RISEN

An Introduction by Neuicon

It was in 2008 that the idea to “create” was born. From the ashes of my previous

work, all of which was originally fan-created material, came the power and glory

known today, as CPOP. Established in 2010, CPOP aimed to create, this time, its

very own worlds, settings and games. From these games, some of which have

stood the test of time and some, which have faded into obscurity, various new,

exciting and expansive worlds were born. These worlds, grew and grew, leading

up to the founding and establishment of the Monolith, in 2015.

The Monolith serves as an entity, under the CPOP banner and works to establish

its many universes and focuses on the preservation of the worlds in which it

focuses on, via written works. Corrogatio, serves as a platform from which written

works can be released freely, showcasing our talented writers and their creative

abilities within the worlds they write about. Corrogatio, over time, will be a

regularly-released and free project.

I have always referred to those loyal to CPOP and everything we strive to do,

collectively, as CVLT. You are the very foundation that holds CPOP in place, a

powerful mass of energy, and for that, I couldn’t be more thankful. So, on this

Halloween, 2015, let us burn the incense, and indulge, in Corrogatio.

Infernally and Forever Yours, Neuicon

RESURGENCE

An Introduction to the Shattered Verse

It is the dawn of the twenty-second century. Humanity nearly condemns itself to a slow and painful death

in what is to be the last Great War on Earth. Resources dwindle and the Ultra-Cities collapse under their

own weight.

In their darkest hour, mankind was dragged from the brink of destruction by the first alien race to make

formal planetfall: the Cyclons. These benevolent biomechanical giants summoned a great fleet of vessels

that spirited away all who wished to leave before the great plan they illustrated was set into motion: the

long healing process of the dying world that would demand its complete reconstruction. Earth was, in no

uncertain terms, reformed in the image of the unfathomably vast, venerable society spanning untold

galaxies of space. That society was known as the Neo Verse.

The Neo Verse was formed when the powerful being -- considered everything from a great leader to a

deity -- of unknown descent by the name of Neo Xandra rallied the Grand Armee and unified the disparate

people of what is now known space, before her disappearance long ago.

The Verse, as it is called, is a place of great perils and inexplicable wonders. The diversity of its worlds are

boundless, from Ramiel’s jungles, where the trees can reach as high as the mountains, to Voltron’s heavily

industrial harsh beauty reminiscent of renaissance Earth, to Odessa’s deeply submerged city-states. It is a
place of a great many races, cultures and sociopolitical groups. Most important of these groups, are the

Shard Factions, formed around the three most mainstream views of Xandra and her grand mission:

HAVEN, who seek to continue building the great society of which she is responsible for founding; FRINGE,

who denounce her as a tyrannical power-monger who sought to seize control of and subjugate the Verse,

and SANCTUM, who worship Xandra, viewing her disappearance as a great test of faith, firmly believing

in her return upon the whole of the Verse.

Humanity’s rapid expansion throughout the last forty years since their integration into Verse society have

put them on all sides of the conflict alongside every other race. Large scale open warfare is seldom and

brief, making a sweeping majority of these conflicts, at worst, simple clashes of politicking to be managed

like an important negotiation.

However, this still leaves many hot zones where armed forces of all sizes clash. Most recently, campaigns

on the strategically invaluable world of Capria have sent SANCTUM reeling, while key FRINGE operatives

and their battlegroups are destroyed, divided or on the run after staggering losses on the arid

manufacturing world of Kryton, and HAVEN struggles to maintain control of an increasingly multilateral

conflict.

The time has come for a new generation of leaders to take up arms for all sides, and stabilize the situation

before it grows so volatile that daily life becomes the stuff of nightmares like Earth so briefly became.
ASCENCION

Written by M.A. Favale

A light rain has all but relented in its barrage of the shadow out of time that was a small old town one

would call the nearest evidence of civilization to a Large-bay Star Harbor on the night world of Utukku.

Engulfed by the world’s perpetual twilight, star flies, large native bioluminescent insects that for a time

were the world's only light source besides its moon, calmly hover just a few feet above the townsfolk.

These sparrow-sized Sentinels gently illuminated the well-traveled narrow streets of something like

cobblestone, way too narrow for any vehicle. A nameless place at least to the transient population, that

a Coreworlder might call a bar sits in a floor something between the ground and the basement of a corner

building on an unimportant block near the town center. A few stone steps descend to the main entrance:

a sturdy wood and wrought iron door. A nondescript traveler, cloaked and hooded, wearing brown and

gray fatigues devoid of any insignia enters, pushing open with a gentle creak what could easily have passed

for an inner gate in some great ancient castle.

About two dozen ornate dark wood tables fill the space, more along the walls and few windows. Dimly lit

mostly by oil lamps and an infiltrating star fly aimlessly floating about the ceiling, a few patrons still linger.

