FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

1. The Letter

2. We'll always have Rome

3. Beneath the ruins

4. Pyotr

###

The Letter

by Hector Scofield, edited by Ben243.

Burt Davis was glad about the rain. Everything else would have felt wrong on this sad day. It was a military funeral after all. Full honors. Not an intimate ceremony with just friends and family, like Burt would've preferred. It had been exhausting, but he had to keep up appearances for Emily and the kids. On the inside he felt numb, dried out.

He especially hated the volley of shots fired in the traditional salute, and tried not to flinch each time they thundered overhead. Instead he concentrated on the casket, covered with the Stars and Stripes, being lowered into the ground. A single tear was running down his cheek and he moved his umbrella a bit, in an attempt to hide it in-between raindrops. It was ironic, he'd learnt that trick from Paul... Who wasn't there anymore!

Two days later he sat in the kitchen, alone, stirring a cup of tea that was already getting cold. Emily had called him no more than an hour ago, to check on him. She and her family would be heading back home to California today. "I'm fine!" he lied. "Have a nice flight and don't worry about your old father!" The truth was he was barely coping. The sink was a mess. Dishes and food scraps were strewn around the counters. All he wore was a bathrobe and yesterday's underpants.

"Old father" indeed! He was too old to start anew, to find a new soul mate like Paul had been. He let out a wry chuckle. He could finally buy a cat. Or a Chihuahua. Something to keep him company, once he was withered, grumpy and forgotten. Something to feed off his remains once he perished. Of course there was Emily! But she had her own life now, her own struggles. She tried her best to become an actress and... thinking about it, being eaten by his pets probably wouldn't help her career either.

He shook his head: What stupid thoughts he was having today. His mind was wandering down some dark and seriously disturbed back alleys. Suddenly the door rang. He looked up for a moment, and decided not to answer it. He was neither in the best state of mind, nor dressed to speak to anyone. It rang again: Ring-Riiiing-Riiiing-Ring. This startled Burt. What the...? It was morse code for the letter P, like Paul. The way he used to ring, way back, when they first dated. How was this possible? Nobody else knew about it. Could he be imagining it? Then again..... Ring-Riiiing-Riiiing-Ring.

Burt sprang up and ran for the door, opening it in a rush, just... It wasn't Paul! Of course it wasn't! Instead he looked at a short, casually dressed man in his 40s, whom he caught with his tongue out, panting like a Dog. He apologized and, a little embarrassed, introduced himself simply as Decker. "Sorry about the ringing," he said, "but unfortunately I have little time." - "How do you know this code?" - "Paul told me! It's... complicated! He asked me to give this to you." With this he handed him a letter, adding: "Don't wonder about the handwriting, he dictated it to me!" - "How do I know, this isn't a scam?" - "It's all in the letter, Mister Davis! My Condolences!" With that said, Decker simply turned around and left.

Burt stood there looking after him for a while, before he returned back inside and shut the door. With some trepidation he began to open the letter. He read it, while leaning against the door, With each passing word, emotion began to overtake him. When he could bear no more, he allowed himself to slowly slide onto the ground.

Dear Burt,

As you're reading this I'm most certainly dead. I've known you half my life and yet I can't imagine what you're going through right now. All I know is you're too stubborn to accept help from anyone, Stirring your cold tea while trying to avoid harsh realities.. Take it from me: Life is too short! And cold tea tastes horrible! I took a sip from your cup once, after your Mom died. My face must've been hilarious, because for a fraction of a second, I made you smile again. Remember that? Things might seem awful now, but there is always hope...

Burt read on. He was crying, but they were good tears. After he finished, he stood up, went back to the kitchen and called Emily...

###

We'll always have Rome

by Hector Scofield, edited by Ben243.

Small Richie Carlson was a curious little boy, who had a lot of questions: Why is the sky blue? Why are Bananas curvy? Why do spiders build their webs like they do? His parents were fairly intelligent people and did their best to give him satisfying answers whenever they could.

If there was something they didn't know they wrote it on a list. They would work through the list together during their weekly trip to the public library. Richie got quite good at researching all manner of topics.

Occasionally they found a question so hard even that wouldn't work. So they wrote it in a small blue notebook and promised him 10 cents for each day that he researched it, until he found the answer. Only condition: He had to find the answer on his own! Which was good enough for Richie - normally. Until he found a question so big, so mysterious and fascinating it outgrew his childlike curiosity, to become a full fledged obsession.

Richie had been asked to play Tiny Tim in a school play of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". There he learned about the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come, who had the ability to travel with grumpy old Ebenezer Scrooge through Time and Space. It was then Richie asked his parents, if time travel was indeed possible. His mother said no, but his dad admitted there was no definite answer yet. So he naturally wrote it into the Blue book.

The following years Richie read voraciously about the topic. Everything from Mark Twain's "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court", H.G. Wells' "The Time Machine", naturally, to Isaac Asimov's "The End of Eternity" and much much more. He even learnt polish to enjoy Stanis?aw Lem's untranslated book "Sezam".

Richie, now simply called Carlson by his classmates, loved History and physics class, and absorbed every little piece of information like a sponge.

Soon heading to more scientific literature he discovered there were indeed some realistic answers to his question. reinvigorated, he dug deeper, and studied harder. He was determined to become a proper Scientist.

Unsure of where to focus his studies, he tried many different specialties at once. Even though he had always been an excellent student, he soon found himself stretched to his breaking point. He lost sleep and his grades began to suffer as he tried in vain to narrow down his studies.

