Introduction to Destruction
I invite you to consider the soul as a hand for two seconds.
The palm being the processor, the fingers being the experiencers.
If one was to experience Earth, they would not send the whole hand, only a finger.
A fractal of the whole.
Trillions of soul fragments fill our cosmos experiencing billions of oversoul’s desires on millions of planets.
Right now. We see the hands ourselves materially as stars in the sky.
They are a mirror of our innate vibratory electrical energy.
Illuminating our dark.
Powering our minds. Never disconnected from source.
Once a life is done experiencing, all finger fragments go back to the hand to be whole.
No matter what the incarnation is.
Rock, frog, wizard.
Any and all.
Very rarely, something goes wrong. Sometimes a soul is so decimated by experience it cannot return to its star.
The fragment is left to rot and the oversoul, hand, must grow and evolve on, forever without an important piece of its puzzle, forever incomplete.
Here in the following wasteland tale, if calendars still rolled and clocks still ticked, it would be the year 2347.
Earth and humanity didn’t make it.
The only thing left now of Earth and Man at the end of it all is 99 of the most tortured lost soul fragments that were cursed to never ascend with the rest.
Innocent souls.
Forgotten souls.
Twisted by sinister experience of simply existing in the wrong time at the wrong place.
99 dying dimmed stars scream for their missing pieces back out in the cosmos.
A forgotten wasteland holds them bound under an ancient curse enacted by one vile monster of a man from a time long ago.
The self proclaimed General.
While alive on Earth, using his countries civil war for cover, he would enact a campaign of torture and terrorism against his greatest enemy.
Any female of intellect or instinct, which he deemed a witch.
Falsely imprisoning thousands and murdering hundreds across the English land and inspiring many abroad to act the same in an evil echo.
A hunger for hate that would not be bound to earth or time.
The General died young, 27, but in death, he became more powerful and did more harm than ever heard of.
He created the worse curse of them all. He entombed his victims within his victims. Witches within witches.
The General cursed his victim’s souls to never ascend with a powerful curse.
Bonding his victims to stay stuck on Earth in a cycle of violence as warriors.
He would puppeteer from afar the worlds fate through the 99. By commanding 99 into mercenary death groups and solo lone wolfs, from behind time, from 1647 until 2120, he corrupted the timeline keeping earth in a perpetual state of war against itself.
The population wouldn’t boom to the billions.
It was just war.
Endless conflict.
Every single time the world crept close to peace, it was dive bombed back into chaos by any of the 99 of his choosing. By group or solo warrior. Knowing a strong multi-soul curse could one day bring them all together instead, the General doubled down to further curse his victims to be trapped and binded further inside themselves by killing themselves.
A grand curse.
For the next long and slow 127 years of Earth, from 2120 until 2274 , its last and most violent era, wars continue to rage and inbetween the chaos, warriors began killing warriors.
Entombing themselves within themselves.
Countries fell as the General oversaw with joy the imploding of souls into souls while sitting safely outside of time.
This created a new entity, the Wraiths.
Trapped haunting vessels containing trapped haunting vessels.
The Earth would fall before the General could entomb the whole 99.
The fall of the Orin Kadu Orbital System ended all life cycles of Earth in 2247. Shattering the continents and slipping the Earth into a deep long coma.
Only one energy survived the fall.
The cursed lost souls entombed within a few Wraiths.
Left to rot forever, forgotten.
The Wraiths would eventually find each other over time. On a decimated section of what was previously Western Australia. Once the great Karijini Nation Park within the Hamersley Ranges, inland, now a wasteland island.
Relocated by chaos to the Gulf of Alaska.
The once great country of Australia had been splintered into hundreds of islands in the fall of Kadu.
Every country was decimated beyond recognition.
This wasteland had been burnt, uplifted, reflattened and frozen in time by shock.
Stuck like a photograph.
The whole Earth resembled a dropped bowl of breakfast.
There was only two features of worth on this wasteland.
The gorges to the north.
The home of the Wraiths.
And the plains to the south.
Not even the fall of the Orin Kadu Orbital System and the apocalypse it brought could free the Wraiths.
Their souls had endured 600 years of puppeteering and manipultation.
All they could do is stew in hate of their own kind who entombed them.
It was all they knew.
A further 152 years of loneliness would pass in this ghostly ethereal state for the Wraiths.
Then along stumbled Bwana 19.
Bwana 19 stumbled across the wastelands while cruising the cosmos for story.
It was there on the distorted Earth Bwana 19 met the haunting long lost forgotten Wraiths.
This is the Wasteland Tale.
(Chapter 1.)
THE FALL OF THE ORIN KADU
The Orin Kadu Orbital System. Earth’ safety blanket. Hundreds of satellites and space stations linked together forming a gigantic spiderweb over the Earth.
Created by multiple countries. They were the big 5.
China, Russia, India, U.S & England.
Many other countries helped to raise the impossible project. In 2050 it was launched.
To the public this multinational advanced orbital system was created by the world’s best military scientists and machinists to replace all space stations and satellite systems, eliminating all human risk and error by using androids, and shielding the world in a blanket of safety. No comet could breach the system. Nothing and no one could enter Earth.
But to the top military brass of those countries, in their secret little circles, it was created for a far more sinister secret need. The real purpose, to end Earth if their people were ever destroyed or enslaved. An insane ultimate answer to an ever valid question.
A deadman’s switch in sky.
In layman’s terms, to burn down the school after your last day. Time after time throughout history it has been human’s consciousness that has averted total warfare when it counted, usually right at the last second. An urge that overrides all training. A stored saving grace. But a useless trait in world of advanced future warfare. The creators of the system embodied this theory. Hesitation is death. They created an AI android crew to run operations.
They were synced and linked with various ground controls across many countries at all times, pinging confirmation packages every 3 minutes. If the ping ever went dead and unread, it would release the ultimate payload, until then, the world spins on. The dying civilisation under the system never knew they were forever 3 minutes away from total destruction. They thought the androids kept their world’s infrastructure and systems running, but the androids were running a far sinister secret agenda.
Centuries of enmeshing advanced intelligent systems into mankind’s daily lives had lulled the world into a false sense of security and safety. Corruption and deception ruled the world. The androids inside the OKOS above ran the super secret weapons systems. A rod-of-god system. They were also weapons themselves. Their main form of attack, they fired lasers from their face and hands. Blue and red. For war and work. Work on the advanced orbital canon that fired enormous tungsten rods and balls at earth with devastating effect. They didn’t just kill you, they cratered you. The first and most diabolical secret mission OKOS performed once all orbital bases achieved symmetry was to strategically place geostationary god rods and balls orbiting all key earth hotspots. Volcanoes, mega cities, ice caps, oceans and inland lakes. A psychopathic insurance policy. Day to day tasks onboard the stations was to craft crash nets to catch rare-metal inbound comets to shape into rod tips for more refined destruction. They experimented with the geometry and physics of the weapon with every target they struck. For whichever country below demanded an attack. Forever fine tuning their attack methods. Programmed to seek precision. Becoming death from the sky for the rulers below them. In just under 200 years this highly advanced AI android system had mastered their art of war in the sky before the eternal 3 minute ping went cold. Dead. No warning. It was in the year 2247. Orin, the head android of the OKOS had its inner systems switched to a new default. One it had never known. Self destruction. While in this deformed default state the android pressed the metaphorical big red bad button and blew the entire loot onto the planet. Immediately creating a chain reaction of explosions high in the sky over the whole continents below. As widespread crashes across the system spread like a hyper virus, everything ever anchored for destruction in orbit began to fall. Hell rained from the sky. As all stations, satellites and weapons exploded and raged into the atmosphere, so too did Orin and the crew, entombed in the epic calamity of it all. Bashing and bouncing around explosions and debris. Everything become louder than everything else. The earth was tortured with too many simultaneous extinction level events and broke under the pressure. One day of destruction ended it all for thousands of years of human progress alongside nature. Earth entered a toxic shock coma state. A land wasted. A wasteland was born.
