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[AzyWng]

Technically not a written work, but I've just gotta put it out somewhere:

Assassin's Creed: Ancestry, intrigue, and stabbing many many people.

Grand Theft Auto: Gangs, guns, and grabbing any car you want.

[AzyWng]

Part 2 coming soon... Valve Time.

     Tonight’s a beautiful night. The sky’s filled with stars, the cold’s just enough to wake you up without needing a coat, and the silence is just right for a night of stargazing.
     Or, that is, it would be perfect for stargazing if the silence wasn’t being interrupted constantly by dozens of gunshots and explosions and the dying screams of my “teammates”.
     They say sniping’s a good job. “Challenging work, out of doors, I guarantee you’ll not go hungry,” was what The Sniper himself said. And he’s right... for certain definitions of those terms.
     Challenging work is right on - but the one of the challenges is dealing with anywhere from eleven to twenty-three crazed gunmen who all hate me, either because I don’t fight on the frontlines “like a real man” or because I’m wearing a BLU shirt - a lot of the time it’s both. And believe me, just because half of those folks are on my side doesn’t mean that they won’t make my life a living hell - from spraying flames in front of my face to mess up my aim to pushing me out of the way right before I take a shot to simply standing idly in my time of need. To say nothing of the other half who can hurt me...
     I sigh, raising my rifle and zooming in on the enemy lines. There’s a Heavy who’s not really paying attention, a Spy disappearing in a cloud of smoke... and a Medic too busy trying to saw down a Scout. Aha. I start to wait for the right moment when -
     “HEY! Sniper!” My vision jerks as a hand lands on my shoulder. God damn it! I turn around, already knowing  that it’s too late to stop the knife inevitably dropping towards my back, already feeling the spike of pain followed by the numbness and shame of death by backstab - and find our own team’s Medic staring at me with an irritated look on his face. That’s the third time this fight he’s ruined a good opportunity - A real credit to the team, he is.
     “What is it this time doc? I’m trying to shoot someone here!”
     “You always say that, but do you ever actually do it?”
     “No, ya bloody useless kraut in a lab coat, I never get around to it because you keep interrupting me!”
     Suddenly, the subtle hiss of a rocket’s approach can be heard.
     “Get down, doc!”
     I dive on top of the doctor to knock him out of the way as the rocket explodes on the wall behind us. This particular Medic may be an ass, but healers are still some of our most important team members. Regrettably. As the two of us get off the ground, I quickly scan the area for sniping spots and find the next place to set up a shot, leaving the doctor behind to complain about being tackled before the second blast of a rocket and the splattering of giblets signal his death. Well, that one was his fault for not noticing and going to cover, the bloody idiot. Which brings me to my next point.
     Out of doors is indeed another perk of this job - but this means precious little to hide behind at times. Besides, when you have up to twenty-three crazed gunmen who all hate you, it can be difficult to even make it out of the supply room for more than thirty seconds before your head gets separated from its body or you get exploded or beaten or shot to death - you won’t live long enough to go hungry. I look through my scope once more, having noticed my target - an Engineer about to fall asleep at his Sentry gun and Dispenser. I perform a quick look through the scope, squeeze the trigger slowl--
     Crack!
     Not, of course, that that shot was unexpected. I always like my rifles with a light trigger pull, the better to get the first shot off in a duel or desperate situation. The scream of horror as the Engineer discovers two new holes in his head signals that I’ve brought down my target. Of course, he’ll be fine in a couple of seconds, but in the meantime, his buildings are open season for anyone with a gun to --
     “Charge!”
     Deet Deet!
     Fwoosh!
     Ping!
     Whonk!
     Whang!
     Ka-Crash!
     “We broke your stupid crap, morons!”