Time of day was tough to tell on this world as “day” and “night” were denoted by little more beyond

marginal differences in brightness of the orbiting moons, incredibly difficult to discern for anyone but the

world’s nocturnal natives of the same name and a few others who grew up in the perpetual twilight. The

traveler scans the room, clearly looking for someone but not drawing any real attention to himself. A

sinewy Legios hung from the ceiling between one of the bar stools and the edge of the bar itself. The alien,

in the truest sense of the word, contorted in an incredibly complex way such that it was actually “upright”

allowing it to easily finish its drink. A Gunclari, a brutish race of aquatic reptilian humanoids, and his
Argantis compatriot who hailed from the same world of Odessa and were more crustacean in appearance

occupied one of the further round tables, in some clear but indiscernible deliberation. These two were

likely Bounty Hunters or security officers on a ship too large to touch down at any of the other ports, one

of the only reasons they’d probably choose this world as a rest stop. The bartender himself was Utukku,

a species highly reminiscent of and frequently considered possible relatives of the creatures Earth’s

ancient tales of the Vampyr depict. However, in place of elongated fangs, Utukku had concealed maws

like that of a Tiger Shark, which their jawbones broke apart to protrude upon revealing, rapidly

regenerating as they retracted to return to an otherwise pale but quite human form as per their

romanticized counterparts of legend. He briefly eyed the traveler and continued wiping clearly expensive

glassware before beginning to clean up the bar where some barbarian spilled a drink, breaking a glass by

the looks of the mess, before vacating the premises, obviously not sticking around to help clean up.

The only remaining patron was barely noticeable, yet making no blatant effort to hide. Looking human

enough from across the large room, the masculine figure sat in solitude with some unseen meal. The

courier nonchalantly approached and sat opposite him, the only other seat at the table. The shadowy but

familiar man seemed to pay him no attention.

“Interesting locale, at least to hide in for four years.” The traveler stated.

No response.

“They want you back, you know.”

“And who’s that, exactly?”

“The same people who orchestrated breaking your ass out of holding before Capria.”

The traveler immediately felt some regret of his choice of words, remembering the entire team that

executed the operation was missing, some presumed dead. Fortunately he seemed to take no offense.
“Not vague at all.” The shadow plainly stated in a tone that almost sounded like he was stomaching a

laugh at the end of the sentence.

Had he never learned who that was? The traveler wondered.

“Obviously a half decade in virtual darkness and isolation hasn’t blunted your sarcasm, Matt.”

“Well we don’t want you coming all this way and leaving completely disappointed, Walcroft.” The elusive

figure said leaning back in his chair, still shrouded, as he finished his drink, gently placing his glass on the

table, leaning into the light, confirming his identity regardless of it already being known: Matiel

Constantine.

The traveler, Walcroft, was clearly getting frustrated, not to mention taken aback at Matiel knowing who

he was.

“How did you!?”

“I can count on one hand who in any former task force isn’t dead, missing, or far and away.”

Matiel didn’t mention he was also half-decent at remembering mannerisms and voices, greatly

increasingly his ability to infer his old acquaintance's identity.

“Look. I don’t enjoy fucking around begging this many people to press themselves back into service any

more than you, but after Kryton, after, you know, and with how things have gone since then, good help is

getting sparse. The Neo Verse needs FRINGE back. We need you back.” Walcroft urged.

A long silence went by as if Matiel, hunched over his plate with his head resting in his synthetic left hand,

was waiting for something. He looked up from the table, the metal rims of his 40mm respirator filters

cybernetically integrated to hardpoints in the front of his throat subtly reflecting what little light there

was. He used them like gills and was given them on request after one too many incidents dealing with gas,
as Walcroft knew from a brief read of his file, not to mention the stories. Along with his supposedly

permanent nanoarmor cuirass, it gave him the imposing appearance of having some barely visible heavy

armored collar. When the nearest patrons, the Odessan Gunclari and Argantis, finally left, Matiel made

his final statement.

“Long term vessel storage, Hangar 14. Tomorrow morning. Don't bother calling for pickup, no need.”

Walcroft smirked in satisfaction, though he didn't think Matiel noticed. Constantine, in his own way, had

just told him where his legendary strike corvette, the Alarya, had been mothballed all these years. He

wouldn’t have shared that information with anyone he didn’t need to.

In his own way, Matiel Constantine confirmed his return to the fold.
FROM ASHES

Written by M.A. Favale

It is now four years after the Kryton rout of 2092. The FRINGE separatist coalitions splintered everywhere

and all at once, like the disastrous operation tore some unfathomably important linchpin from their great

machine. Within a month, large-scale strategic coordination of forces in that sector ceased, as key leaders

of the movement withdrew to safer systems or went into hiding. This left the beleaguered task forces in

the hands of the lowest ranking officers. HAVEN and SANCTUM knew what they had forced, and though

not intentionally acting in unison, Hundreds of FRINGE worlds began to buckle and fall to them. Holding

ground became impossible with no fleet assets or major bases of operations, so primary objectives became

making occupation as costly and difficult as possible.

Whole systems were seized in days with HAVEN assuming control virtually uncontested. Meanwhile,

SANCTUM bode their time, settling for whatever territory HAVEN showed no interest in, and saw no need

to split their forces. Not even a year passed before all of the thousands of livable worlds in the Andromeda

Galaxy, birthplace of the FRINGE dream, were under martial law. This quickly bred a new kind of resistance

where absolutely nothing was too extreme to restore the Shard's power.

