Chapter One: Terran, The Golden Boy
(A story of Terran patching)

It was a lush and verdant place. The trees reached up to the clouds, and the alien fruit was delicious and plentiful. Our scouts reported an abundance of scattered mineral deposits in the surrounding area, littering the banks of the rushing tributaries from the great river to the north. Our landing site was perfect, and our hopes were high. We drank heartily and festively that night, and slept well.


Day one. Our scanner system reported masses of alien forces in the surrounding jungles. Their movements were quick and erratic. But what they lacked in order and discipline, they made up for in sheer size and strange yet advanced technology. We even caught a low resolution image of a never before seen Zerg, an enormous airborne manta ray with a host of Broodlings swarming behind. By the grace of God, the Zerg made no aggressive fronts, but there is no doubt in my mind that, today, we were the luckiest bastards alive. Though we’ve contacted Blizzard HQ and requested immediate assistance, there’s no way in hell we’re sleeping soundly. Grab them ice cubes, boys; there’s gonna be double shifts tonight.

Day five. We’ve engaged in countless skirmishes these past few days. It seems that the Zerg are testing our mettle, our fortitude, taunting us with just a taste of their overwhelming numbers. Well, give ‘em hell, I say. Even so, we’ve barely held our outposts, and our supplies are dwindling fast. But what irks me the most is that HQ doesn’t give a flying shit about our distress calls. They’re just toying with our lives, dropping tiny health and tech packs and small boxes of relief cargo. What they can’t seem to shove through their cinderblock of a skull is that we don’t need no goddamn vitamin tablets. Because right now, we just don’t have the men and the resources to fight that never ending swarm one on one. Come on, HQ. We need bigger guns.


Day six. Today is a sad day here on the northern front. Our men are weak and tired, and our once steadfast defense is in shambles. Morale has plummeted since day one; memories of those jubilant, blissful times have long been buried beneath our ragged suits and battered helms. Not an hour passes where every battle weary soldier doesn’t yearn for home across this vast expanse. And yet, with the end nowhere in sight, that damned HQ did it again. They confiscated our SCVs’ health packs and slowed our troop conscription and training to a snail’s pace. How the hell are we supposed to fight those potato-headed Protoss bastards that keep appearing around our perimeter, now? A common phrase now echoes throughout the forlorn camp: “I want out.”

Day seven. Thank the lord, our prayers have been answered. From the heavens, our manna, our bread of life, has fallen into our eager and outstretched hands. This morning, HQ dropped us a round of the newest and shiniest 80mm longbolt missiles, and they look absolutely amazing. And, on top of that, they’ve equipped our Thor mech units with state-of-the-art explosive shrapnel shells, which I saw in action firsthand this afternoon at the East Victoria outpost. Those flying Zergs never had a chance.

Day eight. Mutiny is a-stirring in the barracks of our highly prized marauder task force. HQ just informed us that it would be withholding their favorite concussive shells, reciting some obviously rehearsed bullshit about empty coffers, our extraordinary performance and fortitude and whatnot. The rocket heads didn’t buy it, of course, and now they’re threatening to go rogue. We can’t afford any more losses, let alone defects. This is our fortress, our bastion against the wilds, and we need every man we can get.


Day eleven. It’s official. Our artillery line is the scariest bundle of firepower known to man, beast, and Zerg. Those arclite shock cannons will blow up anything that walks, even the massive demon-plated Ultralisk. And with our tank crew bigger, tougher, and more coordinated that ever before, endless swarms of Zerglings drop like flies in an oven. Even our infantry is timid around those mighty gods of the earth, for fear of accidentally wandering into their enormous blast radius. With our Scandinavian warriors pillaging the skies and our artillery ravaging the ground, our mechanical force is near invincible. It’s a good day to be a Terran.