His parents grew concerned about his health, both physical and mental. They decided to intervene, and tried to talk him out of his plans. Carlson was stubborn, and sure he could solve the problem. He just needed a little more time.

Carlson soon found out they had never believed he, or anyone else, could solve the problem of time travel. They had just kept encouraging him, seeing the potential. Knowing what he could achieve.

All the while they were hoping he would, soon enough, forget his childish dream. He couldn't believe it. They had taught him to never give up, not until he had found the solution. He felt betrayed, and heartbroken, he turned his back on them.

***

The following years he spend mostly working on his own. Endless nights and long days of relentless research and experiments. Under constant ridicule of colleagues and argument after argument with friends and family.

He'd had to finance his research mostly on his own, with money he gathered from all around or that he earned with all sorts of Odd jobs. The longer his shifts, the more he cut on his social life and relied on bare necessities. The only luxury he indulged in were his books.

After four decades he finally made a breakthrough: He'd discovered some sort of Morphic field in the human brain. It seemed to be generated by Cell phone radiation. Carlson found that it, when properly attuned, could redirect brainwaves in-between alternate realities. Mainly memories.

Already belittled by everyone, he kept this to himself. As sensational as it was, he'd earned the right to do with it as he pleased, not them. So he didn't even bother to give the Field a name and instead tried to figure out how to exploit it for Time travel.

In the end he built a machine that looked like a huge pile of scrap. Seemingly randomly welded together, it resembled a bad excuse for a Rube Goldberg machine. It had lots of cables, bulbs, computer parts and something that resembled an Electric chair in the middle.

A sane person wouldn't even dare to step near that thing, let alone plug it in. It looked like it would fall apart if you looked at it wrong. Dr. Richmond Carlson, however, was convinced it would work. That he'd just invented his precious Time machine - sort of!

He couldn't exactly travel with it quite yet. He could "remember" things, memories from the perspective of individuals that lived long before him.

All they had to have in common were just a certain amount of the same atoms in their brains. Hopefully the atoms that made him up had been concentrated in others over the millennia. Carlson knew it was risky! One wrong calculation could blow his head like an egg in a microwave oven.

The whole undertaking had nearly cost him everything - his grants and funding had been pulled, and he had nearly been fired several times. Still he wouldn't give up. He'd had to call in almost every favor he had to get this far.

It was clear to him, he would either succeed or die at the attempt. With this in mind he started the machine, calibrated the computer and, taking a last long breath, sat down on the seat. Soon after he began to "remember"...

***

His name was Marcus Silvanus, third son of a Roman scholar during the reign of Claudius. He grew up in Florentia and, wanting to see the world, enlisted as a Roman legionary at the age of 18, joining the Legio II Augusta on their way to Britannia.

It was incredible: Carlson's memories were as clear as if it had happened just a few years ago. He remembered the smell over the italian hills, the hard drill he had to endure, the massive weight of the lorica on his shoulders, the helmet on his head, and all the rest, while marching miles and miles in a loud rattling lockstep. The taste of wheat and bread. Motion sequences, muscle memory.

Carlson stood up, picked up a piece of pipe and tried to remember how to move his sword. He couldn't. Not outside the machine. He had to come up with a solution! For now he sat down again, and gained more memories. He remembered war. A lot of corpses and blood. All the people that had died. That were killed... by his hand...

Carlson sprang up again. Catching breath. Telling himself it hadn't been him. It was Marcus! And that's simply how it was back then! The people in ancient rome had little choice: The life of a legionary was hard, but a lot better and held more promise than that of an ordinary citizen. If you survived 25 years of service you earned yourself a pension or "praemium" of 12,000 sesterces and some farmland in the Roman province.

He sat down a third time, remembering all his comrades. Augustus, Severus, Remus... how they fought side by side, got each other's back in combat. It just now dawned on Carlson how lonely he'd become over the last years, how much his work had consumed him. On the other hand, had there been anyone in his life he could have trusted like Marcus did his fellow legionaries?

Carlson suddenly remembered something that, at first, confused and embarrassed him. He remembered Marcus' superior Gaius, a big broad-shouldered Centurion in shining armor that reflected the evening sun, giving it a somehow firey look. He had a full dark brown beard and the appearance of a grim, but majestic old bear.

Marcus was training with Remus when Gaius called him over. He followed him to his nearby tent, where Gaius had some surprisingly flattering words about him. Marcus was clearly one of the finest soldiers under his command. He knew how to keep a clear head in sticky situations, how to boost the morale under even the darkest circumstances and was a formidable fighter.

The young soldier was about to thank him, but Gaius hadn't finished. He asked Marcus if he was able to read, which he confirmed. Gaius began to smile, explaining he was seeking a new Optio, after Julius Maximus had died the day before. And Marcus was currently the best man for the job. The young soldier replied, it would be an honor to serve him as his Optio, and he waited for his superior to dismiss him.

Instead Gaius looked at him for a while and suddenly reached for his cheek. Not in an attempt to hit him! It was a soft, tender gesture. Marcus heart was beating like crazy. What was going on? Gaius said he wasn't stupid. He'd noticed the look on the young man's face, everytime they crossed paths, and the slight embarrassment when he looked back. He knew how he felt! He felt the same way! And with this said, Centurion Gaius kissed the young Legionary.