     I’m actually impressed. I was about to say, “destroy, provided they understood how to move and shoot,” but I guess my team may not be so hopeless after a-
     “Auf wiedersehen... Dummkopfs!”
     Oh boy.
     Cocking back the lever and loading another round, I zoom in, searching for the hostile Medic - regardless of whatever kind of Ubercharge that was, I doubt my team is capable of handling it properly without getting themselves killed. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long - the stream of critical rockets with an all-too-familiar RED glow easily leads me back to the source of the rockets - a Soldier - and then the source of the Uber - the RED Medic.
     Crack!
     And that makes two times I’ve helped the team in the past five minutes. Thirty times total for this round alone. But don’t start thinking that I’m the king of this “team”, let alone that being the king of this “team” is any sort of honor.
     I look at the people I’ve just saved and...
     Well, the remnants of them is more accurate. There’s not a lot left of them aside from  giblets and weapons which, frankly, are worth more than their former wielders. Seriously, some of these folks just seem to freeze up whenever it makes them an easier target - like they’re suicidal or something. In fact, I think one of the survivors is drooling a little.
     In just a few seconds a RED Demoman takes the golden opportunity to shoot a couple of sticky bombs at the crowd, and in a few more seconds giblets and dropped weapons are all that are left of what used to be a crowd of absolute fools.
     This... This is bloody madness. Even with my absolute best efforts, it’s impossible for me to possibly make a dent in the ocean of incompetence that my teammates provide. I’m not some kind of manly action movie hero who can kill tigers with his bare hands or something - I’m just an ordinary man who happens to be a good shot with a scope. I’m supposed to be supporting my team. And how can do that if the team isn’t worth supporting? If the team doesn’t even care who is or isn’t helping them? In fact, I doubt very many would notice if I were to leave, and the few who did wouldn’t hold it against me anyway.
     Mission ends in sixty seconds.
     I hear the rifle clink itself against the concrete as it slips from my grasp, and I slump against the wall. Thank god. Another minute or so and I can be out of this fucking place and away from these morons.
     Mission ends in thirty seconds.
     Didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep for a bit there. Not that it matters, anyway, with the rest of the team performing worse than any sleep deprived warriors have in the history of Aust-
     A pair of fancy-looking RED shoes appear in front of me.
     I look up.
     RED suit.
     RED tie.
     RED balaclava.
     “Ahem.”
     French.
     Accent.
     Bloodyhellit’sthatSpyhe’schainstabbedtheentireteamandnowI’mnexteveryonewillyellatmeforbeinguseless --
     “Please, monsieur, don’t shoot! I’m simply here to talk.” the Spy stares at me.
     I stare back. After several seconds in which the spook doesn’t take the opportunity to stab or shoot me, I slowly put my SMG down.
     Mission ends in ten seconds!
     “I’ll make this quick; you’ve proven better than your -” an aside glance at some of the bloody messes his own team has made “- ah, colleagues, and I think it might be useful to have you as a teammate. Let’s meet afterwards and we can talk of a partnership.”
     Five.
     Is he really being honest? I’ve always been good at reading my employers, but the Spy’s face here is completely inscrutable.
     Four.
     “Make your choice fast,” he says impatiently.
     Three.
     The rest of the RED team is slowly closing in. The Spy rushes me behind some cover to help keep us from being shot.
     Two.
     It’s hard to look him in the face. It would be really nice for me to have a reliable teammate, but for all I know the Spy’s plotting to stab me like he does all the time...
     One!
     “I’ll do it!”
     RED victory!
     My last resort, my kukri, rapidly vanishes. I notice a menacing RED crackle coming from the Spy's hands.
     “Good.” The Spy smiles. “Now then-”
     Then I see the glowing RED stickybomb that lands at my feet.
     “Crikey.”