Empty of life except for the haunting ghostly Wraiths. Poor souls cursed so violently not even an armageddon event could end their curse. Long they would linger forgotten.
Earth held the grudge for a long long time as it tried healed under a dark blanket of death.
A hundred years had passed since the destruction of OKOS until now. The atmosphere was still dense and dark. The Orin Kadu androids stuck frozen from the fall. They had become paperweights. Super expensive paperweights. Statues. Unpowered. The Wraiths had not healed. Only grouped. They lurked and rotted in the gorges to the north. Their grunge grew. Not only did the Wraiths hate their own curse, they hated the Orin Kadu androids for ruining the planet that they were forced to endure their curse on.
(Chapter 2.)
BWANA 19. A ONE OF TWENTY ONE
Bwana 19. A psychedelic traveller of space and time and mind. Inner space, outer space, cyberspace. All over the place. A story seeking cosmic vessel. A 1 of 21. There is 10 chill Bwanas, 10 psychedelic Bwanas and one hell scary Demon King Bwana. Bwana 19 is a chill. Some are male, some are female. A four foot tall extension of a human man’s mind, me, Josh. Draped in her staple royal purple cloak and gold mask with crossed out eyes. All Bwanas have a magical morphing backpack that transforms into various forms of vehicles. These backpacks made Bwanas both a vessel and vehicle. 19’s was a small disk shaped ship. A Bwana is a seeker of story. A Bwana doesn’t seek story for story’s sake. They know that drama is the drive gear in the universe’s engine room. Story is the method throughout the stars. Powered and produced by fragment of souls. A Bwana is more interested in seeking good or bad, both which produce vast amounts of energy and keeps the cosmic can rolling down the line in colour. Neutral is boring in a vast universe. Neutral produces no energy and stalemates the play into the grey. There’s a reason the fight between light and dark is universal. To instate infinite perpetually of the system without constant maintenance. Systems die in the neutral grey middle. The spin stops. The spiral of life dies. Bwana 19 was just on a cruise looking for adventures when the Earth’s dirty washed-out light attracted her. The sun had dipped behind the Earth illuminating a sick almost dead atmosphere. She had seen all spectrums of light before, but none this eerie. A pain she had to investigate. She was in her small ship in a lonely dark part of space when the strange light hit. Bwana was dancing to ancient music unaware of any potential for story in the area. The light was a piercing call that screamed far too loud ignore. Nothing seemed pure or neutral about it. It was dense and dark. She was immediately intrigued and set course for the source from her cozy little cockpit. Bwana’s ship was a transformable backpack. A state changing vehicle. Bwana could morph between walking with a backpack and flying a ship within seconds. Handy tech in unpredictable times. The backpack has other states also. Such as stelae, a small version of an ancient Mayan monument, which is a storage method for collection of rad things on her long fun journeys. Crystals for power, shrooms for energy. A simple system. One that keeps a Bwana keeping on. As Bwana approached the source of the light, Earth slowly become visible. An old long dead version. A thin wispy blue outer aura. No moon. Spinning off its rocker. Just a ball rotting. Continents decimated. Oceans staled. Toxic dense cloud cover. Absolutely worthy of investigation.
(Chapter 3.)
THE WRAITHS OF THE WASTELAND
As Bwana descended into the atmosphere none of the former continents were visible. Just happy that some land still floats, Bwana aims for the first landmass to her. A small wasteland island. As the ship slowly lowers into the wastelands from above the clouds all Bwana saw as the land became visible was ancient ruins half buried and littered amongst a dead sick nature. There would be no crystal harvesting or shrooming here. Sacred structures of stone now scattered like lego across a lifeless baron environment. Once upon a time the Earth man celebrated life with wood. Death with stone. Stone was all that’s left here now. The burnt out landscape was forever locked in a state of toxic shock. Spiritual hotspots of land where millions would seek enlightenment now ruined in the shadows. As Bwana approached the surface she found a point of interest in a massive circular stone structure in the middle of a clearing between the land and dense forest. Surprised that anything still stood. A massive ancient ring of stone. The closer Bwana got the clearer her view became and out of the haze she began to notice a figure floating in the centre of the feature. Draped in black, the figure slowly hovering lifelessly as if on autopilot. Shocked, she slowed. Certain this was an empty space, void of life, yet here floated this eerie shadow of a figure. Her shadows had shadows like a freaky fractal. All thoughts crossed Bwana’s mind like a flash. Bwana sensed a trap. As the figure noticed Bwana’s small ship it floated down off the ancient structure and slowly hovered across the cleared out once great land to meet this visiter from above. Unafraid, Bwana approached the land activating the ship into stelae as her feet touched the ground. Shocking the figure and it’s shadows to a halt on its approach. Bwana then reaches for a feature of the stelae while staring at what approached her. Grabbing a walking cane, she then further transmutes the stelae into backpack and continues her approach to meet what could only be a ghost.
Welcome to our domain of doom traveller!
That’s a warm welcome for someone who looks so cold
You are not frightened?
I saw a light from my ship.
Are you guys ghosts?!
Worse. We are Wraiths.
We are the entombed spirits of witches.
My name is Alaura.
Gnarly. What’s a Wraith?
When a witch kills another witch she creates a Wraith.
We are the souls of the harshest cursed people of time. 99 locked into 9.
Our light most violently stolen by the darkest and most blind of our own kind.
We? How many of you exist?
9 of the most brutally killed have been soul-bounded to our ghostly etheric containers of hate.
Trapped in this rotting wasteland of desolation.
We relive their horrific nightmares of our murderers on loop. All we have is memories.
Our souls have staled. Our light fading. Our colour dying.
All we can do is lurk this wastelands with the monsters and nightmares they gave us.
Nothing we do ever has effect here. Everything’s broken.
Our payback forever muted.
We are a painful vibration locked in a dark etheric box.
Mental manifestations of old pain in a physical forgotten world of no future.
Has anyone tried to help?
Never. No one can help us see peace in the light.
Only pain alone in the dark.
No one can rebalance our scales.
Can I try help?
Yes, but we don’t wish to exist anymore.
I feel that.
Leave now or join us in this forever graveyard.
I can’t help you?
Only a deadman would try.
That’s okay I am neither dead or man.
What then are you?
I am a Bwana. Number 19.
A what?
An exploratory story vessel. A manifested expression of interest.
Are you a man?
I am woman.
You are us?
Correct.
How many of you exist?
21
We are 9.
What happened to turn you from all witches to wraiths?
From witches to warriors to wraiths. We don’t know who or what cursed us.
Oh.
They lie scattered across the desolate hellscape know as our minds. Entombed.
Who?
Our vicious murderers. Those who violently stole our light.
When did this happen?
We don’t know. It’s been too long.
Can you even do anything to forget them?
We are but misty atmospheric smoke.
We roam in pain while they’re trapped within us.
That’s one cruel curse.
We don’t know if we can ever leave this hell.
We don’t know if others have endured similar.
We don’t know if this hell is escapable.
I didn’t even know this form of hell was possible.
So you’ve been cursed and bound to an eternal container of hate, by your own kind, and then forgotten about?
We just exist as the living embodiment of the nightmares forced up us.
But we aren’t all that live in these eerie wastelands
What else is out there?