For a third and last time this evening Carlson jumped up. It was one thing to remember being a Roman soldier, as strange as it sounds, but another thing to remember something... so... private! Carlson's head got warm. Was he blushing? He just now realised he had an erection too. It was too much for him. He turned the machine off and left his laboratory, which was basically his basement.

That night he couldn't sleep. Contrary to his ancient Sword fighting skills this... homoerotique escapade had just burnt itself completely into his Long term memory. He knew, he wasn't gay! No, of course not! He knew they were Marcus' feelings, utterly and completely! Right? To be honest, he wasn't sure anymore.

He had so many questions running through his head. Like: Was homosexuality even accepted in Ancient rome? Researching the topic on his phone he found out, same sex relationships weren't that out of the ordinary back then, except with other freeborn Romans. Which unfortunately included all legionaries. If you got caught penetrating a fellow soldier you got severly punished or even killed.

Carlson stood up, went back down to the basement and fired up his machine once more.

His worst fears were only confirmed: Gaius was betrayed by another Legionary named Antonius, who wanted to become the next Optio himself. He knew about Gaius' "thirst for young flesh" and was okay with sucking the old man's dick, if it meant for him to climb up the ranks.

Gaius rejected him, so Antonius spilled the beans and even presented some evidence. The brave Centurion agreed to give a full confession, though he refused to give any names, to save Marcus' life. He died shortly after by "fustuarium" - being cudgeled to death.

Marcus had to watch, with a straight face, but Carlson remembered how devastated he really was.

***

That morning he looked depressed out of the window. At the modern world he was living in. A world that had revolved so many times ever since. How unimportant to them was the broken heart of a young Roman soldier. They had no idea he'd even existed. No idea, how much he'd really loved that man. His Centurion. He'd never told anyone about it! He dared not! He took it with him, to his grave!

Carlson couldn't believe he was this obsessed with a man that had died hundreds of years before he himself was born. He considered leaving these painful memories behind and search for different people, from different times, who had more pleasant lifes.

He had just invented a form of Time travel, for heaven's sake!!! He should be full of joy, stop being all invested in emotions that weren't even his own! Pull yourself together and rip off the bandage, he scolded himself, standing up and heading back to the laboratory.

On his way out he passed his writing desk. Lying there was, like it had all these years, the old blue Notebook. His mother must've left it there on one of her last visits and he'd ignored it, engrossed with his project. Just now he noticed and opened it.

Inside he found a few unanswered questions, but one in particular got his attention. It wasn't if Time Traveling was possible though, like he'd always wrongfully remembered! It was "Can you change the past?"

Right! When he first read "The Christmas Carol" in preparation for his role, he began to cry over the fate of poor Tiny Tim. His mother comforted him and explained, how the boy was saved in the end, by a reformed Ebenezer Scrooge, who had seen the grim future his greed would lead too, and who decided to prevent it.

So the whole reason Carlson grew so obsessed with the idea of Time Traveling in the first place wasn't so much about the possibility itself, but the things he could change for the better! The thing was, he still couldn't! His work wasn't done yet! And the worst part: Now he wanted it more than ever! He still cared for Marcus and Gaius, wanted to help them - but how?

He could overclock his machine, bring it to its limit and transfer parts of his consciousness into Marcus' body. There was just one problem: If he did that, if he changed the past, he would create a whole new timeline, and as a part of it, he could never return.

He looked down on the notebook again. For a few seconds. Then he grabbed a pen and began to cross out the question.

***

A few days later he'd done all the necessary calculations and was ready for his first and last trip through time and space. He'd prepared everything upstairs for when his friends and family would arrive and find his then dead body.

It was clear there wouldn't be much left. He wrote a letter to his remaining friends and family, found a few conciliatory words to hopefully comfort them. After all was said and done he started the machine, for a last time, took a deep breath, sat down and concentrated...

On the last battle before Gaius made him the offer. One bloody massacre that was, Metal against Metal, but not the actual reason he was there. He saw it before his eyes, like a vision. Moved back and forward like an editor on a piece of film. Until he reached just the right moment. When he looked between all the helmets and recognized the face of that traitor Antonius...

All he needed was a precise impulse, from his mind down to his left leg. Nothing suspicious. It had to look like he'd just slipped at the wrong moment. There! He focused on a particular nerve in his knee and imagined something as simple as the prick of a needle. It worked! Marcus unconsciously stretched his leg and made Antonius fall - right into the sword of his enemy.

Antonius died. Carlson in the meantime had fully settled in Marcus' body at this point, who was still occupied with fighting, fighting, fighting. He had to stay extremely calm, make sure the young soldier wasn't aware of his presence. The battle field was definitely the wrong place to distract him. Just let him do his job, he told himself, however gruel it is!

When it finally ended Carlson/Marcus was glad to get some rest. It had all been much more exhausting then he remembered. The next morning, while eating with his Tent partners, Carlson thought about the coming events. They would return to the field, to bury their fallen comrades and in the evening he would speak with Gaius.

The time travelling Scientist sighed, wasn't sure he could handle such a hard life. He hadn't been through all the rigorous training like Marcus had, so he had to leave it all to him, to care for them both. Carlson began to have doubts. What had he done? What was he doing here? This was all a big mistake! He had to escape, as soon as possible! Although he'd heard about the harsh punishment for desateurs...

He decided to wait, at least until he'd spoken with Gaius, the very reason he'd sacrificed his life. The moment came: Carlson/Marcus trained with Remus, when Gaius asked him to come over, to offer him the position of his new Optio. He then continued to touch his cheek and press his gentle lips on his.