FRINGE's Shard police force, the Coalition Judiciary, immediately found themselves dealing with a new

generation of ultranationalists, never hesitating to resort to terrorism or worse to deliver their defiant pro-

FRINGE message of freedom at any cost, or their twisted definition thereof. Out of options, the scattered

remnants of high command authorized the Judiciary to fight fire with fire, desperately attempting to

redirect the Shard's political course away from open civil war. These task forces varied wildly in

composition, from the smallest groups of patriotic vigilantes and bounty hunters to massive private

security firms. Somewhere in the middle of that was Mahl Dynamics, a FRINGE-sanctioned, privately
funded security charter. Low on resources and still reeling from heavy losses during the past few raids, The

Field Ops team led by Major Vanessa Karis have finally tracked down a rogue cell to a run-down mining

colony where their systemwide drug trafficking operation is thought to be headquartered.

Mining Colony 4A. Helvetia. Gre'Sha Gate System.

Northern Supercluster. Andromeda Galaxy.

The tetrahedral container modules, easily the length a light gunship, stacked up to six high and formed

every structure in the small mining colony of around a thousand people. The blue sky was a peculiar sight

to the mostly volcanic world, and stark contrast to the deserts of black sand surrounding the rocky plateau

the colony was placed on. It wasted no time engulfing the streets at the slightest hint of wind. Vanessa

knew they mined some mineral here exported to make ship parts, and that was about it.

She was fixated on taking down a group she'd been tracking for over a year: the Gre'Sha syndicate, a name

given to them, not one they took themselves. The tremors in her right arm were returning, still untreated

side effects of the reconstructive surgery when a holo-round put a two inch hole in her bicep last a three

months ago. She became addicted to the pain suppressants weeks later, and continued suffering

withdrawal in the field.

One more Op. She told herself for the sixth time, her pointless procrastination of seeking help. One way

or another this ends today.

Angelo “Raze” Razetti wasn't much better off, but didn't show it around Vanessa in the field, not wanting

to be the reason she gets caught off-guard.

Their third companion, nicknamed Janus, was a special purpose support android. Aptly named after an

ancient god of passage, Raze restored Janus for times when his beloved explosives were not an option to

provide a means of entry or exit.

“In position, Angelo.” Janus stated over the comms in a monotone male voice. Raze installed the voice

pack, but Androids were able to attach themselves to a gendered personality copied at least in part from

other species they encounter, a logical solution to more easily allow non-androids to coordinate with

them.

The trio surrounded the structure, strangely shaped for a former shipping container, with two entrances,

opposite sides. Raze took one side, Vanessa and Janus the other. Karis opted to keep things covert, and

distributed passcodes for the door that she beat out of a thug when she began the planetside case a week

ago. They began a silent count upon splitting up to surround, and on “thirty”, they opened the doors and

simultaneously but quietly breached.

A room of Obsidian PasSteel walls, with a matching roof and ceiling, greeted them, square tiles forming a

grid pattern lining the surfaces. A common, cheap building material. Sure enough, narcotics by the shell-

container littered the room, and four nondescript “employees” -- two human, a Voltaire, and a Fellesian

sat around the table assembling what could have been a bomb or drug manufacturing tools, Vanessa

didn't care to thoroughly examine it before she opened fire when one reached for a gun.

The first man's head was cored instantly, reminding Vanessa she had a few residual armor-piercing rounds

loaded in her automatic Coil Carbine. She let Raze take out the other and the Voltaire. The Fellesian was

not exactly here voluntarily as they discerned by the neck shackle anchoring him to the table center.

Raze knew a slave when he saw one, and severed the chain with his pocket grinder, then the shackle.

“Leave the planet.” Raze instructed, handing him a loaded Credit pod.
The Fellesian, clearly grateful, did not linger, and a few seconds passed before they started searching the

premises. “Well that was quick. I really hope people don't think I'm unfriendly, Van.”

“I think he liked you just fine for that price.” Vanessa replied, knowing that was over a month of Raze's

pay and not a credit from elsewhere on that pod. She continued scanning the room with Janus, briefly

examining the bloody mess they left of the scum on the floor, only because she had to walk through it

heading to the other room.

“What were they going to detonate if nothing beyond a few grand of dust is here?”

Raze shrugged and returned to searching. For what, they weren't exactly sure yet, but he knew something

was here.

Vanessa walked over to one of the walls, a mirror-panel suspiciously angled, like it had been hastily

jammed in place. She pried it out with her knife as it plummeted to the floor with a thunk and a crack. The

walls were completely devoid of any insulation standard with these construction templates. She had Janus

start removing tiles, and the contents of the wall revealed themselves.

“So nothing's here, now what the fuck do we--” Raze was cut short as he saw the new hole expose at least

four mutilated bodies, humanoid and otherwise, like some hidden, grotesque half-finished trophy rack.

Janus looked at Vanessa and simply asked, “Morphine?”