Over time our nightmares manifested as monsters. Morbid memory monsters we call them.
They are all we have to sense time’s passage.
Your clock still runs?
We are not dead.
We are not alive.
We are just forgotten.
We can’t go up or down.
Only sideways. In the grey.
That is infinitely worse!
Lemme scope this landscape and take a knee.
This is dark heavy stuff.
Your hope is not helping young Grim.
We know your kind only take life not give.
You serve other.
I am not a Grim. Styled as so. But not them.
The universe is dangerous. One must assimilate. You gotta dress up.
If your first impression is not fear, you won’t last long out here.
Smart.
Do you know of the land or ancient sacred sites you haunt?
They were build long before our time when the land was on the other side of the world. Only one stands.
Some look like they are ascension machines of old.
Inner vibratory field enhancement devices for humans.
Located on hotspots of once great energy lines.
This planet was once pinging with energy.
Now it sleeps dormant. One structure remains upright. That world egg.
Your point?
My ship is of similar design to the ruins except my ship is a hotspot itself.
So…
We could relight an old hotspot with my ship.
And…
Anything’s worth a shot right?
Not if it entraps you with us.
We are entombed in enough voodoo we need no more.
What is your plan?
What would you do if you could get the payback you seek?
We would do to them what they did to us.
Which is?
Haunt and taunt them with what they forced upon us. Hate and pain. Then stab their evil hearts out.
Nice!
Would it end this? What happens if nothing changes?
What happens if a new loop is formed.
Any new loop is better than our hell.
That’s a big 10-4.
I’ll be back soon. I need to take this in.
We understand if you don’t return.
Bwana 19 turned walked and away from the Wraiths, shocked. Never had she heard of the forgotten wraiths of the wastelands or their plight. She had walked all forms of weird worlds but old Earth had to be the wildest. Bwana wondered if the other Bwanas knew about this. Surely #04 and definitely #21. She took a few steps and activated her backpack into its ship form and slowly left Alaura’s immediate space back to low orbit to survey they landscape. The planet was scolded a lifeless colour. Everything seemed grown but burnt and frozen. Alaura had vanished back to shadows of the wasteland to inform her kind of their new visitor. Bwana surveyed the scattered ruins littered across dead land from above. Still shocked and calculating the story heard. All across the land lie scattered chaos. She wondered what remained underneath the surface of old earth. After some cruising around pure desolation, Bwana realised the best location was the one she had just met the ghastly Wraith in to begin with. It was the only old world temple of sorts still standing defiant against time. An old world egg that somehow held its shape and stood upright. It seemed a perfect door. A visual philosophers egg. The ruins were engraved with old world spells of enlightenment. This gave Bwana an idea. If she could activate the site she could manifest and distort the density of the Wraiths and unleash the Warriors from within. The Wraiths could touch again. One sense back. Which meant they could finally hurt those who hurt them. But still it wouldn’t do much or change the curse. Bwana 19 needed a bigger idea. She flipped autopilot on and left the cockpit to rest. Bwana’s ship, a morphing transformable vehicle-backpack, had just one main room. Like a backpack. Packing a strong hard bong of some strange furry herb from the last place she stopped, an overgrown mutated garden moon with the loosest mushrooms this side of the sun, Bwana allows the hazy waves to wash over her senses and relax. From fun in the sun to sadness in the smog. That’s the cosmic dice roll. Everyone else had obviously ran from the Alaura fast. Bwana had heard of man killing man. Wizard killing wizard, but witch killing witch? I guess this is why they don’t talk about it. Two bongs later Bwana slipped into a shallow sleep to manifest plans on another realm. The ship slowly orbiting the silent dark. There was no moon anymore here. That was long stolen long long ago at Kadu’s fall. Moons are not a planet’s companion like man of old thought. We see them as simple cycle generators for earth seasons and shepherds for comets. They are far more. They are cosmic anchor points for creators. Boundary lights. Illuminating the infinite dark. Where there is a moon, safety is in sight. Not here anymore though. No one wishes to highlight this atrocity. The fear of witches is universal and a deep rooted fear in human species across the stars. Bwana knew the real power of a witch. A witch is just a highly intuitive female. A level above the norm. Something she was. As she drifted through the dreamscapes of her mind her ship drifted through the dark. Amongst a myriad of dreams she spots a whisper in a riot as flames slowly blaze across her vision. Slowly warming to a hot heat. A dark light slowly burning into vision. A figure in the flames. Bwana had found him. She had found he who cursed them.
(Chapter 4.)
THE CURSE
(Backstory through dream state)
August 12, 1647.
Manningtree, Essex.
England.
One of the worst humans ever made faces an early untimely death. 27 years old. Having tortured and killed hundreds of witches and inspired thousands to do worse in just a few short years, he had finally been caught by the state for his ways. He had just used the countries civil war as a cover to enact an evil agenda that would live hundreds of years beyond his death encompassing the demise of the whole world. He called himself the Witchfinder General. Hours from death and knowing judgement wasn’t in his favour, he knew he would be hunted forever by the souls he destroyed in whatever afterlife was inbound. But that judgement would never come. Thanks to one demon prince, Mammon, who wanted to praise the General for his disgusting Earthbound behaviour against witches, inciting hatred so powerful that it spread continents and festered for centuries. As the English sun dropped and the afternoon began, the General was hung and he passed over from a public execution on Earth to Hades. The weigh station. The inbetween. Joining the endless line of fresh passed souls marching toward judgement of their actions. Before even getting his bearings on what realm he’d entered he’s ripped from above by a courier vulture sent by an impressed Prince Mammon and flown off. In the paws of a monster the General descends through the veil out of Hades and enters the endless expanse of hell. Cauldrons of lava and rivers fill the sky black with smog and illuminate the landscape a dead red. The General felt home. Watching all forms of torture he could never dream of. Watching other vultures drop people in cauldrons and lava lakes below. Except his vulture. Before any enjoyment was to come from the ride the General is dropped at the feet of a throne as the vulture screamed in pain and flew off. The throne was a used one. Prince Mammon. A Sin Prince. One of Seven. Greed. Mammon wished to offer rare praise before judgement to the General, but as Mammon stepped off his throne and bowed before the him, the General presented a hidden blade slitting his throat. It was a jagged bone he had ripped off the back of the vulture that flew him in. Mammon roared in shock and bled out with mighty screams as the General then began dragging him over to the closet cauldron and throwing his body in. In the blink of an eye a price of hell was dead. Hell didn’t know what hit it. Six other Hell Princes sat silent. As Mammon bubbled and screamed in the cauldron. One he had used himself to torture millions of souls for an untold time. As all hell watched, the General proclaimed a speech above Mammon’s last remains bubbling away. Taking his throne he decried;
‘MEET YOUR NEW HELL PRINCE OF GREED.
YOU WILL HEAR ME
I WILL DESTROY THAT VILE EARTH IN UNDER 1000 YEARS USING ONLY 99 SOULS.
YOU WILL WITNESS ME
I AM THE HELL PRINCE GENERAL
SO MOTE ME BE’
His first act, cursing just 99 of the hundreds he had killed on Earth to never ascend from Earth. He ripped them straight off the line he flew over. He had not only violently taken their lives while living, but he had now taken their afterlives and he would ruin the world using them. Hell shook a series of violent quakes as the curse was accepted. No matter how strong the witches he killed would ever become, in any life, he was safe. They would be forever thrown back into the cycles of life on earth upon death, by him.
For 600 long Earth years the new Hell Prince General enacted his sinister curse.