Day fifteen. We just got word from HQ that our funding and supplies are being cut. According to them, we’re doing just fine, so they’re turning their tail like General Mengsk at Korhal and leaving us to fend for ourselves. Well, let it be known that we’re not like Sarah Kerrigan; the might of our force rivals that of the hosts of heaven. We are the strongest army in the galaxy, and we will defend this territory – no, rule this jungle planet with an iron fist. Already, the Zerg are scrambling, cowering in fear at the sound of our march. And the Protoss have long since abandoned this satellite world, leaving us to plunder the bountiful natural resources to our hearts’ content. “Plunder?” No, why say that of what is rightfully ours? For we are the conquerors, the victors, and these are our spoils. This land, this beautiful virgin soil now rich and unblemished, is ours for the taking. For glory, for the Dominion, for the Terran race. We are the Pride of War.

Chapter Three: Flight of the Phoenix
(A story of how the Phoenix found its wings)

I have walked amongst the ruins of Aiur, tread upon that tattered and hallowed ground. Serpent vines and tentacle roots encroach these old and weathered stones, weaving a seamless and intricate network of Nature’s flesh and bones. The bricks, crumbled, cracked, and splintered, a resilient testament to the fires that burned in the hearts and eyes of our heroic departed, sprawl flat across the unkempt ground, shackled by Nature’s iron fingers. And then they speak. In dull tremors, they bemoan the fettered spirits, chained beneath the dust of the earth, within these very stones. Fly, my brethren, for I will tell you a story of this place, of a people who found their wings and, like the twilight Kakaru, took to the virgin skies.


I was a scientist, the head of the Aeronautics Research Tribunal. The program was created with my flesh and blood, my body and soul. It was my greatest pride, and it was destined to be the pride of my country as well. The research was slow, at first. My peers were skeptical and my funding was scarce. Still, my work consumed me, and, two grueling years later, a prototype was unveiled. Designed to explore strange and alien worlds, to venture into the farthest reaches of the galaxy, it was aptly named the “Scout.”


The high council was unimpressed. “An interesting piece of craftsmanship,” they remarked, “But far too costly. It’s slow, unreliable, and difficult to pilot, and its power is second rate. Such a novelty will never find place in our elite contingent.” I was devastated, and drank much that night. But the vision of the graceful flying Kakaru still pervaded my thoughts; I would not give up hope. The next day, I burned all my previous blueprints; I would start afresh. I would create a new frigate, compact and agile, yet powerfully deadly, and it would rule the skies like the pirate sailors of yore once terrorized the seas. In their honor, I called it the “Corsair.”

However, the high council was still skeptical. At the time, our standing army was invincible, with scarabs and psionic shockwaves carving the bones of our fallen enemies and melting the landscape anew, while my prized creation could only hover alone and fire wistfully at the clouds above. My motivation fast fading, I was beginning to lose hope. Then they arrived. Riding on the wings of hell, these Zerg demons stormed the battlefield and left a tide of destruction and terror in their wake. As our psi blades clawed fruitlessly at the skies, as our strongest sublimated into clouds of smoke, as our fields became furiously drenched in blue fluids, our people turned to skies and cried. And an angel answered.


This glorious Revolutionist descended from above and approached me. He had a grand scheme to turn the tide of the Swarm, and he needed me, needed my creation. A fire burned so brightly in his eyes, the same fire long extinguished in the eyes of our weary countrymen, and I could not help but consent. As he turned to leave, I asked for his name. “Bisu,” he replied, and walked into the darkness.

The following revolution was swift and brutal. The swarm was completely unprepared; their wings were broken and their Messiah was crucified. As the Dark Templar ravaged silently the battlegrounds, I could proudly look to the skies and see a fleet of my own creation soar victoriously above. And as I watched, my heart lifted up and followed them into the clouds.

Those were the glory days, where, led by the Revolutionist, legendary commanders left their footprints in the sands of time. The sea of Zerg parted before our might, and as we looked to the future, we said with confidence, “Victory after victory.” But in our finest hour, the wheel of destiny turned yet again. A new Tyrant had claimed the throne of the Swarm, and all of the fire, ferocity, and thirst for conquest in the galaxy condensed into his powerful eyes. Our people pleaded for our warrior kings to once again rise up and take arms, to fight against the storm and the sea as they had so gallantly in the past. But their eyes were weary and their wills were weak, for a great change had rocked the universe. The frozen gods had lifted their mighty hands, and, in a powerful Blizzard, buried our dragoons and war bringers in an icy tomb. And my most prized creation was, too, wrested from my grasp and lost inside the storm of change.