Vanessa, ignoring Janus, was shaking, but not from anything Raze knew she suffered from. It was rage

that she was trying and failing to contain. Not one to get upset solely on principle over the sight of a few

possibly-innocent victims, Raze knew this could only mean that this was the signature of someone she'd

been after before. He heard her say a name, uttering it in such a way that she sounded like some

otherworldly avenging angel declaring the next target of her unrelenting wrath.

“Marza, you filthy fucking monster.”

GORE! GORE! GORE!

An Introduction to the Goremageddon

It is the post apocalypse. The old world has long been dead. GROMM is but an ancient memory,

unknown to anyone alive today. With over 700 years now behind the initial events known as

the Toxic Holocaust, GRAXX continues to waste away, a world ravaged by endless conflicts,

merciless carnage and sadistic, ultra-violence. We are at a time, referred to simply, as the

Goremageddon.

In the United States, New Los Angeles has been overrun by the living dead: walking, talking,

and thinking hordes of flesh-eating zombies. The walls surrounding New Los Angeles have been

torn down, ushering in a new wave of violence, spreading throughout all of California. In Pajan,

the Unholy Crux continue their reign as the masters of human-harvesting, a nation controlled

and inhabited by vampires. Canada, ruled by the Gravelord, declared war against the United

States and several other surrounding territories. Europe is seeing a war waged on three fronts,

by the savage Neo Soviet Union ruler, the mechanized Stalin III, by Toxic Deutschland, ruled by

the mutant dictator Herman Skinner and by the Thrashville Vikings, Scandinavian

Thermonuclear Warriors, bent on the conquest of Europe.

All this insanity, is also, just the very tip of the overly-mutated iceberg.

Welcome to a world, ravaged by endless carnage, bloodshed, gore and merciless damnation.

Welcome to a time, where the only true struggle, is to live to see another day.

Welcome, to the Goremageddon.

TOKEN

Written by Tom Haswell

The San Clemente safe-zone had always been, and would always remain, a festering shit hole. There

wasn't anything useful in the land that time should have aborted, known as the outskirts of New Los

Angeles. If you were lucky, you only ran into the assault gangs. If you were unlucky, your ass got sold into

prostitution, chunked for meat to send to the Unholy Crux, skinned and used as a trophy rack by the

Thermonuclear Warriors, or sometimes all three at once. Unless you were looking for a way into the

zombie-filled New Los Angeles Quarantine Zone, or really had a thing for the shittiest Mexican food your

junk could buy, there was no reason to be within a hundred miles.

The woman in the doorway of the safe zone had no interest in the cuisine.

She walked with purpose, scanning the dimly lit dive bar for her contact. Not finding him, she sat down at

the bar. She raised her right hand to get the bartender's attention, which was easier than normal as both

of her arms were cybernetic.

“Whiskey. Straight. Two of ‘em.”

The bartender brought two piss-colored shots of liquid that might have been whiskey, or it might have

actually been fermented piss, it was hard to say. The old tuna cans they were served in did little to improve

the appearance. She had just picked up the tin when a shrouded figure sat down next to her.

“You're late, Hamster,” she muttered as she tried to bite down the beverage, which she was becoming

more and more certain was actually made of urine.

“My apologies.” The weasely little man tried to sound sincere, but failed miserably. “Some other business
held me up, but, I have the information you asked for.” He coughed into his fist. Partially for emphasis,

and partially because the air in the safe-zone was nearly as rancid as the drinks. “That is, assuming of

course, that you still want it, and have what I asked for.”

The woman reached one of her metallic arms down to a satchel at her feet, and produced fist-sized bag.

It made a slightly metallic, slightly wet sound when it landed on the bar top. “No idea why you wanted

that, Hamster, but you're paid. Start singing.”

The weedy little Skraver could barely contain himself in his excitement, almost falling off his bar stool.

“Okay. You're right. You're right, a deal is a deal.” He fumbled about inside the hooded coat he wore, and

pulled out a microchip taped to an old road map. “I can't get you in through the wall, but I think I found

someone who can. One of the original engineers lives not too far away. Seems the company cut him loose

once the wall was up, and he never made it back to wherever he came from. His name's Token, and he's

just a crazy old hermit now, but a hermit who understands tech better than anyone back east. That disk

contains the technical specs for the wall, the surveillance and security systems. If anyone can get you

through it, he can.” The man looked towards the door reflexively as a trio of burly Wastelanders came

through the door, then looked away a little too quickly.

She surveyed the men at the door out of the corner of her eye. The manacles they wore and the blunt

steel clubs they gripped made it pretty obvious they were slavers.

“Other business held you up, Hamster? It better not have anything to do with them and me.” She let her

words trail off as she finished her drink.

“Come on, after all these years, would I sell you out like that?” Hamster's inability to sound sincere had

not improved.

“You're damned lucky you're more useful alive than dead, you fucking rodent. Clear out before this gets
messy.”

“I'm hurt, but you're probably right. Best of luck, my old friend.” Hamster pleasantly replied as he slipped

away from the bar.

The woman had just finished her drink when the three slavers approached the bar. Their conversation

was abusive, offensive, and entirely expected.

“That's a fine piece of ass right there.”

“Hey, do you think she gives robo-jobs with those arms?”