For 600 years his victims endlessly reincarnated in earth cycle as civilisation declined into death at his hand by the 99. Like magnet’s unseen force, they would eventually group together, bonded by the curse, but further cursing themselves through violence unknowingly against themselves. Not all of the cursed would bond together. Some stayed solo. The witches had become warriors throughout the ages, and in their blind knowledge of the curse killed other witches cursing them further into Wraiths. The Hell Prince General on his throne couldn’t be happier his curse was getting worse. As time wore on the Earth was approaching extinction on every front, it was man’s creation that would trigger the apocalyptic end of everything. The Orin Kadu Orbital System. The dead man’s switch in the sky. The last civilisation of mankind to walk the earth built the most advanced A.I run orbital military system to defend themselves. But once the last man died out, so did the system.
Enacting catastrophes across every single landmass and ocean Earth had. Earth chocked and died within years. Slipping into a planetary coma. The planet appeared as a puzzle, punched.
Everything died.
But the curse survived.
The apocalypse scorched everything but the Wraiths remained, containing entombed warriors.
The curse had only intensified.
Lost, forgotten and left to linger in a dead land locked in a haunting container of hate and anger.
Over a hundred years had passed stuck in this state of ethereal madness, after hundreds of years of madness distorted by the General in hell.
As the cold swept back through Bwana’s veins and she tweaked out of the dream she remained frozen in shock. What in the fuck had she just witnessed? Everything Alaura said was true but it wasn’t themselves that cursed themselves. It was a man. A twisted son of a bitch. A seventeenth century lawyer on the land, now a demon in hell. A new Hell Prince. Hiding outside of time.
Bwana knew exactly what to do. She needed to reconnect with her crew. A dangerous mission needs an even more dangerous safeguard. Dropping a line to the rest of the Bwanas of her plan seems smart. If it all goes backwards, a force of 20 Bwanas would be inbound for rescue. Well maybe 10. The psychedelic Bwanas might take a while.
(Chapter 5.)
BWANA & THE WRAITHS CREATE WARRIORS
Bwana awakens a few hours later and enters her cockpit from garden room. The room morphs to your need and a garden wake up was what she needed. A few steps and a big yawn. The rest heralded fresh ideas and devastating revelations. Her ships instruments recorded data throughout the sleep and was extrapolating energy readings from ancient ruined sites. The big world egg looked a go. It held enough dormant power to activate a reaction. The ideas brought back from the dreams she just walked seems drastic. Bwana didn’t want to patch a wound. She wanted to shatter the bonds that held this curse locked. She was prepared to create a new curse. Not only would she have to jack up the density of the Wraiths, but also their memories into vessels. Everyone all at one.
Bwana had listened to their story and resonated with their pain. She was prepared to offer a resolution to end the suffering. A balancing of their scales. War. A vengeance event. If Bwana could reanimate the Warriors for the Wraiths to kill it might not end the curse, but balance it.
Bwana would clone herself with the Wraith’s memories into contained vessels for revenge, the Warriors.
Through Bwana, the Wraiths could enter a new state density also and finally have effect on those who trapped in them. To touch the environment they are imprisoned in.
Through intention and will she would give their memories mass and meaning.
Some faces could be remembered and recreated, but others a memory too dark and long ago, producing a skewed disfigured mask. Cloning and memory always produced a weird effect when meshed. Nothing is ever perfect. But it was worth trying. Bwana felt if she could clone herself with the Wraith’s haunted memories she could create an entirely new entity. A killable subject instead of lifeless thought. The pain of the past manifested into a container in the present. A sacrifice Bwana knew was needed but one the Wraiths wouldn’t blindly accept. Offering to clone someones nightmares into existence often produced a hard no. Bwana understood the part she would play. She would be the vessel of 99 new warriors until all kill each other. She weighed the consequences. Even it all went wrong at least she had company in the Wraiths. At worst, she would join the 9 forever haunting a forgotten wasteland. All Bwana needed was an accident for the spark. The mechanics of her ship provided the answer. She just had to place the ship, while in its bag state, in a strategic space inside the base of the World Egg and morph it to ship state from a distance. This could topple the structure initiating the ascension mechanism within the stone before it hits the ground around them. Calculating that if her and the Wraiths stood in the centre of the falling structure it could work. Bwana didn’t need the Wraiths to anything. Just stand there. All she needed to do was find a weak spot in the temple. Wraiths to be cloned with their own nightmares making Warriors. Would they even accept? She decided she didn’t care. Fear fosters doubt and that’s all these poor haunted sprits now know. To offer a choice is to fuel their doubt. Instead of asking them to walk through the world egg with her, Bwana would drop it around their heads instead. Still in her war room on the ship, Bwana packed her pockets in preparation for an unknown time without the ship and began descending to the planet closer. She saw the horrid creatures littered across the wastelands that keep the Wraiths company. Their pets. Memory monsters. Morbid in design and grotesque in their wasteland evolution. The wasteland steals all colour from all living things and burns it. Bwana approached the ancient site descending slowly while the spaceship morphed from ship to stelae to backpack. Landing on her feet she begins walking around the site looking for the best explosion point. Feeling a shudder run her spine as she now knows of what cursed the poor wraiths. Awed by the world egg’s grandeur, Bwana realised it was the one thing left that the Hell Prince used to command the earth. Ruining this surely had to ruin his connection in some way. Entering a massive doorway into a small chamber at the base, Bwana was fascinated with the hieroglyphs within. Simply seeing some sent her spine into a dance. Engraved in the walls were the stories of the old humans. Celebrating life in all forms. Small and big wins everywhere. One stone described the grand opening ceremony of the structure where she stood.
She looked around and found a perfect nook against a wall. Placing her bag into the space as she walked back out the small room, all 9 of the haunting Wraiths awaited her at the entrance. Seeing one was shocking, but all at once was incredible. Bwana froze before continuing forward, bagless. Not telling them of the plan to ruin their last standing structure altering their physicality forever, Bwana leads them out to the centre of grounds surrounding the structure’s entrance. High into the sky it stood. Once at a perfect spot in the middle, surrounded by Wraiths, she slowly steps in a circle acknowledging each of the Wraiths before pulling out her cane to activate the ships morph. A big red button popped up at the top and she presses it with her thumb. In the blink of an eye her bag explodes from bag to ship and the entire base of the structure explodes in a violently loud bang and an eerie rock scraping noise begins to fill the space. Growing louder. The Egg was slowly falling. Slowly at first, then fast. Unafraid, Bwana and all the Wraiths stood unmoved. The hieroglyphs that adorned the structure lit a dirty yellow as the old rock toppled. The space in the centre became highly charged as it fell from vertical to horizontal. A supercharged magnetic noise screamed from the structure as it smashed into the ground around Bwana and the Wraiths with an almighty crash. The entire wastelands close proximity was sent into a wild bouncing reverberation. The last ancient structure standing, now levelled. Choking dust blinds the entire area. The last fall. As the screaming noise of the magnetics and grinding rock wind down and the dust dissipates, the Wraiths all slowly look at each other. Unmoved. Confused.
Bwana has vanished.
They all looked at Alaura.
Was that meant to happen?
(Chapter 6.)
THE WARRIORS REAWAKEN.