[AzyWng]

Author’s Note(s):
*     This is inspired by The Dark Mod, a fan-made stealth game based off of the Thief series. The game borrows many elements from the Thief series, including a similar universe, factions, and gameplay.
*     The author knows very little about religion, news writing, and what people would say/do in a situation like this. Please bear with him.

     Mill Street Times

     Saint Lucia Decapitated!

     A tragedy befell Saint Roderic’s Church last Tuesday, as its statue of Saint Lucia was found decapitated in the church vestibule that morning. City Watch officials and Saint Roderic’s staff suspect that this decapitation was directly related to a theft that took place that Tuesday night, where a thief snuck into the premises, killed three of the church’s guards (Reynald, Sixtus, and Jasper), and stole many of the valuables present, including the church’s piece of the True Hammer, which it obtained last weekend.
     “If you take a close look at the damaged statue, you can see a large hammer dropped not too far from the statue’s separated head,” City Watch Officer August said. “It’s likely that this thief knocked it onto the statue when trying to steal more of the church’s money.”
     This particular church’s statue has become well-known in the region after it wept blood when a piece of the True Hammer was brought into Saint Roderic’s, and many faithful have flocked to visit it until now. The sheer amount of traffic and attention the church received was so great that renovations had to be made to the church’s vestibule, and they were still being made at the time of the theft and resulting accident.
     “It’s such a terrible accident! I’d taken every possible measure - I had more guards posted and locked the doors to the valuables, and still this happens,” Father Steven said. “The miracle of Saint Lucia is gone now, along with three of my brothers, and I can only hope God forgives me for my foolishness.”
Church guards and City Watch officers found numerous broken arrow shafts on the premises as well as shards of what have been identified as flashbomb shells, all of which suggest a fairly well-funded thief with access to a wide variety of tools and weapons.
     “It’s clear what the arrows were used for, as at least two of my brothers were killed with one of these implements,” Church Guard Marco said. “Who knows what other cowardly trickery was employed that night?”
     In addition to the three killed, many of the church’s guards had been knocked out by the thief on the night of the theft, and their keys were stolen. While Father Steven did see the thief, he was unable to provide a usable description due to the hood and cloak the intruder was wearing, leaving many to wonder if this could be the work of the famed Thief that has become well known throughout both Bridgeport and many other locales. Said Thief has only recently resurfaced after an almost ten-year absence, but after a mixed reception he was thought to have once again gone into hiding.
     “When we last saw our beloved Thief, he was sloppy and uncreative, and we nearly caught him a couple of times,” August said. “As for whether this is his doing, the three bodies really don’t seem like his style at all - if this were really our Thief he’d have found a way to avoid bloodshed, but perhaps there are imitators or equally ambitious crooks out there. All I know for certain is that we’ll be busy for a long time to come.”

[AzyWng]

First part of another story, this one's one I actually had for a while, it was just collecting dust. I haven't had a look at it in quite some time, so there may be a large number of problems with the text.

Rather morbid content, so do be warned.

   