Carlson/Marcus felt a stream of comforting warmth running through him. He enjoyed the kiss much more then he had anticipated and was now fully committed to what would happen next: The heavy Centurion on top of him, bare of his armor and tunica, smooching and sweating, and digging deep into his young tight ass, again and again, giving off a musky scent like he'd never smelled before. It drove him crazy!

He felt the solid, fleshy pole in his rectum pulsating, was about to moan in lust. Gaius covered his mouth with a firm grip and his huge butcher hand. At the right time, as it seemed! He might have just invented Erotic asphyxiation.

The very moment the Centurion climaxed Carlson/Marcus' were so in sync, their minds got basically forged together by sheer ecstasy. There was no doubt anymore: He WAS Marcus now... again! Still? What was he thinking about?!

***

This time Marcus got the job for real and served under Gaius for many years. Marcus became a Centurion himself later and with help of some knowledge from the future, survived his 25 years of service. He got his praemium, some farmland in Britannia, at what would later become West Somerset, and married a local woman.

They had three children. The youngest one, a son he called Gaius Timotheus - after his old friend and Tiny Tim respecively - was as curious as Carlson had been as a kid. He decided to treat him the same way his parents had and answered all of his questions as well and patiently as he could.

###

Beneath the ruins

by Hector Scofield, edited by Ben243.

The sandstorm had stopped only a short while ago. The air was still full of dust. Scant little sunshine fell here, through the broken remnants of a once prosperous civilization. What light made it through the dust was casting dull ominous shadows over the mostly black desert floor. Black from burnt ash, toxic waste and obsidian. An inhospitable place. No life, not the smallest creature. Barely anything here to provided food or shelter.

He had a hard time breathing under his mask, so did his horse. A brave stallion, brown as a chestnut, almost majestic. If only it had been properly fed. Hard to get a bite of something green in this region! One could clearly see its rib cage under its thin layer of fur, and yet, it kept on going, serving its master well.

Janusz refused to call him by name, because he'd just stolen the animal from some raiders and they'd been quite offensive naming him. It also reminded him of the old folk song, he sometimes sang to lighten the mood: "I've been through the desert on a horse with no name..." His equine friend seemed to like it.

The young adventurer himself had the appearance of a nomad. All wrapped up tight, to keep him warm in the cold desert nights and keep irritating sand away from his sun burnt skin. He was fitted with a pair of tinted goggles, a riffle and a handgun to fend off scavengers, a bag of supplies for a few days, and a tracking device of his own making.

He'd received an odd signal a while ago, leading him to this place. Although it wasn't so much "something", rather the surprising lack of it. Everywhere he went so far, he found traces of MF radiation. Not unusual after what had happened! But the further he went in that particular direction the weaker and weaker it got for some reason.

At first it seemed like there was nothing, until his horse stepped on something metallic, which startled it. Janusz gave him a reassuring clap on the neck, dismounted him. He dug in the sand a while until he'd freed up a round plate of steel with a rusty old metal wheel in the middle. Obviously the hatch to an underground bunker or something like that.

Another sandstorm could come any minute, so he decided to put up a tent before opening it, but not before feeding his equine friend, with a few plants he gathered along the way. He also freed him from his harness and saddle. The sun was already setting in the West, they would clearly be spending the night here. Hopefully there would be some extra rations down there, he thought. A nice little midnight feast!

The hatch was incredibly heavy, but at last he got it open. The huge blast and the harsh weather conditions ever since must have taken its toll on the mechanism. The hinges made a loud creaking noise, echoing downwards the abyss. A bit scary, but Janusz had been through worse during his many expeditions in the past.

He climbed down an old rusty, but seemingly stable ladder. The further down he went, the tinier that gloomy hole above his head got. When he finally reach solid ground, he could barely see it anymore. He stood in complete darkness, in what seemed to be a long corridor made of metal and concrete, judging by the echoing sound his steps were making.

Janusz wasn't afraid of the dark, on the contrary: It had often been a safe haven for him, in the past. No sensory overload, just peace and quiet. The perfect environment to come up with solutions. And even if there weren't any, at least he could hide himself. Not that he was particularly fearful! Just reasonable enough to bail, once a situation got to be too much to handle!

He hesitated to take out his flashlight though: Janusz wanted to use his other senses first. Most of the sound came from him and above. He smelled something chemical, earthy, moist. Something he wasn't expecting in the middle of the desert! Although he had to remind himself, this world hadn't always been this way!

Turning on his flashlight, his assumptions turned out to be spot on: This was a corridor as said, seemingly an old abandoned military base. The walls looked horrible. They were full of dust, cobwebs, oxidizing metal, and a lot of mold. He decided to put his mask back on, just in case.

Janusz made his way deeper down the rabbit hole, passing offices, supply closets and bathrooms. sleeping quarters, and a canteen, where he found a variety of tin cans and water rations.

Entering a great hall in the heart of the facility, he shed a light on a huge silvery emblem on the opposite wall. It stood out, not being as worn-out as the rest of the place - a late addition maybe. The overall design was Art deco-like. It showed the frontal image of a stoic white angel on dark ground, surrounded by two separate branches of laurel. On its bottom half it had three bold letters Janusz was all to familiar with: A.I.O.

Suddenly the device on his belt began to beep louder. Slowly at first, but gradually getting faster. He raised his gun next to his flashlight, and turned around, to shine a light in all directions, expecting it to be... who knows! A raider? A survivor? An animal? No, there was nothing, except... a gust of wind, followed by suction, like... breath... of something big. Something REALLY big!

