Come out swinging

Tem vezes que eu solto o taco de baseball. Já não consigo mais rebater, já estou de joelhos e não sei direito o porquê de estar tentando desde o começo. Não sei. Não tenho mais forças pra erguer o taco pra voltar pra briga, mas ainda assim não solto.
Isso é coragem, ou é burrice?


—Drop the bat kid.
He dropped the bat, that voice was the only thing that seemed remotely close. The world vanished with every passing second. It was over. He didn't want to let it go, but it wasn't much of an option anymore. For better, for worse, it was over.

The hulking figure positioned itself at his side. Right leg a bit backwards, arms stretched. Whatever came unto him, would have to pass through it first. It could be said that using that bat to crush their skulls was merely symbolic, as it didn't need anything more than its muscular fists to do the job. But it had the bat. And it would use the bat until no one else dared to step towards his master.


—I don't know what's going on. What I do know, is that in a few seconds, the rooms you guys are inside are going to complete darkness, and you won't be alone. I don't know what, where or when they are going to attack. But I'll be here, do. Not. Give. Up.
—But what do we do?
—Get ready.
—R-ready?!
—You heard him, prepare yourself.
—It's happening. Now.
—Where are they coming from?!
—I don't know, I can't see from the screens!
—What do we do...?
—Just swing the bat. Swing it for your life, don't stop swinging. RUN!
...
—DO NOT STOP HITTING!

It backfires

É engraçado como a vontade de lutar cresce conforme o desastre se aproxima.

Também é curioso ver como você se sente afastado de qualquer pessoa.

Don't give up, but also do not wish for what you're not sure. Probabilities stack against it, whomever she gets to be.

A strange pattern

Weird dreams, weird dreams everywhere...
I have found a strange way of making it through fear during the weekend. It seems stupid I guess, but it worked. It's pretty simple, every time your mind focus on those ugly faces you're afraid of (in my case, the weird smiley ones), think how it must feel horrible for them to always be alone at night because people are afraid of them.
I developed compassion for gross characters and urban legends. Haha, damn...
On another note, it seems I have found out that forgiving myself is even harder than forgiving others. But that will come later.
Really not in the mood for writing any stories, but since I've promised myself to do it, here we go...


—When will daddy come home?
—He'll be home soon, sweetie.
That's the story of Adam, a little boy around seven or eight years old. It's almost ten hours, past meridiem. He should already be sleeping, as you may see, but a strange dream woke him up from his daily 9 p.m. sleep.
He still didn't tell his mother about it, though. His mind still processes the ideas. Sometimes when you are too afraid you get confused whether should you cry or not.
So for a while he just sits with his teddy bear at the sofa, close to his mother. She watches television, obliviously. Though somewhere down there, something feels weird, Adam doesn't wake up like that. "I want to see daddy", that's all he said. Perhaps weren't it for the program devouring her attention, she would be seriously worried about the situation.
Commercial break, she hugs her son and plays with his hair. He just holds his teddy bear, oh, its name is Mr. Pops by the way. Why did it receive its name is not the point right now. And by holding I mean keeping it close for dear life.
—Adam, would you like some warm milk?
—No...
His voice comes frail.
—I can put chocolate in it.
They look at each other in the eyes. She sees a dim light in her son's eyes.
—Okay.
It's still Adam, after all. And as if the enchantments of the television just vanished, she goes to the kitchen, planning what to do, starting to worry a bit more about what woke him up.
Not much after, she comes back from kitchen, a glass of warm milk with chocolate in it. A masterwork of motherly cuisine, I'd say.
He lets Mr. Pops go, keeping him by his side and grabbing the glass with both hands.
—So sweetie, did you have a bad dream?
A sip of milk.
—U-hu.
—Oh, sweetie, you know mommy and daddy told you nothing in your dreams could hurt you, right?
Another sip.
—And you always have Mr. Pops to make you company too, he wouldn't let anything harm you — his mother continued.
A large gulp this time. She kept looking at him with that face that seemed to be the perfect breed between a smile and a worried face.
—But it was a bad bad dream...
He spoke that with marks of milk around his mouth. Somewhat hard to take someone serious with those on their faces...
—You want to talk about it?
Adam looked at his mother. Perhaps the processing was over, because almost instantaneously, tears started rolling down his cheeks. She grabbed him closer.
—Don't worry sweetie, mommy is here, 'kay? You don't need to be afraid.
He finished drinking his milk.
—I know mommy, but I wanted daddy to be here.
—He must be coming home already, daddy's work ends around ten hours, remember?
—U-hu...
—So he'll be home soon. We can wait him here, you can watch TV with mommy until you sleep again.
—I just don't want to die.
These last words came stronger than everything else he had said that night. He spoke in a serious manner, it didn't even feel like his voice. That hit her like a truck.
—Adam, that's not going to happen. Don't... don't worry about it. We told you already that dreams are just dreams, even the bad ones.
She looked at his eyes, they were fixed at her. This time almost as if angry with her.
—I just wanted daddy to be here...
—I told you he must be almost home now — she made huge efforts now to keep her voice calm.
—...not the thing that wears daddy.
—What?! Adam, what did you dream? I told you dreams are just dreams, perhaps you got too impressed with some movie you watched.
—You know it's coming to kill us.
She opened her mouth, but no sound made its way. She wasn't prepared for such a change of mood.
They were so dragged by that conversation that the footsteps outside weren't noticed.
Now the key had entered the keyhole. It started to turn...

