Arcalian

The Leader was of two minds about the situation. Without Chaos to lead them, the tyrannical government he had left behind was having increasing difficulty controlling the population. Additionally, the aliens who assisted Chaos in his takeover and rule were no longer helping them. At first those aliens had offered assistance to him, through intermediaries; when he had explained that he wanted freedom instead of taking over himself, they had withdrawn entirely. That was fine, for now. But they might attempt an invasion later. But that was not the reason for the Leader's ambivalent mood. What soured his victory was that this timeline still existed at all. He had hoped that by sending teams into the past, this timeline would have ceased to exist entirely. But it was not so; his own instruments told him he had merely created diverging timelines. He had saved an Earth, yes. Not his own. Granted, without Chaos this timeline was improving, but the horrors and injustices of this

It is a sobering moment when your race steps beyond it's home world and into the greater Galaxy. We humans thought we were great warriors, vicious and terrible on the battlefield. And it is true we are capable of killing and terrible atrocities. But the terrible Zrelvians were greater warriors than us, at least on a one-to-one basis. Their technology was superior in some ways, lesser than others. They hunt other beings, sentient or not......you can't call it for sport, not exactly. Not like the old aristocracy back on Earth. It's more than sport to them. Nor is it like ancient hunters who did so to survive. It's more like....a cross between a religious experience and what some people call a 'lifestyle choice.' Their entire civilization is built around it. Maybe that's what happens when the hunter/gatherers never settle down for agriculture and follow that path to the stars instead. We don't know. After their first raids on our outer colony worlds, we thought we were

The TARDIS lurched away from the reality that they knew. The Doctor sucked air through his teeth thoughtfully as he studied the TARDIS readouts. “This is even more complicated than I thought.” “How so?” Donna asked. “Our first action remains unchanged,” the Doctor said. “To save the Leader from being replaced. But just as we need to prevent your timelines from being destroyed, additional malefactors are trying to alter your histories and futures still further.” He looked at Terra. “The original antagonist, who is currently calling himself Extant, would have rewritten your life so that you became the original Terra with a memory wipe.” Terra shuddered with horror. “Please, God, no!” Changeling held onto her, his fear mirroring her own. “Indeed,” the Doctor nodded solemnly. “But now there are two other, separate malefactors trying to rewrite her to be...well, more like you.” He frowned. “It's strange.” He waved her over to the video monitor he was looking at. Terra

St James's Place, August 12, 1926. Queen Mary V stood firm, awaiting her visitor. It was not every day that the leader of the North American Estate was seen in public at all, never mind outside of his own borders. At length he and his followers emerged from the shadows. Executive Joshua Penn, of the Penn line. Since the bloody revolution of the 1830s, when after multiple previous attempts, the former British colonies had finally wrested themselves from Royal control. Relations ever since had been...tense. And in truth, they still were now. (The Queen had a dagger attached to her thigh, beneath her Royal robes, yet still easily accessible. All around, the palace guards had mechanized crossbows. Penn's bodyguards were all armed with pistols.) But the rising threat of the French Commune had finally attracted the Estate's attention. The French holdings in the New World, called Mexique, bordered the Estate on the south and west. And armies were being mustered against them. Even

Solitude was burning. The Dragonborn, a Breton named Zibaran, stood beside Ulfric Stormcloak. Tullius was dead. The vampiress Serana stood quietly in the background. “...Yes, what about Lady Elisif?” Ulfric was saying. “Will she put aside her love for the Emperor's coin? Will she swear fealty to me, so that this conflict will end, and that all will know a new day has dawned?” All eyes turned to Elisif, standing uneasily between two Stormcloaks. Her eyes were unreadable. “I do,” she bit out. “Then it is settled! The Jarl will continue to rule Solitude. I will garrison armies here to ward off Imperial attempts to reclaim the city....” Zibaran looked away. He was glad to have done his part, knowing the Empire's failure not only in this land, but others as well. He turned back to Ulfric as he mentioned to Galmar that the Thalmor might turn attention to Skyrim after this. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Zibaran asked him. Ulfric thought for a moment, then shook

...is dead. He died of a combination of Celiac disease and blood clots in his lungs. He went out the way he wanted to, living will, no resuscitation, all that. They put him in a hospital room on morphine and oxygen, and gradually increased the morphine and decrased the oxygen. The son, the ex-wife (the son's mother) and the man's sister (the son's aunt) were there for most of his final hours, the sister for all of them. Before he lost consciousness, he railed against the world some more, ranted and raved, made a few jokes. One of which, it must be said, did get a laugh from all present. Did the son weep? Yes, some. His eyes are a tad moist even while writing this. Is the son sorry he is dead? Yes, absolutely. The son didn't want him to die. But now that he is gone, is the son relieved he will never have to listen to his empty words again? Oh yes. And the son's tears are not for the man who died....they are for the man who never existed. The man his father should've been