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

 The sky was gray and motionless, just like the figure who lay below it. A pool of black collected under his lifeless body. A shadow of a man towered over it, a knife in his hands, dripping with more black liquid. The fedora he wore did nothing to conceal his jolly grin, revealing a pristine set of teeth.
    The shadowy figure looked to the sky and opened his mouth in a silent laugh.
    Cory Ninad was clearly the victor, against some poor punter who probably hadn’t a single idea of what was going on, right up until the moment of his death. It had been almost too easy to lure the man out after one drink too many, and even easier to stick him once he had dropped his guard. Ninad almost felt sorry, but it’s a dog eat dog world, where the weak and careless would simply not survive. But that wasn’t him. Every day of the week, he was the predator, not the prey.
    Crouching over the body, the man began a meticulous search of the figure’s corpse. Emptying the man’s pockets, he found only a few ordinary items, wallet, pocket knife, a tiny notebook... and an antique-looking pen. The man looked at the latter with a curious glance. Most people wouldn’t normally carry such an item, as the old nib pens had been replaced decades ago with roller-balls. Curious, he thought. A closer look revealed that the wallet was empty, no money, no notes, no credit cards, without even an ID card or Driver’s License, and the pocket knife could barely cut a sheet of paper from the small notebook, which was entirely blank...
    Gah. That’s what you find when you rob the type of person who gets himself too deep in his cups to find the restroom when it’s right across from his own seat, Cory thought. At least you’d expect him to have some kind of identification, what with all the laws and regulations. If this guy was a mage, he’d probably have some form of identification or perhaps some kind of special item, or he would have his neck clapped in irons as soon has his powers were discovered, Cory reasoned, so I shouldn’t have to worry about any funny business like coming back to life or suddenly exploding or whatnot.
    As he reached his hand down to pick up the pen, Ninad noticed something odd about the pool of liquid oozing from the dead man. The color, the scent...
    Was that... ink? The murderer wondered what sort of crazy spell would cause a man to... bleed ink was the only possible explanation. First he thought it was simply the gray sky and the dark alleyway, but now that he saw it... this man shouldn’t have even be alive to begin with, he thought, yet there he was, clear as a Magilite’s beam! The killer suddenly took a nervous glance around, looking for anyone who might have taken the the opportunity to assault him, but the street was as still as the corpse lying in it.
    Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, Cory dipped the nib of the pen in the liquid, and put it to paper, slowly beginning to scribble. After a few moments, he realised that he wasn’t scribbling, but writing on the blank page.
Cory Ninad
October 15, 2013
25th Street, Newhall, Illinois, United States
15:45:29
    The liquid dripping from the man was just like ink. The thought of writing with a man’s blood made even Ninad shiver, but before he could write any more, he mentally slapped himself. What the hell was he still doing here, stooping over a dead body while writing inside a notebook stolen from said dead body? Why the hell did he write his name, the date, the address, and even the time, down to the very second? And why was the man’s wallet completely empty, without so much as a cent, credit card, or form of identification in it? Those questions would have to wait until he got home. If someone found the body with him bending over it... Well, who knew what could happen to him then? In any case, he had to get out of there before someone else arrived to summon the constables or take matters into their own hands. Picking up his pitiful treasures and standing up, Ninad began to slowly walk away from the scene of the crime, and soon he was just another member of a bustling crowd, although the troubled expression he wore was enough to make him stick out.

~~~~~~~~~~~

    The sky was grey and motionless, just like the figure who lay below it. A pool of black collected under his lifeless body. A fedora was lying next to him and a pen could be seen sticking out of his chest, thrust right through his heart, but the person who had put it there was nowhere to be found--aside from the ghastly corpse and the pool of ink, the entire area was a colorless void.
    Suddenly, the body began to breathe and move. Ninad sat up, eyes snapping open with confusion. They soon widened with fear when he noticed the pen sticking out of his chest and the pool of ink he had been lying in. Panicking, he grasped the pen with his hand and pulled it out only to be rewarded with the jagged edge of pain cutting through him...

[AzyWng]

Inspired by MGSV: The Phantom Pain.

The snap of a branch
A guard's head swivels around
To meet with a fist.

[AzyWng]

A bit too long to fit in a post, so I'm just gonna leave the document link here.

Yeah, I'm doing fine. Honest!

[AzyWng]

I know I'm almost two years late, but I wrote a thing on MGSV: The Phantom Pain.

“Get your grenades from Diamond Dogs today! Disclaimer: Delivery of grenades from Diamond Dogs to the area of operations may take from anywhere between fifteen minutes to less than two depending on weather conditions, enemy air surveillance, and other circumstances beyond Diamond Dog control. Diamond Dogs are not responsible for head injuries that occur as a result of being in the path of the supply box as it drops. If the box is destroyed, the grenades within are lost and will not be refunded. While each grenade is designed with a specific purpose in mind, combat situations vary wildly and how each grenade is used remains up to the customer. Consequently, Diamond Dogs are not responsible for any injury or death caused by use of the smoke, sleep, or stun grenades. Grenades affect and damage the customer as well as the user’s targets, and Diamond Dogs are not responsible for any customer injury or death incurred by careless grenade use. The sleep, stun, and smoke grenades, as well as the petrol bomb, all require resources in addition to their GMP cost. If customers are unable or unwilling to pay this resource cost, they may compensate for it with extra GMP equivalent to the sale value of the resource units or medicinal plants. If a customer fails to pay the costs for the grenade drop or fails to provide adequate payment, Diamond Dogs will send an infiltrator to the customer’s FOB and cannot guarantee the safety of the customer’s staff, security devices, or resources in this situation. Any use of retaliatory wormholes will be responded to in kind. Diamond Dogs performs background checks on all its customers and will not sell to owners of nuclear weapons, and will instead send an infiltrator to the nuke-equipped FOB. The nuclear bombs will then be extracted, disarmed and properly disposed of. Diamond Dog grenades: Knock out the competition!”