Janusz wasn't waiting around to find out. He began to run, and would not dare to look back. Although he could hear it: Giving up a deep menacing growl, accompanied by what sounded like a big cow bell, echoing through the hallway. Coming closer. He decided to use the beeping to his advantage, by tossing the device into a room and hiding in the opposite one. Whatever this thing was, he really hoped it could neither smell or hear him.

Once he turned off his flashlight, it was pitch black again. That... thing... it slowly approached. He couldn't hear its steps, but the noises got clearly louder and louder. Janusz heart skipped a beat or two, before the beast.... the entity... whatever it was... finally entered the other room. It seemed that way at least: The sounds got fainter, just a bit.

The beeping on the other side, although muffled by the sheer mass of that thing, got faster than ever, turning into a high pitched Arpeggio. That was the moment Janusz had waited for. He turned around the corner, raised his gun and... BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG ... CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK...

He'd emptied the magazine. Was it done? There was no reaction. No scream. No growl. Even the beeping had stopped. The flashlight!!! He raised it with still shaking hands, turned it on and found... Nothing! No body. No blood. Just a lot of dust, a round of holes in the wall and the device on the floor, receiving nothing. Had it all been just his imagination? A hallucination? Paranoia?

On his way back he thought about the strange noises. They sounded... familiar! Reminded him of the legends his grandmother used to tell from her home country. About the Krampus. A vicious devil-like creature with horns and black fur, that threatens little children that hadn't been good over the year. Something like an Anti-Santa.

She used to illustrate her stories with similar sounds, that got even worse over the years due to her being a heavy smoker. "There you have it," Janusz thought, "proof it was just all in my head!" He wasn't completely convinced though. There was still the question of what his device had reacted too. Or had it? Janusz wasn't sure anymore.

Janusz realized he was completely lost. This place was a maze and it would take him a good while to retrace his steps. After what seemed like an eternity, the device was calling to him once again. It had detected something down a corridor he'd just passed and made him turn around.

The further he went, the worse the mold became, blackening the whole wall. Janusz wondered, and after closer inspection discovered, that it wasn't mold after all, but some kind of black fungus. Something that got even denser with every step, until the whole corridor turned into a literal cave of writhing organic black mass. It looked grotesque, absolutely horrifying, like a birth canal designed by HR Giger. Still: Janusz' curiosity outgrew his fear!

He cautiously entered, what seemed to be a giant cavern, a laboratory. In its midst was a huge machine, stretching out in all directions. It even looked to encompass several levels above and below this one. He'd never seen such a chaotic rat's nest of cables, pipes, and modules, consoles, computer banks. It was a mess of seemingly aimlessly cobbled together scrap, all rusty, corroded and overgrown by the gooey fungi. A normal person wouldn't been able to make heads or toes of this, but Janusz knew exactly what it was: A Mandela Field Manipulator. One of the biggest models he'd ever seen.

A proper look on the inside confirmed his suspicion: This was most certainly this world's prototype. He recognized some of the typical rookie mistakes, especially the lack of parts vital to prevent an overflow of ionizing MF radiation after a lengthy period of time. Which was presumably the reason this base was abandoned in the first place. But if it was, where had it all gone? And why was it as if this place had absorbed even more Radiation from the surrounding area outside the facility?

Absorbed... Janusz suddenly remembered an article he'd read a while ago, about a certain fungus that was discovered near the Chernobyl Power Plant. A fungus that feeds on radiation, like plants do on the sunlight via photosynthesis. Could it be? Had the scientists here experimented with radiotrophic fungi as a more sustainable alternative, to cope with the MF radiation. Although it got clearly out of hand, it was a brilliant approach and definitely something to workshop on back home!

He was about to search for pen and paper, when he got startled by a familiar growling. Turning towards the direction it came from, he noticed some awkward movement. The silhouette of something, fighting its way out of an especially large pile of fungus. A huge ugly creature with shaggy, black fur, sharp claws and fangs, a terrifying devil-like grimace, huge curly horns, and a long thin tongue hanging out its wide, sinister grin.

Around its waist it carried a big round rusty Cow bell attached to a thick, greasy leather belt. In one of its paws it held a birch rod, in the other an old cloth sack. This was the very nightmare of his childhood: The Krampus. Janusz was completely shocked by this horrendous demon and therefore too slow to react, when it knocked him out cold.

***

After a short while he came back to his senses. He had a hard time breathing, tied up in the sack, carried along by the grunting Krampus, like the children in the horror stories of his grandma. Where would it bring him? Well, according to old lore, to the center of the village where "...the bad children were gathered to be feasted on in front of everyone's eyes!" They were all alone down here, but the Main hall would've been the most logical choice. Which gave Janusz little time to think.

This felt far too real and painful to be a mere hallucination! All the scratches and bruises... the taste of blood in his mouth... How was this even possible? Why was there a giant mythical creature from Europe in the middle of an old abandoned AIO outpost? Had the fungus somehow accessed his subconscious and used his deepest fear as some kind of template? The idea was quite fascinating and all, but the question remained though: How would it help him?

The Krampus suddenly stopped, opened its sack, grabbed him by the collar and tossed him out like a paper boy does his products. Janusz found himself indeed in the midst of the hall, lit by the bright and menacing red light of the Krampus' eyes. The freed adventurer gathered his wits enough to get back on his feet. He looked at the Krampus dangerously licking its razor sharp teeth with its long, red, serpent-like tongue. What was it waiting for? For him to cry?

