in a circle, facing one another, and only turned their heads to acknowledge him as he approached. Familiar faces were there, faces he'd met over the years, and some strangers. Then he spotted him.

He sat on a rock with a cigarette between his long, pale fingers. Jessie took his spot amongst the others, taking his sword from its travel cylinder. The broadsword felt familiar and good in his grip, the weight was welcomed, and the bright steel gleamed as he drew it from its ancient leather sheath. Miguel stood and faced them for the first time. Jessie was happy to see his brother's face, but when the light passed his long hair and illuminated his features, Jessie's heart nearly stopped. It was not the face he remembered. Miguel was now ashen, pale as bleached bone, a long scar ran down the right side of his face, making his eye a cross of sorts. Another scar in the shape of a crescent moon highlighted his left cheek. And he could see another beneath the shemagh wrapped loosely around his neck, the black and gray scarf standing out in stark comparison to the skin below. Miguel stood and Jessie saw him in full. He wore a black button up shirt, black slacks, a long black trench coat, and the scarf. Under the coat Jessie spotted three sword handles slung from his belt. One standard katana, one medium broadsword, and one wooden handled katana. "Welcome, little brother. We've been waiting for you to start. You look great. I'm glad to see your healthy." He meant it, Jessie knew. Miguel's voice had become gravel, due to the scar, Jessie guessed. "Younger brother." Jessie said without thinking. Miguel smiled widely at him, as the others exchanged confused looks, before he continued.

"Somethings never change. Gentlemen. The gathering has called us here. Now it ends. The twelve of us, the last desciples, must fight until we are but one. So. Issue your challenges. And remember. Two men per fight." A few chuckled, but instantly a man to Jessie's right drew his sword. "I want you, ya blaggard." British by the accent, he leveled his blade right at Miguel. Miguel bowed a bit and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, a taunt to the challenger, to which the man spit to the side and marched forward. He was dead, Jessie thought. Then his name was called. A smiling man greeted him and walked forward. It was a familiar face. "My old friend. It would be an honor to fight you. Would you accept my challenge?" He was an African man that Jessie had done business with a number of years ago. They had become fast friends and kept in touch, but this was the end, and friendship no longer mattered. Others around the circle issued their challenges and moved off. Jessie smiled at his own  challenger, and bowed slightly. "It would be an honor to cross swords with you again." As they bowed to each other a sound Jessie was more than familiar with rang out. A sword was drawn, a body hit the soft grass, and soon after a head joined it. He didn't have to look to know the would-be tough guy fell to Miguel. The quickening was started and soon ended, not a sound came from the pale spaniard as the enormous amount of energy joined him. There was no surprise on Jessie's part, but the others marveled as his brother resumed his spot on the rock and smoked a cigarette.

Jessie's opponent muttered, "My god. How many has he killed to be able to do that?" More than Jessie cared to know. The man's attention returned and he drew his own scimitar, preparing for the duel. Swords began clashing around them and with a deep breath and a lunge Jessie joined the cacophony. One by one bodies fell and the quickening electrified the air. Jessie was on one knee, panting from the event that had just passed, sweat on his brow, muscles screaming in pain, but he felt rejuvinated at the same time. Soon after twelve became six and they resumed the circle, resting for now. This was a sacred ritual, but it looked like a macbre sideshow to Jessie, and his brother was their ringmaster. A funeral pyre was built and the six fallen were placed upon it, kind words said in respect. Noon was upon them and the remaining six faced each other once more.

The largest man there faced Miguel and issued his challenge, expecting to be turned away, but was accepted with a smile and a bow. The large man held an equally large claymore and crude armor under his long coat. A man to Jessie's left challenged him and smirked as if he knew something no one else did. Jessie accepted and ran down the various reasons he would. A hidden weapon, armor under his clothes, some trick to distract, or a gun. Yes, they were immortal, but those things still hurt. The man was of Asian decent and had loose clothes on, his blades Chinese broadswords, his style would be fancy, but not built to withstand power like Jessie's. The symphony of clashing steel began again, and soon his opponent's swords were broken, unable to stand up to a broadsword. They were tossed aside and another pair were drawn from under the loose clothing. There's the reason for the smile. A body dropped, and the quickening began to join his skinny brother off to his right somewhere. Soon his Asian opponent fell and the quickening began to join him, as well, making Jessie scream for the second time today. Six were now three. Another funeral pyre was built and the three were burned, their swords put aside to commemorate their graves.