While the old kings were defeated under the fearsome gaze of the Tyrant, our research facilities hustled to churn out new technologies that would replace those lost in the Blizzard. But, while the clamorous sound of work rang clear through the labs, my heart was sullen, for none could replace the majesty I had created and lost. As I worked, resigned, on a new air superiority fighter, I remembered long ago that young Revolutionist who approached me, and, with all the fire and hope in the world in his eyes, asked for my assistance. His memory fueled my passion, and, as my third and final creation took flight, I could see him looking down on me from the skies with that same victorious gaze. My youngest child, you rose from the ashes of the lost, and were born anew, just as I had hoped, and continue to dream, that a certain old Revolutionist would. And so, in memory of my lost creation, in memory of the lost Revolutionist, I called you the “Phoenix.”


I had originally equipped the Phoenix with an “overload,” to fight with the fury of the old kings. But the frozen gods were displeased. They shunned my design, and smote my child with wobbly wings. Unwieldy and fragile, my Phoenix resembled more my first failed creation than my second. Undeterred, I fought for my son, equipped him with a graviton beam, and prayed to the gods for assistance. They turned their backs and my pleas fell upon deaf ears. As the newborn colossi first stretched their arachnid legs and the immortals raised their hardened shells, I watched in agony as my last creation flailed clumsily through the air. Little did I know, someone else was watching, too.

As a child, this young priest watched my Corsairs pillage the skies, and desired wings of his own. And as the icy storm of change buried my child, so too did it bury the dreams of the priest. So, he fought for me, fought for my child, with prayer upon eloquent prayer to the frozen gods. And they answered his call.

One dark night, while I slept in my laboratory, a chill gale blew through the cracks and crevices of the doors and walls, rocking the very foundations of the facility. Groggily, I looked up to see my Phoenix humming, vibrating. Slowly at first, it began to rise, casting an eerie shadow across the ground. Alarmed, I quickly rose to confront the rogue pilot, but as I peered into the glass, I froze in horror. I saw nothing inside.

And I could do nothing as my last creation quickly accelerated through the roof and flew away...


In the twilight, I walk again through these jungle ruins. The serpent vines and tentacle roots still claw at my feet, binding the stones to the ground. I look up to see a Kakaru soar overhead, as it had when I was a child. Instead, I see a pilotless robotic fleet, ghost ships circling the dim clouds.

Chapter Four: Gulliver's Travels
(A story of the maps of the world)

My name is Gulliver. I am a cartographer aboard the legendary scientific explorer vessel Magellan, and it is my job to map the corners of the virgin galaxy. The world of Starcraft is brimming with strange and exotic unexplored territory just waiting to be discovered. I will tell you of my travels.

April 2503 – the treasure hunt. We received a call from the Dominion. Something about gold and riches beyond our wildest imaginations. And a small alien artifact. Apparently, these were all the rage. Our captain was a righteous and stalwart man, well-versed in the ways of this world. Our crew was the most rag-tag and rowdy bunch of convicts, carpetbaggers, and space pirates to grace this side of Korhal. And so, we set off on our expedition with high hopes and an overflowing sense of adventure.


Lost Temple:
Warm nostalgia filled our nostrils, penetrated the depths of our bones. The earth itself called to us, whispered hauntingly sweet in our ears. “I knew you’d be back.” We looked around this jungle landscape. The moss-covered ruins, ornate stones, wild grass almost seemed to look back, animated by some ghostly force. “I knew you’d be back.” We hurriedly unpacked our expedition gear and excavation equipment. Grabbing our blast torches and high-pressure drills, we clawed at the surface of this land, incising deep into its rocky skin. The ground around us moaned in agony. “I knew you’d be back.” We dug deeper and deeper. Our eyes sparkled with greedy golden brightness. Discovery was imminent, and there was no turning back. The earth trembled and cracked beneath our mechanical might. “I knew you’d be back.” We finally hit the core. Dust gathered in a billowing cloud around us. Fragments and heaps of sandstone and metal lay scattered across the site in disarray. Ashen-faced rainclouds clustered overhead, drizzling the world in their cold gray tears. And the earth spoke no more. For the Temple was nowhere to be found.