Janusz suddenly remembered: The Krampus would just fed on bad children! Maybe it waited for him to plead his innocence. He tried: "You can't kill me! I've done nothing wrong, I'm a good boy!" The creature laughed, loud and terrifying, chuckling its bell. It then turned dead-serious and growled: "THIIIIIEF!!!" Was it referring to the horse? How did it know? "I wasn't stealing, I've just liberated that poor animal from these bastards!" It was of no use, the Krampus had made its judgement...

Janusz avoided its claws as well as he could, but there was little space. Wherever he tried to escape, it sprang his way, playing with him like a cat with its prey. In the end he found himself with his back against the wall. It was of no use, he was done for. Except... he caught something, in the corner of his eye. Something he'd missed before. A slim chance, but worth a try.

He moved in position, waiting for the Krampus to make his final hit. Janusz had to wait, till the very last second. The Krampus' claws were mere inches away from his face, he ducked away, and let it hit the wall instead. Or more precise: The silvery AIO emblem. The only thing in the room not infested by the fungus.

It worked! The Krampus screamed in agony, pulling its smoking, hissing fist back in total agony. Janusz smiled in triumph. Something in the silver paint must've been poisonous to the fungus and therefore to the Krampus! Janusz wasn't waiting for its recovery. He began to run, fled down the corridor he'd come from, using the little light he could gather from his almost drained MF device.

The beast was on his heels, still screaming in pain, angrier then ever before. His heart was pumping hard in his chest, he dared not to look back. Relieved to find the ladder before the batteries ran out, he climbed as fast as he could, nearly slipped on more than one occasion, but he pressed on. Up and up and up. It was pitch black, he'd lost his torch. It wasn't important! He would reach the light sooner or later.

Why was this taking so long? Was the hatch door even still open? Or had it been closed? Had the raiders found him and trapped him down here? Had another sand storm caused it to close? Was it the horse, kicking against it for some reason? No No No No No...

In his panic he didn't notice when he finally reached the top. Of course it was dark! He had forgotten about the tent and the approaching night! He jumped out as fast as he could and used all his strength to closed the hatch door behind him. Just then he allowed himself to lay back and fetch some breath.

The nightmare was over! Finally! It had become quite cold outside, that he was soaking from sweat wasn't helping either. So he stood up and growled out of the tent, to get some warmth from his equine friend, who awaited him full of glee. At first. The very moment he saw him, the animal panicked and ran away.

"No, wait!!!" Janusz called, but it was of no use. The horse with no name had abandoned him and left him cold, without food, water and no way of transport. But as it turned out, this was the least of his problems! "WHAT THE HELL...?" he cried, as he watched in horror while his hands were growing fur. Long, black fur. His nails too grew longer, turned to claws.

It just dawned on him: He must've inhaled some of the fungus' spores that now fed on his personal connection to the Mandela field. "Argh!" he fell to his knees as the bones and muscles inside his body began to expand, causing him great pain.

His cracking, enlarging body ripped open his clothes, revealing a thick coat of shaggy black fur, that soon spread over all his skin. Janusz face began to spaz out, deforming while at the same time getting harder, wooden... His teeth falling out, getting replaced by sharp fangs pressing against each other... his tongue elongating... getting... thinner... more... flexible...

No, he had to think! If he found a way to sever the connection to his host body, maybe he could at least... AAARRRAAAARRrrrgh!!! His blood began to boil like the fires of hell. The pain shut through his whole nervous system. His eyes... they seemed to burn... CONCENTRATE!!! Maybe he could use his claws to... GGGgngh!

He searched for a vein, which was hard under all the fur. So instead he tried to stab himself with his claws, but his skin had grown too thick and leathery. There was no way out! As he barely got used to the pain inside, the shifting of his muscles, bones and organs, his horns began to grow, slowly getting bigger and heavier, giving him the headache of a lifetime.

Agonizingly slow he began to loose the last vestiges of his humanity. He felt pure impulsiveness and rage overwriting his every rational thought. He would soon roam this desert. The Krampus, a monster, driven by his never ending quest to punish bad children. If there were even any left in this world!

This body had fully transformed now. His genitals had even turned into a giant rusty Cow bell, hanging from a leather belt. What would become of his own body though, back home? Well, it couldn't survive without an intact mind. Janusz was doomed!

He closed his eyes and for the last time, tried to hide in the darkness. Like he'd always done, since the very day his grandmother had told him about the Krampus. It had saved him so many times, on so many adventures. Now, instead of being a safe haven, it became a toxic swamp that slowly consumed him.

###

Pyotr

by Hector Scofield, edited by Ben243.

The AIO wasn't the only group experimenting with the radiotrophic properties of the black fungus. Several other shadow government entities throughout the Multiverse had their eyes on it's military potential. Anything could be converted to a weapon given enough time and nefarious intention. And yet, there's a reason you hear barely anything from them...

In a world where the Soviet union had never fallen and the Cold War slowly warming up to the brink of another World War, a secret base was established somewhere in the Ural mountains. It was entrusted with the task of developing new weapons and countermeasures to fight the enemies in the West.

They too had an equivalent of the Mandela Field Manipulator, called "The Nestroy" after its inventor and head scientist of the facility Dr. Antonin Nestroy. To test the machine he'd gathered a group of disabled soldiers, unable to fight on the battle field, but still eager to make a difference. One of them, a former infantryman named Ivan Selenka who had lost his left arm during a heavy conflict back in the 2010s.