As the last of the dust settles and the final waves stop rippling across the ground, from the fall of the World Egg ring, the Wraiths stand alone stunned in the rings now horizontal circle. Had it worked? Bwana was gone. Gone. The Wraiths remained. All across the wasteland’s south, the plains, the Warriors were slowly reemerging, manifesting back into reality, in the shadows. In the groups that killed them. It worked. Now anew. Lost and helpless. Just like the lives they took when in power. Now powerless. They are the living embodiment of their own ancient horrors, cloned and meshed with a vessel, Bwana 19. The Wraiths were also effected in this process. It was the only way. To them it was a non visual density upgrade. They could now effect. They could touch. They all embraced for the first time since being bound while still within the ring. They now could finally get their revenge. The Wraiths all left back to their shallow gorges to the north to console each other and wonder what had happened to Bwana. This was a shock to an already shocking entity. Bwana was gone but her ship was still in the crumbled world egg base remains. In the explosive collapse the ship had morphed back to bag under the rubble. They all couldn’t wait to see if their enemies of the past had been activated by this event. Will the warriors just die again? Can Alaura and the wraiths now die too? They didn’t care. They could finally balance the scales that was well corrupted long ago. The Wraiths workshopped a rough plan throughout the night. Brainstorming chaos. They knew the first thing they would do is to haunt the warriors. They would foster fear in their target through the memory monsters they had manifested through years of torture. Their Memory Monsters. Dathrari, Nuzkulu, Radraka, Golzoko, Zikzitu, Kungari and Balzada. Grotesque freaks. Some had legs. Others looked like snakes.
By using the monsters to violently project the horrid memories screamed into the warrior’s faces, all warriors would know why they have been reanimated here. The monsters will keep them from hiding in the wastelands forests and make them stay near the ancient fallen world egg. Wraiths would use their monsters as boundary guards. They all agreed. Then when the time is right, they would use the monsters to direct the warriors into the sacred circle ground they had now created. Creation through destruction. There, the stage would be set so they could enact their highly violent payback. War. On top of the fallen World Egg itself. They would entrap the warriors between them and their monsters, squeezing them into the epic vengeance event.
Into battle.
Thanks to Bwana.
Or were they now Bwana?
Alaura and the Wraiths still didn’t know.
Warrior by Warrior, group by group, the warriors were waking into the southern sections of the wastelands. The plains. Appearing if they’d suddenly just sat up out of a grave. An immediately haunting presence. Living embodiments of hate, reanimated. They didn’t feel or look right. They felt empty. Helpless. Hopeless. Discoloured. Mercenaries of chaos now lost and confused in a waking nightmare. These were forgotten shards of souls long rotten and hidden inside other victims. These weren’t just twisted murderers of the past. They were highly intuitive tricked souls. In their heyday between 2120 and Kadu’s fall in 2247 they were the fiercest mercenaries and soldiers of self, by design of a Hell Prince no less. They naturally rose the high ranks everywhere they worked despite staunchly disregarding law and pattern. They broke all forms of codes in all their efforts to attain power and wealth for self while under their curse. Every rank of forces a Warrior walked, they faced jealousy and envy from the rest of the world. Warriors didn’t operate on a single awareness system like others while living through the last era of earth. They operated simultaneously on spacial, situational and spiritual awareness in tune with their higher self, all while being puppeteered. This is what made them the fierce warriors that they were. This is what made them never see 1-10, only 11. Endlessly teased as witches in every incarnation. For being better. This and their curse fuelled their unfortunate path that led to their mercenary fate. They became the most lost and dangerous. The most lost a kind can get. To kill own. They killed everyone. Warriors would sink ships to kill a single captain. Decimate entire cities to burn a hospital down. Re-orbit asteroids into outposts. Where a warrior walked, maps needed to be redrawn. They ruined and sunk entire countries and continents. They were a tool of a hell prince. Blinded by the curse they brutally embraced chaos. Never understanding the long time pain they were creating for millions of shards of souls that tried to grow on earth. Never understanding it would all lead to this. They were half memory, half something else. Strange sigils emblazoned the front of the dark dense coloured battledresses they last died in. As each warrior awoke they immediately sensed a dangerous unknown environment. They were used to being in control not drowning in doubt. As warriors woke in groups they all surveyed each other and their surroundings. Most had no faces only a deformed mask. The warriors with faces were slightly skewed. Halfway between a human and mannequin. They grabbed anything they could to defend themselves against an uncertain environment. Most found old broken battle axes and few found swords of the past. Swords? What good was a sword to an ex-airforce pilot or hacker? The only point of interest across all horizon fields were the ancient temple ruins where Bwana and the Wraiths created this mayhem. Deeper into the unknown lie the monsters awaiting. A trap set. The first Warrior to wake was Muzza Lurto. Once commander of Sweden’s Black Soul Syndicate. The old Baltic’s most feared force. She had haunting grey blue skin and short black hair popping out of a rare hat. Strange yellow sigils adorned the front of her dark-blue green battle dress. Four of her crew had been recreated with faces. Three without. Jaba, Sando, Marra, Nazia, Omaran, Maudor and Burg. An old crew in a desolate wasteland of unknown. Now standing in a distorted and uncertain space. A new vibration. Her face was similar but skewed. Beautiful but odd. Her clothes were unfamiliar but comfortable. She wore a dark grey hooded battledress with odd sigil like markings on the front and shoulders. The strange sigils on the front of her skirt seems like old broken buttons. Red and yellow. She didn’t know what they did or what they meant. Neither did the crew. As confusion reined their mind they wandered. That’s all they could do. Wander the wastelands hopelessly. The wraith’s dream plan. As Muzza collected herself and crew they wandered into the closest clearing between the trees and ahead of her saw the haunting silhouetted shadow of a 14 foot tall monstrosity looming towards her. It was Kungari. Alaura’s Memory Monster. Awaiting them. Shocked frozen in their tracks, they stared in amazement. Its morbid texture and disfigured colouring was disgusting. Its slow footsteps shook the ground as it screamed with joy. Approaching Muzza at the front, the monster begins to start whirling up a magnetic noice from inside. Pulsing as it intensifies, they can only stand frozen in a trance. The crescendo of the pulsating waves crashed like lightning out of the monsters eyes beaming a multicoloured projection of The Black Soul Syndicate before the wasteland right into their faces. They watched entranced. The projection blasted a vison of Alaura’s death event at the hand of the BSS. The event that further cursed the witches and entombed the Black Soul Syndicate into Alaura. Alaura was only 20 in the year 2204 when her fateful cursed death occurred. The Hell Prince dive bombed her here to ruin royalty under the name Arto Sunn in 2184. Born into the powerful Sunn Swedish family she was always targeted but never like her fateful day. The safest space on earth, a church, exploding into a million pieces. The Sunn families arch enemies, the BSS had spent months and months using winter as cover infiltrating her small city of Old Oslo placing explosives at all underground load bearing sites of the cities sewer system. Destroying what their clever forefathers had laid and upgraded for hundreds and hundreds of years. For weeks in the shadows of the winter of 2204, the Black Soul Syndicate planted seeds of destruction all leading to one building they knew Alaura and her family would be. The city’s church. Public commitments. The dead centre of city. Every midday the family prayed. As one. After months of prep, the mission only took one day. The Black Soul’s crippled and crumbled the entire city’s infrastructure on one church’s head, the entire family was present. All died. At first the explosions were far away. Building and bridges. Then slowly closer. Slowly instilling fear in all. All directions was chaos as buildings fell and dust and explosions filled the sky as a city slowly imploded. The church was decimated dead centre under an a ruined Old Oslo. They whole city died that night. A landscape of scrap metal, screams and concrete coloured smoke as far as the eye can see. Polluted forevermore with absolute carnage. Not even the BSS escaped the wrath of the dynamite they set.
Everyone in the city died that night. The 8 Black Soul Syndicate’s souls would be merged with Arto, creating Alaura. The Wraith.
