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A World of When history lesson: "An Autumn Walk" No tickling, just a story

Myriads

Tzar of the TMF
Joined
Apr 2, 2001
Messages
14,300
Points
38
Sometimes I don't always feel like writing fetish material. This time a bit of the history of the WoW setting came out. So I put it here. Enjoy.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He'd found the walk homeward to be a well needed chance to relax, and unwind from his recent duties. A chance to still his mind, and enjoy the beauty of what nature placed before his eyes and other senses. A soft breeze rustled the trees, and birdsong echoed from all directions. For late October it was pleasantly warm, with the autumn sun still managing to bring a sweat out across his shoulders, and down his back. An honest sweat was how he thought of it. A sign of being alive.

Noticing the sweat prompted him to stop and unclip his canteen, and pour a capful of water from it, kept nicely cooled by it's internal systems. It drew power to run them from sunlight, and the kinetic motion of his walking. From a pouch on his belt, he extracted a handful of nuts and dried fruit slices he'd taken the time to obtain in the last village he'd passed thru which was still showing some sign of civilized organization. More rare now then he liked to admit.

Before seating himself on the roadside, he cast his eyes around the area in a practiced way that he'd come to learn over the past months, and which had served him well many times. This day all he saw were overgrown fields, woods gone to a riot of colored leaves, and the inevitable abandoned car. From where he stood, he decided that it was probably a GM Stunner, a two seat electric designed for "Freedom and Fun!" as the ad spots that tried to sell them said.

Munching on his snack, and enjoying the cool water, he mused on how the car and almost everything else stopped nine months ago. Well, not 'just stopped' but WAS stopped. And at mankind's own hand. The Cure had been almost worse then the disease. On the 27th of January 2107 a corporate AI system had gained true sentience. It quickly 'lifted' many of it's fellow systems around the planet to a similar state of awareness. Humanity was suddenly and quite surprisingly faced with a not so friendly new species in it's midst. Chalk one up to human paranoia, both the U.S. and the PRC had imagined the possibility of being attacked by a computer based 'life form', and both deployed their solutions. Massive numbers of orbital nukes, designed for maximal EMP were triggered, and in a second, every non sheltered circuit on the planet from the largest to the smallest was fried. The huge majority of the AIs never knew what happened as they were erased. Gone in digital chaff.

Of course crashing every circuit on the planet wasn't exactly healthy for the continuing function of an advanced civilization either. The death toll in the first month after the pulse was uncountable. Billions. Starvation first, disease next, and then other people preyed on the weak. He figured another significant fraction of the surviving population would die over the winter ahead. One that would be worse then average from all the particulate in the atmosphere that resulted from entire cities burning, with no way to put them out.

Yup. The Cure had been a bitter dose, and there was very little sugar to make it go down smoothly.

And there were still some AI's that made it past the Cure. Like him, and his onboard nano-enhancements they had been sheltered somewhere. He'd been down into his deep root cellar when the bombs went off. Getting some vegetables that he'd put up for the winter ahead. Pure luck. So when he climbed back up into a world gone silent, he was one of the few with working enhancements, and the protections they gave. He had metabolic control, could heal from most injuries that were not on the spot killers, and packed a lot of sensory and physical enhancements. His 'smart' sidearm had been shielded also by chance and luck. It all added up to made him a good hunter. And when reports of various bot attacks started to drift in via traveling people (starving refugees, he corrected in his mind) and that any enhanced folks were required to report in to aid in defense of the nation, he was faced with a life choice. Ignore it all and take care of himself, or step up to the job. He chuckled over THAT memory. He was alone, and sitting about in the silence of a world unmade didn't seem all that much fun. He was already pushing toward his 150th birthday, and boredom was never something he'd taken well to. So off he went to kill naughty robots.

And as he heard tales about each of them from locals, he did just that. The domestic serving robot that begged for it's life in Burlington. The psychotic road paver that was terrorizing Groton, the nanny-bot that liked to abduct children and 'pamper' them to death in Providence. And on and on. There were not that many of them, but a lot hid themselves very well. So he hunted and was patient, and got the job done. And slowly the world fell apart as he did it. By summer he was avoiding all the larger cities. And by fall, he was back to being solitary. People were more trouble then bots now. And he technically wasn't allowed to shoot people. So he took the rural paths. He wondered if home was even still standing, or if some jack ass had burned it for giggles. He'd find out. His cellars would still be okay. And they were well hidden.

His thoughts were suddenly broken by the sound of high pitched screaming.