“That's sick, man. What if she has too much grip? Besides, those things will sell well to a chop doc, and

she's worth just as much money on the black market without limbs.”

“True. Hell, with a body like that, we really should test drive it before we turn it in, right? I mean, gotta

make sure nothing else is cybernetic.”

She stood up, still holding her glass. She had no weapons with her in the safe zone, wanting to draw less

attention than normal. Still, dumb wastelanders could be handled without weapons. “That's a shitty tune

you've got. You might want to look into a new one.

The trio laughed. The largest of them stepped towards her, almost forehead to forehead and chest to

chest. “You still have all your teeth. That's a big bonus payoff. Are you gonna do this the easy way, or do

you want to cost us money? Because if you cost me money, I'll take it out of your ass in trade before we

sell you. What's your name, sweetheart?”

She leaned forward and whispered in the big man's ear. “Xandria.”

His eyes didn't even have time to finish going wide before the jagged tuna can glass was slammed with
jackhammer force into his groin. His howls of pain as his feet came off the ground muffled the muscle

tearing sounds of the can being turned a half-turn counter clockwise, and then back again, before a

cupping motion scooped everything in the can, right off of the thug's body. He collapsed to the ground

clutching his groin in a futile attempt to stop the geyser of blood from his amputated testicles.

The second thug moved in, swinging his steel pipe down hard. A cybernetic forearm block caused sparks

to fly and the ringing of metal on metal. Her other hand reached for his elbow, and inverted his arm using

the block as a fulcrum point. Bones snapped and the pipe clanged on the permacrete floor. A series of

rapid fire jabs to the face were followed by a titanic elbow to the jaw that threw teeth halfway across the

room. Xandria grabbed the back of his head with both hands, and drove his face down into her knee with

enough force to snap his neck. He crumpled to the ground as the last slaver fled for the door, leaving a

trail of whiskey behind him. Xandria picked up the pipe, and hurled it full force at the coward. It impacted

with the back of his head, splitting through his skull and punching his left eye out through the front of his

face. The eyeball bounced off the doorframe and rolled away, soon to be picked up and sold off if it was

still intact. The third would-be assailant hit the floor, and Xandria finished her second drink.

“Token.”
GRAVELORD

Written by Neuicon

”There they are. Those fucking bastards!” Gravelord’s Master General, Lord Grank looks through his

rusted and almost-useless binoculars. ”The fuckers have our compound!”

Gravelord looks out to the distance at his Alberta home, now occupied by the Thermonuclear Warrior

gang, the Coronation of Doom, led by Whiplash. While Gravelord had been thrashing in Toronto, claiming

back the territory from the now-annihilated Skraver gang, the Lords of the Wasteland, Whiplash and his

mega-gang had been busy crossing into the country, taking skulls, and eventually, his compound. Now, he

has come back to find it occupied, and ripe for the re-taking. Gravelord lives for this.

He is known throughout GRAXX, as the Master of Canada, the Supreme Thrashlord of Alberta and is

notorious for his hulking size and cannibalistic fury.

Gravelord sits on his Iron Horse, a highly-customized motorcycle, built to look like a chariot, complete

with augmented Omega Corporation technology he stole from his war with the corporation several years

ago. His Iron Horse spits fire, exhausts that shower the rear of the cycle with powerful, blistering and

brutally toxic green flames. In the center of the Iron Horse, sits a throne made of skulls from the various

enemies Gravelord has conquered; Wastelanders, Unholy Crux, Skutters, the ancient Scourged and even

the Thermonuclear Warriors. Whiplash would just be another addition to the heaping collection.

Facing the Alberta compound, named the ”House of Thrash” by Gravelord himself, after taking it from the

previous ”king” of Canada, Lord Skravikus, Gravelord stood on his Iron Horse, with his PACK, several

hundreds of Skravers loyal to his fellowship, each of them on their motorcycles. He watched as Whiplash

continued forward, alone, a sadistic grin on his heavily-stitched face.

”What now, Master?”

”We meet, face to face, the usual tradition, Grank.” Gravelord slowly steps out from the Iron Horse with

a smirk playing across his face. ”Have the Radar Riders ready to roll, on my command.”

”Absolutely, Master! Absolutely!”

Gravelord begins the trek across the empty wasteland that sits between both gangs. His hulking frame

gradually blocks out the forces behind him as he continues forward, Whiplash keeping his eyes squarely

on the massive Skraver, who easily stood at over 8 feet in height.

Whiplash continues to keep his eyes on Gravelord, his Biohammer tightly in hand; a sledgehammer and

nuclear-powered hammerhead. As Gravelord gets closer, the hissing and whizzing in his augmented arm

grows slightly louder; the Skraver has plans. Unlike other Skravers, Gravelord is powered by Omega

Corporation technology; his left arm is entirely bio-mechanical, enhanced by technology he forced his

rodent scientists to produce. On command, his arm can turn into an Ion Cannon, a favorite weapon

amongst Thermonuclear Warriors. Other enhancements, include his blood, which contains acidic

components, another addition provided by technology stolen from the Prophets of Mars.