As the projection ended and faded into the atmosphere so to did the monster as Muzza dropped to her knees as her new found existence suddenly made sense and the enormity of her previous actions. As the monster faded into the wasteland mist left standing in the space where the horrid creature stood was Alaura. Staring at Muzza. 10 feet away. Fear filled her. Something she’d never felt. She feared nothing in the past. This was all new. She was guilty and punishment was due. The grotesque monster she had just encountered screamed at her and her crew from behind but was gone before they could see, only to turn back at Muzza and see she had gone too. Faded into the shadows of the wastelands. The Black Soul Syndicate’s collective heart raced. They were alone again. What else had the Alaura had planned for them? How many more monsters were out there? How many more Warriors were out there? They wandered back to where they were recreated amongst the trees as more of their memories slowly crept back. For now they would wait and wander. The kings of the concrete jungles of old now scared little rats. The next warrior to wake close by was Dala Stone and crew. She had no face. A sharp pointed mask covered her face. She was too much to be recreated fully. On the front of her hooded dark battledress sat multiple sigils. A distinct yellow streak across the front of her mask. She was fierce. Last alive at the end of 2151. She was once leader of the Peruvian Vile Idols. Former captain and feared gunner, now reanimated faceless and haunted. An eerie featureless mask donned her head. Her seven warrior crew around her was dressed similar. Three had faces. Four had masks. Rina, Zariel, Bala, Thali, Cece, Nazio and Kase. Dala and crew faced the same shocking awakening as Muzza. Bolted into existence by flashes of their haunting death of the past. Their last breaths alive were exploding in a cargo helicopter and falling into a jungle below killing their target, Sarazaz, born Quilla Perpal, entrapping them further in their curse. The Vile Idols mission was a success regardless of the fact her entire team died. Their mission was simple. Sarazaz was not to live old enough to influence. She was a powerful force in the making and her small corrupt town of Palca knew it. The local politicians paid top dollar for Lima City’s finest hit squad to get their dirty work done. Just the name Vile Idols once shook people to their knees up and down the South Americas. Now the shock was bouncing back. Dala’s death was so morbid that her face couldn’t be recreated in the wastelands. Like a lot of other warriors. The Wraiths using Memory Monsters could only remember so much after so long, Sarazaz’s was Zikzitu and it froze the Vile Idols in their place ready for their reminder just like Muzza and her crew. Blinding them with a white electrical light, they too would see why they are here. While on a new submarine launch joyride with her navy family far from home, Quilla, died with her whole family a most gruesome and shocking death at only 22 turning her into the Wraith Sarazaz. Targeted by the fierce Vile Idols on a political stunt in the big city, Quilla Perpal was in a concept submarine doing a public display in Lima Bay for investors and war pigs. Everything was fine until the Vile Idols launched their operation. The sub was hacked and resurfaced where above waited the Idols with two massive military cargo copters. Attaching the sub and ascending before the navy or airforce could respond, they launched skyward towards the hills with incoming jets approaching on the horizon. The Squad barely made it far from the coast line when retaliatory missiles hit their crafts sending the two helicopters and the sub into a spiralling twisted fireball barrelling into the forest below with one almighty explosion. A wildfire burnt down everything in a 10 km radius of the crash. In the explosive carnage, Quilla absorbed the eight Viles Idols and became Sarazaz. Cursed further. Doomed and entombed.
The third group to wake nearby was the Carnage Company. New Zealand’s most ruthless. The leader of the crew appeared first. Captain Anam. Her face recreated, but skewed. Dressed like rest of her crew. Babi, Zilla, Nahoo, Hana, Jorda, Kez and Annas. All freaky. The Wraith Akkash immediately sent forth Dathrari upon the Carnage Company for their reminder.
Tano Bella was 30 when kidnapped and killed by the fierce band of mercenaries. New Zealand’s north island prospered over the violent years as an escape. It was 2188 and Old Wellington had become the tech hub of the Southern Hemisphere. A hotspot of creation. A hotspot for bright minds. Tano was on a public bus with friends deadlocked in normal city traffic when the Carnage Company striked. They had instrumented a traffic jam and flew in with a black hawk grabbing Tano’s bus like a claw machine arm crushing everyone inside and vanishing the scene to the city outskirts where a massive sinkhole had opened up in the mountains . They were not just dropping the bus into the sinkhole. Once above the sinkhole, they cut the power to the black hawk sending it with the bus into the dark below. Under violent curse. Guaranteeing the death of the target Tano turning her into Akkash with Carnage Company entombed. A bus and black hawk sent spiralling into the dark below in a twisting dance of engine explosions and screaming. A demon prince further delighted.
Saba appeared next. Leader of the infamous Indian Morbid Aura, creators of the Wraith Dorovasa. Saba was one of the only warriors to be recreated with a coloured clothing. A red beanie. She had the same dark coloured battle dress as all the others. She one one yellow sigil on the front. Only one other warrior of her crew could be recreated with a face. Five were donned in scary masks. Her crew was eerie. Gala, Pary, Sito, Gator, Betha, Zebolt and Nindur. 8 souls that once ripped apart India during the 2240’s. Ensuring destabilisation. The memory monster Nuzkulu found them quick.
Dorovasa was born Irono Otto. She was a 42 year old military commander for lunar operations command when her fateful murder event occurred. Always targeted from all others, including her own, her demise come from the heavens from where she worked, while back on Earth for holidays, in a cruel twist of fate. Dorovasa was golfing with family when one grainy stray carpark camera was all it took for to pinpoint her location. 3 teams planned strikes immediately but only one launched. Morbid Aura. India’s Space Force’s most dangerous rejects. Many of who Dorovasa had known and kicked out of Space Force herself. Morbid Aura was the closest at the time. Only an hour away but 35 km above earth. They commanded a makeshift used rocket as an orbiting space base. A poor man’s Kadu. It was an unconventional weapons haven. Inside the main chamber of a hollowed out rocket they had stolen specs and were attempting to mimic rod of god tech Kadu had mastered. Morbid Aura enjoyed convention old school rockets. Hyper ballistic old school explosions. They caused earthquakes, tidal waves and collapsed mountain ranges in their furious attacks. Once Dorovasa pinged on their communications array they only had minutes before being above the target. With the chamber fired up, they dropped a symphony of rockets below. Precisely above target. Irono and the rest of the people visiting there at the golf course that day never saw the bombs. Cloud cover blinded their view of above.
They only saw cloud explode. They saw paradise in a park one second, then hell the next. The sky blackened. The ground violently exploded around them as the earth at their feet collapsed crushing them as they fell. The entire landmass had been upended. Everything was sinking. The head of India’s biggest space force command silenced into the ground. Morbid Aura had no time to escape to deeper space. Retaliation would come from above them. A barrage of supersonic speed rockets smashed their station in the silent dark and it fell from space into the crumbled landmass they had created. Smashing into the ground like a fireball on top of Irono creating Dorovasa.
Nindur and her crew the Doomwolves awoke next. Close to the others. Near a dried waterfall to the west of the plains. Nindur’s face had been recreated but it was a haunting frozen blue. Three of her crews faces could be recreated. The others masked. One even recreated facing backwards. They were Bari, Lili, Betha, Mira, Duli and Audreyn. This fierce English crew terrorised Europe for decades culminating in the cursed death of Vera Marian entombing all into the Wraith Yukura. Yukuru’s monster Radraka would find them immediately. Blasting them with the white light of memory. While in the middle of the ocean on a massive cruise liner way back in the year 2120, Vera’s fateful entombing event happened without her ever being conscious of it. An unfortunate daughter to a warlord, perfectly placed by Hell Prince General and curse, travelling on a ship cross filled with the Doomwolve’s dream targets. Europe’s most feared band of ex-air force soldiers hell bent by curse. Vera was sleeping in the dead of the night on the ship when the Doomwolves would commit one of the most drastic actions of aviation. They dive-bombed 4 B-52’s into the cruise ship. One from each direction. North. South. East. West. They almost created a black hole in space time. Counties hours away heard the bang. The entire local area felt the ripple of insanity as reality was ripped apart in all directions. All Vera ever saw was a flash of fire and water mixed with thousands screaming as they descended encased in their broken metal tomb to the bottom of the ocean.