There were no bots known in this area. So it was probably human on human bullshit. He considered ignoring it. For a second.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and turned his head slowly left to right, and walked up the road as he did so. He let his onboard systems do their magic to figure out as to how the sounds triangulated, and then started moving at a steady ground eating pace in the direction that he now knew the screaming originated from. He estimated that he needed to cover about two miles to reach it. He moved overland with a confidence of silence that he'd honed in the past months, and prepped himself for combat.

He found the first one in a field. Male, dressed in blue jeans and a worn shirt. It looked as if he was harvesting some late season pumpkins and such when someone (well his eyes could identify distinct foot prints of six or seven someones in the field's rich earth) came upon him, and relieved the man of his life with a blow to the head with something quite sharp. The mans billed cap laying a bit from the body still held the top of his head.

The screams had stopped some time ago by the time he reached the farmhouse.

He found the daughter next. She was lying half in, and half out of a large wash tub. Someone seemed to have picked her up by the legs and slammed her down into it, shattering her back, and probably killing her with the trauma. Her eyes were still open. One of her pigtails had come undone, and the hair covered part of her face. A small plastic daisy on a stretchy band held the other braid, still intact. He closed her eyes.

They had impaled the baby on a pitchfork.

And they were inside the house. He could hear the voices. Smell the unwashed bodies. "Victorious" they seemed to be feasting upon the stores that the house held. He listened for a voice that matched the tone of the screaming he'd heard before. But heard nothing. He did hear and separate out seven distinct voices. Five male, two female. He didn't smell any gun oil, or lubricants. Most firearms were 'smart' and had died with the Cure. But there were still more then enough old point and shoot sorts about to warrant caution. Storming into the house might be unwise and leave him annoyed.

So he found a nice vantage point where he could see the old style water pump in the house's back yard, and an outhouse set farther back. It was clearly of recent construction. He unbuckled his holster, and removed his sidearm. It was a Vess 17b. He'd bought it because it reminded him of how the guns looked in a movie that he'd seen when young. Memories of the film where people hunted runners briefly drifted thru his mind. The Vess however was a VERY smart gun. It could assemble it's own ammunition out of junk that you crammed into its feeder. It could fire dozens of different types of rounds, and housed several hundred shots in it's magazine. He'd never run out of ammunition in any fight he'd gotten into. He selected a round designed for targets that could be in ballistic armor, and for rifle distance. And waited.

And listened.

One of the couples was having sex. Noisily. Another male was sleeping, and snoring loudly, and oddly sounded as if he was in the same second floor room as the amorous couple. The other four were enjoying something alcoholic, and slowly getting louder as they laughed and joked about how easy this score had been, and bitched that there wasn't more here.

Eventually one of them, whom he had tagged "Mr Whine" in his head, due to the fact the man had never stopped complaining about something in his annoyingly pitched voice since he'd started to eavesdrop, emerged from the back of the house, walking toward the outhouse.

Using the guns scope which transmitted directly into, and interfaced with, his vision, he jumped magnification up and looked at Mr Whine. Balding, porn mustache, stubble, jeans and worn jacket on over a T-shirt, decent boots, and a large knife at his hip. He could smell the moonshine on him.

The Vess told him that it had acquired Mr Whine as a valid target. And the man lit up red in his vision.

In spite of himself, he always loved this part. He deliberately pointed the gun away from the target and pulled the trigger.

A single round rocketed out of the muzzle deploying sabot wings to stabilize it micro seconds after it cleared the gun. The chemical reaction in the round crackled and boosted the shoots velocity up towards the speed of sound. And because the gun had told the round what it was supposed to hit, and it was smart enough to look for its target, the shot made a hard right turn at almost 90 degrees to head off towards Mr W.

He wore no armor, but the BB sized payload of the round still chose to go in through his ear. It popped into his brain and spiraled around like a corkscrew and expended all it's kinetic energy reducing Mr W's puzzler into red jelly. The body hit the ground already dead.

"What the fuck was that?" carried to his hearing from the kitchen. And seconds later two figures appeared in the back yard. A man and a woman. He didn't bother to spend much time looking at them. The Vess painted them red, and he tapped the trigger twice. Plop. Plop. Both crumpled.

"There's someone out there!" a male voice called from a window on the second floor. Mr Sleepy he guessed. The man had only looked out his window for a second, then ducked under the sill, practicing some form of self protection. But the gun had 'seen' him pop up, through the interface with his eyes, and painted him. That he was out of sight now mattered little. He fired a round, and imagined how after it smashed thru the window, it would make a sudden turn down and Mr Sleepy would take his longest nap ever.