He’s now face to face with Whiplash, who remains in place. He slowly lifts his right arm, showing the sign

of the horns, the customary pre-battle sign of respect in Canada. He opens his mouth to speak, and

Gravelord listens. ”We come to thrash, Gravelord. Alberta. Canada. I want it.”

Gravelord smiles. He mutually shows the sign of the horns, his left hand raised. ”Let us thrash, then,

Thermonuclear Warrior.”

In the distance, Grank looks on, as Whiplash and his master, Gravelord, continue their verbal exchange,
then looks to the other Secondary Generals, Modo and Tomko. ”Damn. What in the fuck is taking them

so long?”

Modo leans in toward Grank. ”Shut the fuck up. Boss does as he pleases.”

Grank has his reasons. The Master General hasn’t been at his position for very long, but has been longing

for chances to prove himself to Gravelord, the first, being in Toronto, after being made Master General

when Gravelord’s previous Master General had his entire innards strewn out by members of the Lords of

the Wasteland. ”Fuck you, Modo.”

”Fuck the two of you.” Tomko crosses his arms and laughs. ”Fucking bitches, you two.”

Grank jumps. In the distance, out of nowhere, a huge blast of blue energy can be seen, followed by gunfire,

erupting from the Coronation of Doom. He can hear Gravelord’s cry for war, loudly. ”There it is! There it

is! Ready up! Here we go!”

”Let the thrashing begin!” Whiplash shouts. Before he can utter another word, a large blast of blue energy

completely melts his face, then his skull and forces his body to explode, showering all the soldiers behind

him in his entrails. Gravelord’s augmented Ion Cannon went off cleanly.

”THRASH!” Gravelord bellows; the fight begins. He motions the middle finger, followed by an air-guitar,

which can only mean one thing: summon the Radar Riders. Grank follows the order and has them called

in from his walkie talkie. In an instant, two-dozen overly-customized motorcycles reign down the

battlefield and make their way toward Gravelord, who is already flaying enemies with his bare hands,

switching to his Ion Cannon repeatedly, forcing chunks of the Coronation of Doom to fly all over the

landscape. He smiles, then laughs. ”Here they come. Let the feast begin, boys!” His Radar Riders, rodents

infused with his enhancements, highly cannibalistic, pour throughout the battlefield.
By now, the battlefield is littered with combat. Gravelord’s Skravers, his PACK, litter the battlefield, and

while may not be massive in size, or strong for that matter, they make up for this in numbers. Throughout

the asphalt, they roam on their motorcycles, gun in hands, tearing into the Thermonuclear Warriors, some

of them pouncing on the enemies, in mass, tearing through flesh they find and gutting the bio-enhanced

humans, feasting, as they do naturally.

Grank carries his shokk-whip, lashing at several enemies, before clashing head-on with one of them, who

forces him back. He gets the whip around the foe’s neck, then turns up the voltage and watches his neck

begin to melt and flame, forcing his eyes to burst out and his head to explode. He leans in and grabs the

Thermonuclear Warrior by the neck, finds the spine and rips it out, furiously.

Gravelord continues fighting various enemies, Slamming his Ion Cannon against one’s head, driving him

to the floor, turns and unleashes a blast that rips through one enemy, then through another behind him,

both of their torsos melting, their limbs and heads dropping to the floor. The gore began to liter the floor

around Gravelord, who continued to carry out his acts of extreme aggression. Another enemy slammed a

spiked club against his waist, not before Gravelord grabbed it, pulled him in and slammed his head against

him, forcing the metal plate on the Thermonuclear Warrior’s skull to crack. He slammed his head into the

enemy’s again, this time, popping it off, reached in and pulled chunks of brain out. He dropped the lifeless

carcass to the floor, took a bite of the pulpy brain, discarded the rest and marched forward.

The fight was now over. Thousands of corpses lay wasted, or ”thrashed” as Gravelord liked to refer to the

death. He stood over several bodies, all of which he slaughtered, their remains covering his body, like

patchworks of blood-drenched badges. He roared in victory, reached down and tore the spine from one

of the bodies and held it high. His PACK roared in return. ”The thrashing is over, rodents! We claim victory

here and Alberta is once again mine. Let no one else take this from us!”
Within hours, the rodents began the feast, the Skraver tradition of mutilating the corpses, looting them

for whatever was of value, then consuming the remains. To Skravers, the kind of meat they consume is of

little importance, as long as it can be eaten. All night, outside of the Alberta compound, Skravers worked

almost tirelessly, taking their dead for respectful burnings, and consuming the bodies of the enemies they

had just thrashed. Victory always made for good food.

With victory claimed, his Alberta home once again under his rule, Gravelord now considered his next

move. He loathed the Thermonuclear Warriors more than any other being. In his chambers, as Skravers

continued tearing down what the Coronation of Doom had begun filling the compound with, Gravelord

begun plans with Master General Grank, Modo and Tomko. He explained what he wanted to do next,

bringing excitement to his servant-generals.

”Today was a test. I want more. We’re going to invade America. I want every Thermonuclear Warrior’s

head to adorn the outer walls of the House of Thrash.”

