How Headzo Trains
4/1/2042
"Come on, if you are determined to find this killer of the bad, then you better be ready to fight them" Wingzo had given up on changing Headzo's mind.
Headzo was still stood, looking at the wall, this mystery had become an addiction for him.
"Fine, we can train, but then I am coming back, I cannot waste anymore time." Headzo still thought about each distinct possibility of place, that the serial killer could be heading.
They wandered into the next room.
This room is were they trained, it wasnt much, just a space to spar, but it didn't need to be much; they trained to fight people, not hanging bags.
"Who's up first?" Headzo questioned, still tired after all his time spent solving.
"Me and you Headzo." Finzo appeared excited.
They stood facing one and other.
Finzo held both fists up in front of his face; he always kept a strong guard.
Finzo's arms were laced with fins; they were intended to be shark like.
These fins sharpened to a point and had sides like that of blades; useful for any attacks requiring elbows, as the knife, like, parts would dig into the skin, ripping at the flesh.
Headzo stood, surrounded by heads.
He never saw a need to keep a tight
guard; he fought solely with the heads.
His heads would rise ominously around him.
As Finzo threw every punch, the heads would stop them, latching on, protecting their master.
Headzo could control them, give them orders, but, for the most part, they had their own consciousness, own desires, but those desires were always the same, programmed into them, the desire to follow the main brain, which for them was Headzo.
In the fight, all Headzo needed to do was stand there; the heads would do the work.
Within a second, Headzo gave the next order, to go for the neck, then to drop the legs.
"Right, Wingzo, I guess you are next" still tired, Headzo gives a faint smile.
"Let's do this" Wingzo spread her wings out.
They both prepared for the battle.
Wingzo began to flap her wings, lifting gently of the ground, hovering, ready.
She began to raise her hands, before revealing pointed claws, nails designed to kill.
Headzo relied on his heads, once more.
As Wingzo took a dash towards the man with many faces, the heads pulled him back, out of the way.
One head grabbed Wingzo's leg as she flew by, pulling her back to where she began.
The other heads restrained her, stopping her from further violence.
"There, we have trained, now, I am going back to the mystery" Headzo released Wingzo, before turning and leaving.
The Work of a Killer
4/1/2042
Carlos approached the sad,
old, yet clean hotel.
Walking through the doors and ending up at the desk, Carlos fiddled in their pockets.
"Can I help you?" Uttered the receptionist.
Her hair fell to just below her shoulders, she wore a dark, navy blue uniform.
"One room please." Carlos spoke with a deepened voice, an attempt to appear older then their body implies.
"How old are you?" She queried.
"21" Carlos wasn't wrong, their date of birth was over 21 years ago.
The receptionist looked them up and down, she didn't believe 21 but let it slide for it didn't really matter, there's no law against it.
"Here" the receptionist took Carlos' money and handed over a key for room 13, on the 2nd floor.
"Thank you." Carlos gave a simple smile and a wink.
They wander off, up the stairs, to the 2nd floor.
Approaching the door, labled 13, they can't help but think, always thinking, words, literature works, repeating in their head.
Unlocking the door and walking inside, they look around, studying the room as though it pose a threat.
The room was bland, same as any other, big, white bed with a heavy quilt, windows to a worthless view, and a TV with only a few, terrible channels.
None of it mattered, as if a dead person would sleep, as if a dead person would need any more entertainment then the insanity of their own mind.
Sat at a desk, Carlos pulls out a pen and notebook.
Illustrated inside, was every victim they killed, every person that asked for their help, every person on the list for revenge.
They would tell themselves that the list was just a reminder of how truly good they really are, but they knew the truth, they kept a list to make sure they would never forget how they were always just a bad, as the people they killed.
The only thing that set them apart, was that they would kill only those that would do harm.
They believed they were making the world a better place.
The list, however, wasn't the reason they were writing, this time, in the book.
They were writing a poem, to control, to understand their own emotions, poetry was how they coped, and the poem read as follows:
Despair
Travel through,
The land of time,
Wishing for it to be forgotten,
But the thoughts are always mine,
They creep up,
Always from behind,
The perals of the mind.
My brain always thinking,
Never let's the hurtful go,
A constant reminder,
The missing eyes,
Carved out thighs,
Many ways of dieing,
Yet none them be mine.
The brows of woe,
Still they furrow,
Relationships they call love,
But what be it really,
Pity,
Complication,
Care for those,
Soon to hate you.
Stop,
They always beg,
Yet they always flatten,
Going silent,
The end always near,
Though it can never be mine,
A world of sorrow,
But sure the emotions,
They do borrow.
Years of torture,
Pain and agony,
They called me the demon,
Child of Satan,
Could of been an angel,
But now I become it,
Endless tears,
Until I made it,
All over.
My personal story,
Burnt to the last page,
A false life,
Bathed in blood.
When will I say goodbye?
Reading it over, it felt complete.
They struggled so much with their emotions, it felt nice to have them written, in ink, on a blank slate.
YOU ARE READING
Diverging paths
ActionTwo children born of similar intelligence and equal sexualality. One is hated the other adored yet both meet a sorrowful end only to find one another in a time after death. Connected at first by the need for revenge but brought closer through a conn...