[AzyWng]

I know Suwako's hat doesn't appear small enough to hide in like a cardboard box, but the idea lodged in my head like a splinter and I couldn't get it out.

--

As Glacier Cat entered the shrine, a sense of foreboding crept upon him. The only thing among the shrine’s pillars was a small hat in the corner, its eyes seeming to follow Cat as he walked past. He couldn’t be distracted by it, though: he was here to search for the missing operative, not to poke around everything that stood out a little. The only things breaking the silence were the low murmurs of the wind and the clinking of the weapons on his back and at his hip. A rifle and a missile launcher. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use either, but given his previous experience with the locals, he might not be so lucky.

As he looked around the shrine for anyone to speak to, Cat heard a rustling noise from behind him.

No. It can’t be...

The secret we Diamond Dogs fought so hard to protect...

A young girl peeked out from under the hat, an unmistakably childlike glee on her face. Her lips moved, but Glacier Cat paid no attention, too fixated on what her sudden appearance meant.

If she was under that hat, then that means...

That means they know the technique.

They know. They know theyknowtheyknowtheyknow--

Shaking hands fumbled for the iDroid. The girl’s expression changed from friendliness to concerned curiosity, but Glacier Cat did not notice this either, such was his terror.

“CP, this is Glacier Cat. They know our secret! Over!”

“T-this is CP - what secret—“

“The secret! They know the secret!”

“What- Glacier Cat? You cut off there, are you ok?

Cat?

Glacier Cat, respond!
CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!”

“Suwako? Why is that man lying on the ground? And was that radio just screaming ‘cat’?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s got to do with that big metal tube on his back. It looks heavy...”

[AzyWng]

Will you look at the time, gentlemen and ladies? It looks like it's time to play...

Spot the stolen speech!

“The nightmares? They never go away. Once you’ve been in a flame war on the politics threads, tasted the insults, the ad hominems, the swing of the banhammer, it all... becomes a part of you. As a forumite, you should this. I know it. Once you’ve awaken the flame warrior within, it never sleeps again. You crave even bigger tensions, bigger thrills. You care nothing for money, power, or even memes. The only thing that will come to satisfy your cravings... are flame wars. The only thing I’ve ever known are flame wars. And don’t try to deny that you enjoy it - yes you do. All this forum has done is given you a place for it. Given you a reason to be here.”

[AzyWng]

Wrote this one for English class. The challenge was to write a short horror story without using state of being verbs (am, was, is, etc.). I probably wound up adding a few in by accident, but all the same, a story is a story.

======

Silence.
I awake. Nothing in sight. Nothing at all. I wander the void. Don’t know how long. I start hearing voices in the distance. Familiar ones, speaking of happiness and beauty, of triumph and success, of lives that hold meaning and value. I listen and realize... I want to listen. I want to hear. I want to contribute. I rush toward the voices, and soon I hear them all around me.

Perfect.

I can’t see them, but this way I can still listen and speak and contribute. But...

Something’s wrong.

Even at this distance, the voices remain indistinct, and I can only understand a few words
Seems the owners don’t take too kindly to me - now they speak of unfamiliarity and suspicion.

I open my mouth. Only a nervous mumbling escapes. Though invisible, the glares of those around me paralyze me.

I try and try again, finally managing to squeeze out a few words. “Hey... So, uh... hi?”

The glares grow stronger. I fall silent. Murmurings of illness and deviancy begin. I try to speak again, to prove that can converse and discuss just like the others, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Before long the murmurings give way to giggling and chuckling, before rapidly descending into laughter. So, so much mocking laughter.

It sickens me. It...

Enrages me.

Before I know it, my hands clench into fists. Why is it they can speak while I can’t? There’s no justice in this world, it seems.

No matter. I don’t want justice anyway. I want vengance.

Suddenly, a figure becomes visible, walking towards me with arm outstretched. My fists fly through the air. The all-too-satisfying smack of an impact. More flight. The smacks turn to crunches, then dead thuds. Soon my arms grow tired and I stop.

There is only silence, once more. I can’t feel the presence of anything else. As I look down to see the one I’ve taken my vengeance against, I notice something wrong about the figure’s face. Something that correlates all too horribly with the voices.

While horribly bruised and bleeding, I still recognize it...

As my own.

I put a hand up to my own face, and I feel the dripping of blood.

[AzyWng]

Yeah, I know, haven't posted in here in a long time.

In any case, here I am, with a very brief story I made up based on a scene from Terrible Writing Advice. I can't find it, but basically, the creator showed two pieces of paper duking it out, stating that that was how he imagined his brainstorming sessions went.

--

The clashing of metal on metal echoed around the arena.

This battle was critical for both of its fighters. One would be taken further along the path of life, and through the emperor’s hands be brought from obscurity to the public; to life! The other would fall by the wayside, deemed unworthy, and left to test its mettle again, lest it rot away into total and irreversible oblivion.

A flashy slashing of the first fighter’s sword was turned aside by the second fighter’s lance, then the two pushed each other away.

The first smirked.

The second merely glanced back.

Then they rushed towards each other yet again.

And yet, something here was different now. Having gained the confidence needed, The first fighter faked a overhead swing and, when his opponent brought up his lance to block, hopped atop, using the lance as a step, and swiftly leaping over his opponent to strike him straight in the back.

The second fighter merely collapses, as unresponsive in death as he was in life.

Little did either of them know that the Emperor had decided the outcome before the battle had even begun.

And with four words.

“Eh. That idea’s better.”