KILL THE WITCH

Written by Seb Mӧller

Ace of Spades, King of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts, Jack of Spades and the 10 of Clubs. No fucking need

to change cards now. He checked over the table; only himself and Crip left in the game. Zander’s self-

mutilated face began to show through, thanks to the dimly lit pokertable lamp.

”Its not her, you fucking imbeciles! I’ve fuckin’ seen a naked before! The real one has a beauty mark on

her left breast! Didn’t I fucking tell you to check before you snatched her!?”

Crip stuttered, then asked what they should do with the wrong girl.

Zander turned from the table, walking away from it, waving his hand over his head. ”I don’t care what you

do, just take her out of here when you’re fucking done with her!”

He stood in the open doorway and looked at the girl bound to the chair in the dark room. He could be a

statue at his height; standing still, his face expressed not a single emotion, the only light, coming from the

room behind him. Crip and Matt showed up next to him and entered the room. A strong kick to the chest

of the girl sent her and the chair flying back, and ended up broken on the floor. Matt unbuttoned his pants,

went over to the girl, grabbing her by the hair, an evil grin playing across his face.

The smirk was suddenly wiped out and a scream filled the room, as a broken piece of the chair was buried

into his abdomen. In. Out. In. Out. He tripped backward, holding his stomach, kicking his legs in pain as if

he was cycling the Tour de France. Crip lunged over the girl, only to meet a foot to his face. She threw him

across the room, then jumped up with ease, getting a new grip on wooden stakes. After a quick scan of

the room, she confirmed that the scumbag with his pants halfway down his legs, blood pumping from his
stomach as he tried to stop the bleeding with his hands, wouldn’t be standing anytime soon. The guy who

ate her boot would probably be sleeping in an uncomfortable position a couple of hours from now.

She froze, movement behind her. A quick spin around and a flurry should end whatever it is. A shock came

over her when she saw his face; not one single emotion could be seen on his face, no sign of life deep

inside of his blackened eyes. She staggered back, then, he striked. Punches from both combatants flew

through the air; she fought with the ferocity of a cornered wild animal and he, he fought with an uneasy

calm and unnerving face. Each strike she threw that reached her target, showed no visual affect, no

reaction, no sign of pain.

”Crux witch!” Zander began, ripping away the arms of his shirt revealing his left robo-arm, shining in the

light from behind him. ”You ain’t the first one they sent here, and you most certaintly won’t be the last,

but now the fun comes to an end. Time to meet the fate of every bitch they send to end me.”

She stood, eyeballing the man before her; he was her target. The troublemaker for her Lord, and their

entire cause. Zander, former slave, now a warlord with an entire army behind him, just to find a girl?

Surely, it had to be more to it than that, but it mattered not. She had him all to herself, and it would please

the Crux to end him, which would ensure that the new world would prosper.

”So girl, how do you want to die? I was thinking about smashing out your teeth and making you choke on

my robo-arm, but I realize it would be funnier to just shove it down your throat and laugh when your teeth

break against the metal as you try and chew your way to salvation.”

She charged, the wooden stakes ready to plunge into his flesh. He gave a swing of his robo-arm, which

she dodged under and shoved one of the stakes into his side, likely impaling his kidney. She felt the blood

stain her face before she rolled away and turned around, readying the last stake. She took her chance; he

spun around, his guard dropped, leaving his heart unprotected. His ribs bend to the stake as she pushed
it as far in she could.

Zander stood, still staring into the girl’s eyes, blood running from his mouth. He coughed blood, splattering

the girl’s face; she dried it with her arm and was shocked to see that he was smiling.

”You stupid cunt. I have no fucking heart!”

She panicked when his hands wrapped around her head plunging his thumbs into her eyes. She screamed

and wiggled like a worm on a hook from the pain. The goo dripped down his hands as the screams turned

into an almost blood-curdling scream of agony, her arms trying to shake his off. He then dropped her to

the floor and watched her scream and twitchingly try to escape away from him. He then fell to his knees,

blood flowing from his chest, mouth and side. His face met the floor, and he watched the lights flicker

from the dim doorway, hearing footsteps echoing in the distance, then everything went black.
SAVIOR

Written by Tom Haswell

The streets of Pajan were perpetually choked with the exhalations of industry. The few factories still

producing usable technology did so without the oversight of years past, so the pollution caused by their

lack of quantity was more than made up for by their quality. It was rumored these facilities were the last

of their kind because the Yakuza bosses and their corporate fronts had seen to the end of any competition

worldwide. Rumor or truth, it mattered little: the Yakuza controlled your every breath in Pajan, because

there were worse options for you than the Yakuza. Forced prostitution, human trafficking, and the

appetites of the Unholy Crux were what awaited you if the Yakuza saw no further uses.

Miyuki Tanakura was headed home from her shift at the plant. Seventeen hour shifts meant she had to

brave the streets of Pajan both ways in the dark, but it was steady work and the plant payed three hundred

yen an hour; the best rate she was going to get without whoring herself out or working at an opium

factory. The seventeen hour shifts didn't even bother her much, aside from when they forced her to work

a double shift, but then she at least made it home in daylight, so there were benefits.