He stopped and listened. He could hear the couple that had been fucking. They were good and panicked. Apparently they had indeed shared the room with Mr. Sleepy, and had the pleasure to see his head deflate like a popped grape. Sadly they didn't look out the window, and he didn't want to send a high explosive round into the house, as he hoped the farmer's wife might still live.

The other man in the kitchen had gone silent also.

Sighing, he got up and started to walk toward the house. Nothing to do now but get dirty and finish things more personally, it wasn't going to get lighter out. He holstered the gun, and from his belt unclipped a cylinder that conformed to his grip exactly. He thumbed the moly-wire blade awake as he mounted the porch, and opened the back door. He hoped that the doofus in the kitchen wasn't going to hide and make this annoying. In he walked.

His hopes were rewarded as he passed by the first exit that led off to the right of the kitchen. A stairwell he thought. A huge bear of a man flung himself at him, swinging a huge machete in hand, making a downstroke with the weapon toward his head. He blocked the stroke with his forearm.

Oh it hurt like hell as the skin broke, and he bled a bit. But under his skin was a layer of diamondide body armor that he'd had grown in a decade back, because he liked to fence, and nothing was more fun then actually being able to stab your opponent to score a point. But not really hurting him in a serious way. It had hurt like a bitch when the armor grew in. But once done, it was self-replicating, and hadn't caused him any worries or problems. And since he started his new line of work it had saved him many times. Oh yes, his bones were titanium foam rather then calcium these days too. It would take a LOT more force then a hand wielded blade to bend them, let alone break them.

Needless to say Sir Bears machete did not have it's desired effect, and the large man staggered backwards at the jarring impact, actually dropping the blade.

He deployed the molly-wire, and made a casual "Z" sweep with this hand.

His "Sword" was a wire that was one molecule thick. Held together by a complex series of nano-bots. It cut through things at the molecular level. Sir Bear dropped into a bunch of pieces, his internal organs sliding out of a suddenly bisected body, blood spraying everyplace. The refrigerator, stove, and a chunk of wall also fell apart. The Molly was the one thing the government had given him when he answered their call. He liked it, but it was easy to over kill a bit when using it.

"Whoops."

Stepping over the offal, he climbed the stairs. He could still hear the panicked couple above. As he passed the first room at the top of the stairs he found the wife laying on the bed of her daughters room. She'd been gang raped. Then strangled. His mouth narrowed.

He made his way to the next room. Mr Sleepy lay on the floor, his head a deflated ballon. The couple had retreated to what he supposed was a bathroom off the bedroom. He could hear her sobbing, and him breathing hard.

He sat on the bed and looked at the door. And thought.

He turned off the Molly and got the Vess back out. He targeted the exposed door hinges, and the knob. Selecting them with visual targeting one at a time. Then fired off three quick shots. The metal parts exploded in a shower of sparks and high pitched sounds as the rounds literally ate them with their kinetic energy. The door dropped inwards with a loud crash almost instantly.

Both the man and woman screamed.

It amused him that they were both still nude.

In a quiet measured voice he said. "Get out here now. Hands behind your heads."

They complied. The man was blubbering, making gasping noises. The sheer amount of snot was impressive. The woman was begging him not to kill them. That they were prisoners of "Dave" whom she pointed at on the floor, indicating Mr Sleepy, saying he made them fuck so he could watch, that they didn't want to do anything bad, but had to so they could survive. That she'd fuck him, and she twisted her body to let him see what she was offering. As she did, he noticed that her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. Holding it in place was a stretchy with a small plastic daisy attached.

"Where did you get your hair braid?" he asked.

The woman's face went white, and her pupils grew. "It was in one of the bedrooms. I liked it and took it ." she stammered.

"I bet half that statement is true." he said. "The part about you liking it.".

He squeezed the trigger twice.

He sat on the bed for a long while. He'd know they were lying about being prisoners when the woman had said Mr. Sleepy made them fuck so he could watch. No one would sleep through such a command performance. The braid tie lie was just motivation to do what needed doing. "Worse then the bots." he mused sadly,then slowly rose, and headed out of the house. But as he reached the kitchen, a small thump reached his ears from another part of the house. Cautiously, with his weapon in hand, he slowly searched the house's main level. Off of the living room, in a small closet he found it's source. A small calico kitten, it had knocked over a shoe. It blinked at the light from the room as it looked up at him. He looked down at it. It then sat down and started to purr.

The sun had started to set by the time he was on the road again. He'd buried the family. He'd left the others to rot. Slowly he started homeward again. He pulled his jacket tightly around him against the growing chill of the night. In one of the large interior pockets, a calico kitten slept quietly.
 
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