He was strapped to the machine and asked a series of questions for a few hours. Everything seemed normal, until a black substance began to drop onto Ivan's head and shoulders.

After a quick sweep of the machine, they noticed a container with a liquified version of the fungus was leaking, which forced them to immediately stop the test, send Ivan to the decontamination showers and then immediately into quarantine.

As expected the poor man soon began to suffer from great fever and pain. The Scientists were about to write him off, when he unexpectedly recovered. Not only that, to their great surprise they'd discovered Ivan's missing arm had grown back a substantial portion of it's former length. Although the regrown parts had taken on a black color, it was the happiest day in Ivan's life - a miracle.

It surely was the greatest sensation since the discovery of the Mandela Field itself. Their superiors in Moscow ordered the team to postpone the research on the machine and focus on the regenerating properties of the fungus. It would give them a great advantage, should the Americans ever decide to start a Nuclear war. While their decadent society would crumble, the proud folk of the Soviet union would prevail.

Ivan's miracle turned into living hell. He was isolated from the rest of his comrades and had to endure a lot of experiments on his body. They cut off his recovered limb once again, just to bombard him with radiation and grow it back over and over again. They no longer treated him like a human being, but a mere salamander or earthworm, until his untimely death a few days later. Other test subjects were employed, who shared the same fate.

Soon after a new opportunity presented itself in form of 28 year old Pyotr Imanov, a nuclear technician from the Power plant in Mayak. He and his two colleagues had made some crucial mistakes refueling one of the reactors, and they were hit with a high dose of radiation. Only Pyotr survived the incident, but he was in a coma and his condition worsened by the day.

After a few phone calls with Moscow, Imanov was transferred to the facility. His family was told he'd died in the hospital. When they asked to see him, they were told his remains had to be cremated, to avoid the risk of contamination.

Poor Pyotr had barely arrived when he was transported down to the Nestroy's interface. The techs quickly attached him to the machine and virtually every kind of monitoring device imaginable.

Once everything was ready, a valve above him opened. A thick fluid poured out, covering his whole body in the black fungus. All they could do now was wait.

At first it looked like Pyotr wouldn't make it. His already decaying body seemed to reject the strange substance, raised its temperature in an attempt to fight it off. It seemed he was already too weak. Still they continued to monitor him carefully for any effects.

On the second day the fungus finally manifested itself as a grayish-black pattern under his skin. Rapidly replacing his decaying cells one by one, using the template of his Alter Ego from another reality to - as closely as possible - recover his old shape and form.

***

After a week Pyotr finally woke up from his long and restless slumber. He immediately realized something was wrong. The room he found himself in was incredibly dark and stuffy. He felt a bit sick, cold even, although he'd been covered in blankets. He then remembered the accident, the blue light that had hit him and the immense pain he felt. For that he felt actually quite good. Too good, actually!

He reached next to him, into the dark, until he touched something metal. A lamp! He followed its surface down to a cable and finally the switch attached to it. With one click he'd turned on the light, which was blinding him at first. He found himself in what seemed to be a small hospital room. Sparsely furnished, no windows.

Before he could even properly think about where he was and why, his eyes fell on his arm. Which gave him the shock of a lifetime: The skin was pitch black and unsettlingly slick, like some sort of rubber. Was this even skin anymore? He looked at his other arm, got rid of his blanket, glanced over his legs, his torso - it was all the same! He touched his face and felt the same smooth, cold texture.

He'd read articles about Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl... About people exposed to high doses of radiation, heavily burned and disfigured, suffering from radiation poisoning, slowly dying, trapped in their decaying bodies.

This was different! It wasn't nearly as horrifying, but still unnatural, frightening. What was happening to him? Out! He had to get out! Pyotr sprang up from his bed, rushed to the door and tried to open it, only to find it locked. He hammered against it, screamed at the top of his lungs. Finally he heard something on the other side.

Footsteps, heavy. Sounded like boots. Pyotr took a step back and indeed, two soldiers entered the room and instead of explaining anything, pinned him down like some sort of criminal, while a Scientist following them sedated him. Or at least, they tried to. It seemed to have no effect on him.

Pyotr used the opportunity to free one of his arms, hit one of the soldiers with his elbow in the chest and give a headbutt to the other. Pushing the scientist aside, he made his way out to a long corridor. He ran as fast as he could, but it wasn't enough. They caught up and one of the soldiers fired a round, that went right through his chest.

His body went limp before he collapsed to the floor. That's it, he thought, I'm dying! Could have been a worse death. From what seemed to be far away, he heard the scientist frantically screaming at the soldier, before he lost consciousness. It wasn't over though, his torment had only just begun!

He woke up once more, this time hanging from a pair of chains, in the middle of a busy laboratory. How was he still alive? He looked down at his chest, that was intact again and still black like the night sky.

He asked what they'd done to him. This only helped to make the scientists aware he'd woken up and they surrounded him like a group of young easily impressed school girls, bombarding him with a lot of questions.

He had not the slightest intention to cooperate with even one of them, as long as he got no answers himself. So they decided to start their first physical tests instead.

To Pyotr's great shock one of them, dressed like an industrial butcher, started a big chainsaw. Pyotr was unsure if they were bluffing, so decided to call the others back promising to answer all their questions. Fortunate enough for him, they agreed.

They asked him details about how he felt, what he remembered, about his sensory functions, checked his reflexes and so on. In return they still refused to answer any of his own questions, despite him begging for anything to make heads or toes of what just happened to him.