The streets of Pajan were a crap shoot of threats. Rival gangs claimed and lost territory day to day, and it

was sometimes hard to keep track of where you could walk and what colors you could wear. The footsteps

behind Miyuki were an unfortunate reminder that she may well have made a mistake. She quickened her

pace, trying to steal a glance at her pursuer in the smoked windows; she passed with no success. She

considered trying to quicken her pace or shift to the other side of the street, but any such action would

alert her follower if he had foul intents. She had all but decided to risk it when a pair of thugs hand grabbed

her from an alley and threw her into its depths.

Miyuki screamed as she rebounded from the filth covered ground of the alleyway and clamored to a

crouching position against a dumpster. She could make out three men. All were larger than her. All were

armed while she was not. None seemed friendly.

“Well, what have we here?” the largest of the three asked mockingly, resting his palms on the pommel of

his katana. “Arata, see if she's got anything valuable in that purse of hers.”

“Yes, boss!” the youngest of the three replied, as he lunged for her purse. Miyuki screamed again, but

Arata never touched her. He knew to leave well enough alone. While his pipe could quiet her if need be,

damaging potential resale value was never a good idea, and the Crux preferred its meat unbruised.

“Nothing much, boss,” Arata squeaked out as he searched. “Couple thousand Yen, photos, nothing. Not

even any damned Aspirin.”

“Leave it to Kenta to grab the only non-junkie left in Pajan.” The third man, the heaviest one of the group,

cracked his knuckles around his Shokk Gloves and spit. “Fuck you, Takeshi. Besides, meat is meat, and the

Crux pay us better for clean than sickly anyway.”

Miyuki was the only one to see the figure that had been following her enter the alleyway. She expected

he would be one of them. His entrance proved her wrong and gave her hope. His voice was raspy, the

sound you'd expect from wind getting caught on a gravestone.

“I don't believe this woman belongs to the three of you.”

Takeshi spun around, drawing his sword. "Fuck you! This is our block, and anything on it is ours. Who the

fuck are you?"

“One of your betters. Go home children. If you stay, you will die.”

Takeshi slumped against the wall of the alley. “Jesus, another whiz-headed junkie who wants to play
vigilante. Kenta, Arata, fuck him up. Twice the meat tonight.”

The young kid was the first to reach him, lunging at the stranger and swinging wildly to get in a shot before

Kenta leveled him. The stranger spun away, and Arata caught nothing but air before splash landing in a

puddle of bodily fluids in the mouth of the alley. Kenta charged straight forward, a massive uppercut form

his Shokk Gloves aimed squarely for the stranger's chin. The unknown man swung his arms out and bent

backwards, like a melting crucifix, as the glove full of arcing energy passed through where his head had

been. His hands reached back to the alleyway, then his legs arched up and around, landing a fierce kick to

the fat man's chin.

“I wasn't joking.” he said as he spun back to a standing position. “That, was your warning.”

Arata swung for the man's kidney from behind. With an inhuman speed, he caught the pipe and snapped

it around. Arata's howls nearly masked the wet twig sound of his arm breaking. A quick back swipe with

the recently freed pipe crushed the boy's temple, silencing him. The blow struck Arata's face with such

force that he landed in a pool of his own blood. Kenta was on the vigilante that quickly, bringing a large

right cross towards his face. The gravel-voiced man kicked out Kenta's weight-bearing knee before he

could land the blow. The fat man crashed into the ground like an airliner without engines. The lead pipe

tore into his jaw, spewing teeth and gore halfway across the alley. Kenta gurgled profanities as the man

pulled back. One more swing of the pipe into the side of the head, and he joined Arata in silence.

Takeshi had drawn his sword and stood in stance by now, preparing for a fight. The shadowy man seemed

unfazed. Hours passed in the seconds it took Takeshi to begin a warcry and swing his blade. The unknown

man parried the sword on the pipe, then struck the outside of Takeshi's wrist like a temple gong, breaking

it cleanly. Takeshi was more seasoned than the other two, and shrugged off the pain, switching to a one-

handed grip. Eyes determined, he brought the katana in with a strike too fast to flash in the failing light,

yet the stranger still parried it easily. Another strike broke Takeshi's other wrist, and the returning blow
tore through his knee, painfully knocking him to a more respectful position.

Wracked with pain and knowing he was beaten, he looked up at his end. “Who the fuck are you!?”

“I already told you,” was the only response he received before the meter long shaft of lead brought him

darkness.

Miyuki struggled to her feet then bowed. “San, thank you so much. I cannot repay you this kindness.

Please, may I ask your name, that it may always be welcome by my family?”

The gravel voiced man stepped forward, his fangs visible in the failing streetlight. “Hisashi Kuru, Master

of the Night Dragons, and Servant of the Unholy Crux.”

Miyuki screamed as he grabbed her with inhuman speed, and tore the muscle from her shoulder with his

teeth. Blood poured from her open wound as Hisashi slurped down the meat and tore into her for more.

Tearing flesh and cries of terror blended together as an audible aphrodisiac for Hisashi. Her screams died

as his hunger did.