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A Rotting Eden
300 years after the Apocalypse came and went, the survivors join wandering gangs called Tribes in a bid for survival in a world without nations. This is the story of one man's struggle in one of the last remaining cities on Earth.
War, 4.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Eyes closed, Aramis' eyes shift back and forth in REM sleep. He begins to dream. His breathing quickens, his palms begin to sweat. In his mind's eye, visions twist and turn into something coherent.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He sees his children. Toddling uncertainly towards his opened arms, open mouths with wide grins. He's so proud of them. So proud of them.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Schmerz. His hand reaches out to snatch Aramis away. But from what? From who? Honnete. He sees Honnete. She's something else. Schmerz feels blue: he is the ocean, the sky, the color of freedom. Honnete feels green: she is the earth, the sea, the color of life. He reaches a hand out to both of them, and both shrink away.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Adrianna fades from view. Honnete takes his baby with her and steps away. Schmerz walks off, leaving Azrael with Aramis. He's with his son. It's just he and his son.


&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He sits up with a start, and cringes at the pain tearing through his shoulder. He just wants to go back home and see his kids.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He's tired. Too tired to run. But run he will, he's made up that part of his mind already. Once he's well enough, he was going to get up and run. Even if he had to do it without a horse. Even if he collapsed, dead, only halfway across the desert. He wasn't going to stay here to fight another day. He was going to go home, back to his kids. Back to his God-forsaken, laughable, pitiable life. Back to that hellhole, that... boring, sad existence of suffering day in and day out, being both hated and loved by the people most important to him in his life. He'd go back. To waking up at the crack of dawn and serving asinine customers with bad attitudes who thought being a smart-mouthed jerk was the height of wit, to hear endless nagging from this person or the next, all to do it again the next day, and the next day, and the next.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp A tear slides out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, war doesn't seem so bad.


Bleeding Apocalypse
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