This continued for a good while and although he felt miserable and held back his tears. He did everything they asked in the hope they would grant him at least some rest afterwards. It would never come.

Instead, when all was said and done, the scientist with the Chainsaw returned. It hadn't been just a threat, it seemed they really wanted to slaughter the poor man. Pyotr screamed and shouted for help, but it was of no use. This madman, this complete and utter monster severed both his legs, and afterwards his arms, letting the rest plummet to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

During all of this Pyotr was still conscious, feeling the pain, the thrust and heavy vibration of the machine. This and the sheer horror and lack of blood was enough to make him loose consciousness again.

When he woke up a third time he found himself in a red lit chamber, being once more exposed to a high dose of radiation, feeling like he was burning alive, while his limbs were miraculously growing back.

Over the following days and weeks this happened over and over again: They cut off his limbs, bombarded him with radiation to grow them back, occasionally pumped him full with more liquid fungus and made every test with him that came to their sadistic minds: Setting him on fire, exposing him to extreme cold temperatures, bathing him in acid. He suffered immensly, but recovered from all of that. The process getting faster each time, leaving them even more time to experiment on him.

They even cut off his head and watched it regrow as it had been before. One day they decided to saw him equally in half, to see if they could regrow two Pyotrs or if one half would wither away like the cut off parts always did after a while.

Pyotr's mind got numb, he'd lost the will to struggle and let them strap him head forward onto a sawmill in hope, this would finally finish him off. The saws split his head like a piece of butter. The pain was sharp, but short.

They placed both parts in the Radiation chamber and waited. The process took longer than normal and for a while the scientists were afraid they had finally gone too far with their test subject. But after injecting them with another dose of fresh Fungus and turning the heat back on, they finally regenerated - both. The experiment was a great success: They now had two fully regrown Pyotrs, although they'd both lost the ability to speak.

One Dr. Boshka in the meantime, had studied the samples of their former test subjects and found traces of brainwave activity inside of them. As there were no synapses per se, but a Mycelium-like system, he wondered if they were compatible with the Pyotrs and could effect them in a way. So when another set was created, he added some of Ivan's samples to the regrowing body of Pyotr 3.

And indeed, Pyotr 3 had taken on a more muscular, fitter appearance similar to Ivan's when he first arrived at the facility. Boshka asked one of the Officers to shout some commands at the new Pyotr, in hope some inherited reflexes would kick in. And indeed, Pyotr 3 would react to each command instinctively, like it had been hammered into his brain for years.

The officer was baffled how well and quick that untrained creature reacted to his orders. Even Pyotr 3 himself seemed a little confused at first, but after spending some time training with the other soldiers and being hand-fed the usual Soviet propaganda, he began to show pride in what he was doing and become an obedient soldier himself.

Moscow was of course highly satisfied with this turn of events and made Dr. Boshka the new Head scientist, since Nestroy was becoming problematic anyway, by insisting to continue work on his machine.

They basically initiated the mass production of this new Pyotr soldier, repurposed other facilities to fulfill just this task and sent some of their best soldiers to Nestroy, for the sole purpose of being farmed: Their limbs cut off, replaced by the fungus, cut off again, processed and pumped into the Pyotrs over and over again.

***

Nearly a month later the Pyotrs were ready to get shipped to the front line. They marched in unity, wearing the insignias of the Soviet Union and vials of radioactive fluid to boost their regeneration when needed. Having their memories replaced with Military knowledge and the idea of absolute loyalty and obedience.

The enemy had not the slightest chance! Every time they bombed the living daylight out of this demons, they just stood back up, their wounds healed and their limbs regrown. To continue their conquest.

They were virtually unstoppable. They were immune to fire, mines, bombs, napalm, everything. And determined as hell to complete their mission.

In the event they were outnumbered, the Pyotrs were fitted with Smoke granades, that created a huge radioactive mist around the battle field. They were of course immune.

They approached every enemy soldier who got caught in the cloud and injected them with black liquid Fungus made from their own kind, to turn those poor dying men into even more Pyotrs.

During all of this, the Pyotrs felt great satisfaction and pride. Forgotten was all the pain and suffering they'd endured, all that mattered was the glory of great Mother Russia. Yet there was a certain itch. Something that bothered them deep down. Not enough to do something against it, but it was there nonetheless. Like something was screaming deep inside of them, to stop. To end this madness.

The Western world of course was shocked upon this development and tensions rose, until the Cold War had finally turned into World War 3. Soon after the first nuclear bombs fell on both sides, but the army of Pyotrs kept on marching, continually getting stronger in numbers. The fallout had more devastating effects as expected and the whole world died down to a shadow of its former self.

All the scientists and soldiers in the facilities, as well as their superiors in Moscow tried to survive by injecting themselves with what they believed to be a modified version of the fungus. Instead they got the same versions as the involuntarily recruited Pyotrs, due to a final act of revenge from Dr. Nestroy.

The war raged on for years. All that remained in the end was the Pyotrs. With nobody left to fight or conquer, they where damned to just march the wastelands, recruit the last survivors, holding up Hammer and Sickle for absolutely no reason at all.

They could have carried the Star-Spangled Banner instead or the Union Jack or just some other random piece of cloth. It would have made no difference! They weren't living for any ideal other than war. There was no victory to achieve, just the satisfaction of causing harm to one another. So they started fighting each other instead, never able to stop or be stopped.

And they were loving it!