It was high noon, no shadows cast across the green grassy field, no sun shone brightly through the thick clouds. There were three immortals left in the world. Jessie, his brother Miguel, and this third man. He was tall with short black hair slicked back, black military pants and sweater, and his blade shone bright as a thick rapier. Miguel flicked away his cigarette and regarded the man with an indifferent look. "So, my friend. We are but three. Choose your opponent." The answered with a confused look and questioned the spaniard. "Why must I choose? Why don't you two fight?" Miguel smiled and hooked his long hair behind his ears before continuing, "Because. He's my brother. And you know the code." Jessie closed his eyes and knew it was true. The code forbade brothers from battling unless there were no others. And before the two stood an opponent.

The man looked from one face to the other and laughed openly. "You mean to tell me that you two are brothers?!? A spic and a black?!? And I'm Santa Claus!" The smile fell from his brother's face and he stood quickly, a scowl of disgust engraved on his ashen features. "So you've chosen. I will be your opponent. And you've chosen poorly. Because you will suffer before you surrender your quickening to me." Jessie tried to intervine on behalf of the poor bastard. "Miguel, come on, man you don't need-" Withought looking at him Miguel drew his sword and silenced his brother. The man scoffed and advanced. His ordeal lasted hours, Miguel's cruelty knew no bounds as he slowly butchered the man, piece by piece and cut by cut he wore the man down until he begged for death. Then he cut out his tongue. Night had began to fall and was darkening the sky. It was then when it ended for the man that mocked the brothers, the last of the immortals. Jessie felt sick from the ordeal, but could not intervene if the man was still alive. Miguel dragged the body and its pieces away to the still burning pyre and tossed them in.

When he returned he lit a cigarette and sat on his rock, leaning the last of the blades against his impromptu throne. "So. What do you say, little brother? We can have ourselves a little midnight duel or we can wait til dawn and do it samurai style. Whatcha say?" Jessie was tired and collecting from others had drained him. He nodded and resigned himself, "Dawn." Miguel smiled wickedly, "I thought so. So I set up some tents for us over there. I'll see you at dawn." It was obvious he didn't want to talk or reminisce about their lives before. Jessie didn't blame him, at dawn they would cross swords and one of them would die. It broke his heart, either way, as he walked he thought about what would happen when this was done. Even if they were separated by thousands of miles they both still felt that connection, that feeling that they weren't really alone, and sometimes it was all that kept Jessie going sometimes. And knowing Miguel and his penchant for pushing people away, he would be totally alone if he won, and that was in itself a form of punishment that he wouldn't wish upon anyone. Yet if he lost he would be pushing it upon his brother. But could he murder his own brother? No. Not murder. Not kill. End. He would feel him in his soul forever through the quickening. But that wasn't his brother. No matter how it felt. He'd sleep for now and let fate decide at dawn.

He dreamt for the first time in a very long time, memories of the past, of his long life. And of his time with Miguel, long past and tragically too short. He couldn't remember why they separated from each other in the first place, but he wished they hadn't, wished that they were friends like always. Dawn broke, but it was the hot tear running down Jessie's cheek that tickled him awake to witness the purple give way to orange, then pink, and blue. Once Miguel had said that it was like watching the world be reborn. And as he watched the clouds, here in the highlands, paint themselves with a pallet of colors he couldn't help but agree. He got his clothes back in order and his shoes back on before he left the tent, feeling the chilly air as he unzipped the opening. He looked out and stepped back onto the soft grass and looked back up towards where the fighting grounds were. There sat his brother on a throne of rock, staring off into the sunrise and smoking a cigarette.

"Been a long, funny, long ride, eh brother?" Jessie stretched his muscles and nodded, "Yeah it has. Yeah it has." Another drag of the smoke and gray plume gave pause to the conversation. "Who would have thought, huh? Us two as the last of the immortal race that somehow decides the fate of mankind." He laughed a dark and bitter laugh, his gravel voice lending a menacing tone to it. "Miguel, we-" Jessie started, but was cut off. "Yeah, we do." The last of the cigarette was flicked away and Miguel stood, waiting. Jessie felt his heart sink. Slowly he assumed his position and drew his sword. One way or another this was the last time he would use it.

He took a deep breath of the clean air and let it out slowly as he brought his sword up in a salute, feeling the weight of it, the balance of the perfect steel, the red reflection of the dawn. Steel sang as Miguel drew his blade and saluted as well, his dark brown eyes mournful and yet full of fire. The world ceased to exist anymore. It was just him and his brother. Silence enveloped them. They both stepped forward and moments later steel bit flesh. Jessie lay on his side, holding the several deep cuts his brother had given him, still bleeding and hurting. The fight was so long and so painful, but it was over now. Soon the quickening would come. Jessie's eyes slid closed, bracing for the pain that he knew was coming, but knowing it would be over quickly. Then it came, sharp, quick, and sudden. His vision went white. As the quickening joined him.