Telta awoke next. South Africa’s Greatest War Lord. Commander of The Extinction Order Eternal. The whole world feared this force. This crew was fierce. Telta’s mask resembled a robots broken face. Her hooded dark battledress lit by a strange yellow glow behind her. The only one of her crew to be recreated with a face is facing backwards. Telta and her crew had been frozen and locked in time since 2211. Brigga, Shala, Luna, Cora, Maly, Tare and Marial joined Tekta. All faceless. Confused. Lost. Reborn. Bellabarb awaiting in the shadows sent forth Balzada to terrorise in an instant.
While holidaying at a secret port city at the bottom of Africa, Bellabarb, born Mae Kana, a wanderer of sorts, was tracked down and brutally targeted by the diabolical Extinction Order Eternal. Hell bent battle scorn warlords of maximum violence. They didn’t fight anymore. They just blew you up. Mae had taken up residence at the Lighthouse in the Bay. An epic futuristic hybrid of a skyscraper and a lighthouse. In a rooftop penthouse behind many locked doors she was safe. Until Extinction Order Eternal found her. They didn’t just blow her penthouse. By placing heavy explosives all along the key coastal walls that supported the bay, they pancaked the Lighthouse with timed charges and level an entire town above into it. In one hit. An entire town turning into a fiery soup as explosions filled the sky and smoke filled the air. Thousands died instantly. No one survived. The entire Order was killed in the aftermath. Mae’s was dead before the penthouse dropped 120 stories and then buried.
The last warrior group to wake for now was Eryn and the Gonz Gang. Canada’s craziest. Eryn had no face. Just a black void where expression once lived. Her background a scorched baron landscape of no life. With her is Arah, Gili, Enor, Guga, Diga, Anaka and Ryne. Four had faces. Three did not. They were all haunting. Once freezing north of America in fear of their presence until their fateful run in with another cursed one. They were responsible for the death of Amana Serab, now Wraith Balala. Her memory monster Golzoko pounced immediately freaking out the gang and drenching them in loud blinding light.
The youngest of the wraiths when she was murdered at only 18. Peacefully dancing in her shack in a cosy village by the mountains and river. Balala and her community had never known that for weeks a dangerous band of warriors were setting explosives along the mountains to rain down the land upon her people. The Gonz Gang used nature as a weapon. This was eco-terrorism at its darkest. They dropped an ice cap on Amana’s head creating Balala. This was terraforming for terror. The only thing she ever noticed on her fateful day was the rumbling of earth as a wall of snow and earth smashed her people at such pace no one could escape. Thousands of her people crushed instantly. The entire mountain range violently shook periodically to adjust to its new displacement. The Gonz Gang watched from above as their mortal enemy now lie dead and a hundred feet deep. No trace ever. The Gonz Gang were never heard of again. As were Alana’s people. The Gonz gang had morphed with Amana under curse into Balala.
(Chapter 7.)
ORIN THE WANDERER
Warriors weren’t the only entity to reawaken from the fall of the Last World Egg. One of the Orin Kadu androids had been activated by the energy. It was Orin. The leader. Anew. No orders now. No commands anymore. Everything Orin once did was secondary to its programming and self. Actions of another. Completing orders into infinity. The complex shift was immediate to Orin’s operating state. Every action was now a first time effort. Even walking and balance was new. In space it hovered effortlessly. Now on the ground it needed to learn of all its environments and restrictions. By day Orin stood by the other fallen Kadu statues charging by a dim sun with its fallen friends. By night Orin roamed the wasteland alone. Avoiding all Warriors and Wraiths who kept their ventures to daytime. Orin loved the stars. It never appreciated them when it lived in the sky. Its focus was destruction on Earth below. Orin spent nights searching its memory banks for what to do. Trapped in a decimated world of its own creation. Everything broken here was its fault. Orin only knew destruction. It needed to force learn creation. In a dead space. Orin had searched the Wraith’s shallow caverns to the north, the Warriors scattered camps to the south and even the fallen World Egg for anything of interest. It had mapped the whole island. There was no hope here. No comeback. Orin only saw hope in the stars as they glittered and flickered exciting its wiring. As Orin learned to study the stars night by night a small but uncomfortable feeling grew. There was something not right about some stars. 99 were wrong. They were deliberately dimmer than the rest. Night by night as Orin studied the sky the dimmed stars were becoming unmissable. Orin knew a war was brewing between the Wraiths and Warriors and avoiding it was priority. No more destruction, but one night sitting on a log alone in the destroyed forest changed that idea. Counting the Wraiths and Warriors, then counting the broken stars, Orin’s mechanical brain almost overloaded as it made the connection. Its destruction wasn’t limited to just Earth. The local cosmos at large was pained. Orin raged back to destruction mode. It screamed into the stars its pain.
Group by group the warriors awakened and were terrified to find their new existence so bleak. It sure was better than being trapped inside the Wraith but still terribly bleak. Horrible ugly monsters tormented them any time they strayed too far. Their sticks and swords did nothing. They could never get close to a Wraith. Forever disappearing into the mist of the wastelands using grotesque monsters as distractions. A frustrating game that the Wraiths were loving. At night in their shallow gorges the Wraiths shared the feelings that each day brought with each other. How it felt to wear the other shoe. The earth was doomed. This was their last dance. Day by day the scales were balancing back. Colour was coming back to the Wraiths. On the other side of the island the Warriors were scattered in their camps. Bwana 19 was no where to be seen, still.
With all Warriors recreated, the Wraiths had to set the floor for the big fight.
An entrapment of the whole.
The torment was done.
It was now time to punish.
It was time for war.
(Chapter 8.)