Who chooses who?

Fucking hell.
So, which chains did we get anyway?
Only the best, master!
Here, we have the Chains of the Tyrant, for those who force their dream into reality upon those who can't fight back. A bright blue with strange dark patterns in it. It is a strong one, who is keeping?
I'll have it.
You sure? These are pretty powerful and quite hard to wear. I thought someone to the likes of Hanitarian would want it.
You know he would never fight by our side. I can take it.
Well, if you insist.
Let's see, there's the Masterwork of Innocence, made by no one else than the master artisan, as an homage to the boy who sacrificed himself for the dreams of others to come true. I dare say only one of us has the right to get ahold of this one.
Sure we do, bring here the boy who waits at the stairs.

...

Uhm, hi sir.
Here you go boy, you will be the wearer of this one chain.
It looks pretty expensive.
You don't know the price it took to be made, kid.
Can I really have it?
If not you, then no one. Here, the clear green with shiny white gold marks is yours.
Well, thank you!
Next, the Destroyer. Perhaps the only chain that physically defies its bearer, they say the blood red spikes were colored by the blood of a thousand soldiers who dared to wear it. Physical strength at the cost of physical resistance for the one who believes to be able to handle the gray chains.
I don't believe I can handle, I just can.
Oh, I'm sure you do, Helz, you are.
Hehe, the only one of us who would be able to carry the weight I suppose — everyone around watched the hulky demon grab the chains and move back, watching solemnly above the heads of his fellows.
Let's see, I have one very special just around here...
...
Oh, the Guidance of Angels... — a strange silence hauled the area — ...well, you see... — some eyes faced him in confusion. A mess of anger and/or surprise — ...it is, I can explain...
You better be doing it soon.
I do understand that you all aren't much in harmony with them. Each one of you, for your own reasons. And I know both the name and the white color, with these golden writings, remind you of such reasons. But do not be fooled, these are here for a reason... it is said, that one of the strongest angels carried these with himself. And even though he questioned much of its existance, he never left behind those he promised to protect. I believe that is what is infused within these chains.
What if it's not?
WHAT IF, THAT'S JUST ANOTHER TRAP?! — a creature with a deformed face rose among the crowd. There were marks of burning all over his body, but the face was the worst, at some points it looked as if there was still some sort of acid dripping.
Well, I...
...
I suppose it's your turn now, master.
I see — he made his way to the core of the discussion right after. As always, all demons just stood and watched. For some reason, his presence always had this sort of reaction, perhaps it was because he didn't act much.
I trust this man, so you all could try just a bit.
Well, you could be the bearer of it, master!
Yeah! You're loyal and you won't burn to death in case it's all lies.
No one's burning, and the chain of loyalty does not belong to me — he looked back at his trail, no one dared close the path. There, not that far away, the four-legged creature watched, shyly. He stared at it, and it understood. As a dog that finally sees its owner after a long wait, it ran, sometimes clumsily hitting those around. It stood near its master, head inclined downwards. He put the chain around its neck, in a way not to be too tight, and also not too loose. It howled. — I believe no one here has an objection.
...
The Revenge.
It's mine.
Take it easy — the acid demon grabbed it, in a way, it felt like it was made for him. The mixture of green and orange, both in its most diseased appearance, made a chain that felt weak, poisonous, yet very powerful.
I guess that's it.
Well, seems like.
Nope, there's still one there!
No, there ain't no more chains that could be useful to you. These are the only special infused chains.
Lying to us, old man? — once again, things seemed to get worse.
I'm not lying when I say the useful ones are those.
Then... WHAT. IS. THAT. LAST. ONE. THERE?

...

I can't believe it.
The chains of hatred...
Master... — it felt just as they were back to that silent night. Watching the stars as The Sound of Silence played in his head.


Can we just fuckin' break it?
Or by asking it this way I have already set fate to zero?