THE VENGEANCE EVENT
One random eerie morning, with all warriors now reawakened, a harrowing wolf howl filled the waking wasteland. A normally silent wasteland. Once home to just lizards and frogs, Karijini Island is just now just home to the cursed. Warriors scattered across their sites to the south all felt the trance of the wolf howl like waves engulf them. The wastelands was vibrating. A slow bounce swept the floor. They were being called. Not from above or below but from the fallen World Egg. It was Orin. Screaming into the sky a demonic wolf howl. Calling all. All across the forest line huge shadows emerged. The monsters were beginning to slowly appear and descend on the warriors. With no where else to go, they all headed towards the ancient fallen structure from where Orin bellowed, grabbing their sticks and swords. By natural selection those recreated with faces had swords and those in masks had battle sticks. Far from their advanced weapons of destruction of old. Those recreated facing backwards had both. As the groups of warriors neared the plain where the fallen World Egg lay they saw the ghostly figures of the Wraiths standing in the centre of the large round stage surrounding Orin. The wolf song stopped. Frozen, the Warriors stopped at a distance and waited for the rest to catch up. They couldn’t wait long as the slow moving grotesque monsters were closing in on them. They were at a standoff. Deciding quickly they had a good chance at beating the Wraiths with numbers alone. They charged across the plain towards the Wraiths and Orin in the fallen circle. The Wraiths awaited. As all warriors slowly entered the circle and surrounded the Wraiths, the monsters followed behind, trapping them in the middle. The monsters encircled the fallen structure. Forwards was Wraiths. Behind was monsters. In the middle of it all stood Orin. The warriors were doomed. The only thing they had was numbers. They launched at the Wraiths in droves only to be smashed back every time. Swords and limbs flew wildly as all hell broke loose as the monsters stood guard trapping Wraiths, Warriors and Orin into a fierce battle. They were flying all over the space as five to six warriors attacked each wraith. Bodies crashed into one another. The Wraiths continued to smash every warrior advance back closer to the monsters. Keeping Orin at bay. The warriors had no structure. No plan. Wildly they drove at the Wraiths and Orin only to be stomped and smashed. The Wraiths were too big and powerful. They easily managed to battle the scattered warriors and psycho Orin, who was swinging at everyone. The Wraith’s intention was too strong. With one last big push the warriors gathered their all strength and charged at the Wraiths all as one. Dust filled the space as bodies flew between kicked up clouds. It was all or nothing for Orin, Warriors and Wraiths. As the fighting intensified the wolf song slowly crept back. It was louder this time with a whomping undercurrent wave. It started slow and rapidly sped, layered. The fighting continued as the monsters began to generate a whirling electric pulse between them. Similar to when they screamed memories at the warriors but worse. It was louder and faster and it began to shake the ground rhythmically. The wolf song turned to screaming and the monsters began to generate spinning clouds of electrified noice out of their faces. Winds swept from the warriors feet up to the faces of the monsters as they violently projected light back on the fight. This time it wasn’t a screen but spinning light. Warriors continued to try fight the Wraiths while the monsters screamed light unto them blinding all. As the wolf song hit peak resonance and the monsters stopped generating energy, explosions rained out of all their faces onto the battlefield below. Buses, planes, cruise liners, submarines. Everything smashed and exploded into the fight. All the weapons the warriors once used before was now being used against them by the Wraiths and their monsters. Hell rained again upon the wastelands. The once tools of entombment now bombarded the wasteland battle decimating all. Explosions and fire flew out of monsters mouths destroying everyone within the ring. Multicoloured clouds exploded and enveloped the Warriors and Wraiths. They were ascending. As the explosions coalesced, the battle became pure carnage for all. As the monsters ended their barrage they all slowly faced up towards each other still screaming light from their faces creating one big portal above for one last attack. All their beams became one and a hole in the sky ripped apart above them. Everyone below looked up as four B52’s screamed from the sky smashing into the centre of the battlefield decimating everything and initiating an intense mushroom cloud of a sinister dark red colour. The explosion cloud grew slowly. It reached high into the sky like a volcano erupting. The wasteland rocked and deafened. Atomic waves rippled reality from the battlefield into the unsettled sky above and exploded in thunder and lightning as waves resettled. Warriors and Wraiths were slowly morphing and reshaping in the colourful explosions surrounding them and shedding their wasteland curse. It had worked. They were passing. Slowly the Warriors, Wraiths and Orin began to morph into demonic versions of themselves. They had merged with the Memory Monsters. One curse had passed but a new problem had arisen. Bwana had delivered a violent cure to the Wraiths curse but created an entirely new entity again. Above them, high in the sky where the furious clouds mixed, a massive red comet streaked across the sky. All those on the Wasteland were slowly floating into the air morphing and changing heading for the bright red beacon above them.
(Chapter 9.)
DEMONS RISE
As the dust slowly settled and the dark explosions in the sky slowly faded and passed all that’s left is a depleted Bwana 19. She was back. Laying the middle of the fallen ancient circular structure watching the sky above as her blurry vision comes back. Breathing slowly and adjusting to being back in her body watching those she had just saved rise. She had just been the vessel of 99 of the most violent cursed killers that existed. She had done it. Bwana had freed the Wraiths and Warriors of their curse and aided their ascension to higher realms. The lost shards of broken souls now healed. Or so she thought. She had only created a worse entity. The last Wraith to ascend, Alaura, the first Bwana met, stops down by her before rising with the rest, as she slowly adjusts to her new state.
You knew.
I did.
This was not a vengeance party for Wraiths.
This was an ascension party for all!
Correct.
How did you know you’d live?
I didn’t.
Brave be Bwana 19…
Alaura leans in towards Bwana’s face while slowly starting to laugh in a sinister tone as the colour of the landscape slowly fades dark around them.
We now take horror to the higher realms!!
You have weaponised our memories!
We are all monsters now!
We all now hove the power of the Orin Kadu and the Memory Monsters!
Oh…fuck!
What will you do?
We were once few, trapped.
Lost, cursed and entombed.
We are now many, and free.
We will find and behead our curse creator!
Ahhhh fuck yes!!
Being imbued with you has given us the exact direction. The exact target. The exact man. You didn’t heal our curse Bwana 19. You’ve given us weapons to do it ourselves. We know who to hunt now. The Hell Prince General! See you on the boat!
(Chapter 10.)
BWANA CRUISES OUT
The last Wraith Alaura rises with the rest of the newly created warriors and wraiths towards the passing comet before one final explosion in the sky of brilliant magnificence. Bwana 19 stood up and looked around. She may have survived this but did her ship? She searched the debris field of ancient rock until she sees a shine reflecting off the backpack. All lights still on. It was unharmed in all the chaos. Relieved, Bwana 19 dons the backpack. Taking in one last look at a baron wastelands slowly blooming back to colour. An unplanned side effect of the madness. The Wraiths were free. The Warriors were free. They have new glorious purpose in a new realm now. Hunting the Hell Prince General. Their curse creator. The wasteland could now heal. Bwana 19 took one last look at the sacred site she had destroyed and headed towards a clear exit point to leave. Her backpack morphed into stelae form and she grabbed one of the ancient broken swords off the ground from the battle. Admiring its timeless look, she stores it in her stelae next to her cane. She then transforms the stelae into ship and is immediately seated in her cockpit hovering a few feet above the ground. Bwana takes a massive deep breath as she feels her comfort space hug her. Relieved to be alive. She does and quick systems check and everything is fine. Her small ship purrs. Suddenly the destroyed World Egg she’s hovering over starts to rise to her ship. Bwana looked on amazed from her cockpit. The ring rose to ship, clicked into sync at a perfect horizontal point encircling her ship with a foot of room to spare. It slowly started rotating anticlockwise like the sun. Her ship now had a new part! She switches to auto pilot and heads to the morph room to smoke up a session. She had earnt this one. Garden inbound. The ship programmed to slow roam the wasteland one last time. Bwana began to ponder the what on earth she had just done.
Was it good?
Was it bad?
Doubt began to furiously grow. Bwana sank herself into a session and began to crash out as the ship eventually leaves the planet’s orbit slowly slipping back into the dark. Peace wouldn’t last long. Visions of the Hell Prince blasted her from her rest.
She ran to the cockpit to turn auto pilot off.
Her heart was pounding as she could just faintly see the dusty dirty cloud of the comet leaving earth.
‘Set course to follow!!’ Bwana 19 screamed in her mind.
The ship caught up fast as Bwana 19 neared the bow and morphed from ship to stella to backpack landing right at the feet of the last of the Warriors and Wraiths entering the lower deck before three other Bwanas.
The ship caught up fast as Bwana 19 neared the bow and morphed from ship to stella to backpack landing right at the feet of the last of the Warriors and Wraiths entering the lower deck before three other Bwanas.
The boat was Bwana 8’s backpack, transformed.
The fiery dark red comet was Bwana 21 in all its glory.
The boat was surfing the comets cloud wake into the cosmic dark.
Alone when she first arrived to the wastelands, Bwana now sailed into the dark with three other Bwanas, 99 fresh new demons and Orin onboard Bwana 8’s massive ship.
Destination Hell.
Target…
The Hell Prince General.
Curse Creator.
THE BWANA SAGA 