Kulas Ravine:
The air was hot and thick with buzzing insects. The trees unfurled their leafy branches to the sky, creating a lush and thick canopy that blotted out the sun. Here on the dark jungle floor, thick roots and muddy grass concealed a thousand and one jittery creatures below. We walked deeper and deeper into the forest's heart, gazing in awe at the grand ruin walls that rose up around us. The finely chiseled stones, the ornate carvings of some ancient civilization captured the very depths of our imagination. We stupid, oblivious sightseers were blind to the hunters’ eyes that peeped just over the tops of those temple ruins. Suddenly, the forest around us erupted in a storm of movement and cacophony. Colossal robots and primal warriors surrounded us, trapping our measly expedition force in an immobilizing blue stasis. We were marched to the natives’ camp, and the captain, ever calm, was unbound and brought before the tribunal. An eternity passed before he returned unscathed. “We head south,” he said simply. “To the desert sands.”

Desert Oasis:
The ancient pharaohs once ruled these burning dunes, caught in a terrifying battle with the demons of the earth. Now, nothing is left of that distant past. History is buried deep beneath the unchanging gray sands. What gemstones lay entombed beneath the scorching earth, our captain wouldn’t say. Still, we scoured the oddly hued sands, puddles of sweat swamping the damp interiors of our burning suits. But our laborious efforts were futile; there was nothing to be found in this desert wasteland. As we turned and headed back to the ship, I felt a small tug on my bootstrap. Turning sharply, I looked down and saw a brown and mottled skeletal hand clutching my foot. And upon the middle finger rested a golden ring that supported a sick and veined eyeball, shut forbiddingly tight. But something was eerily amiss. I bent down for closer inspection, grabbing the hand and lifting it out of its sandy catacombs. My eyes widened in surprise as a chill wave swept through my sweat-drenched body. The palm of the hand was gone, disintegrated into winds. A strange and terrible realization struck me: the shifting ground we stood upon was not composed of coarse, sandy grains. No – this barren landscape was a grim graveyard made from the ashen dust of the restless dead. My stomach turned, and my grip on the decayed fingers loosened. But the hand wouldn’t let go. Horrified, I tried desperately to shake it off. It flopped lifelessly to the ground and disappeared beneath the dust. Later that evening, in the safe comfort of the vessel, my pocket felt oddly weighted. Curious, I thrust in an unsuspecting hand. My fumbling fingers finally clamped on a small sphere, strangely wet and squishy. I slowly raised my trembling hand, and saw, in the center of my palm, the veined eyeball wide open and staring straight at me.

Blistering Sands:
We reached a vast desert empire nestled amidst the sweltering heat and blistering sands. Paved highways crisscrossed the golden dunes, dashing headlong through blasted backdoor boulders and running past the ever-vigilant watchtowers. Dusty bazaars and shady harems lined the streets, hosting a crowd of squabbling hagglers, inviting patrons, and fabulously adorned merchants with wide and toothy smiles. We were jostled amongst the frantic crowd, pushed this way and that by a myriad of colorful and revealing lace, heavy gray turbans, and sweaty bare bodies. The heat was oppressive. But what burdened me the most was the awkward lump that weighted down my coat pocket and pressed and bulged uncomfortably against my thigh. Just then, a mysterious raspy voice called to me. I turned, and seeing only a dark and unobtrusive vendor stall, pardoned myself from the exploration group and approached. The shop was well-shaded, with heavy cloth blanketing the ceiling from the sun’s penetrating rays. A tall and thickly turbaned man stood in the shadows behind the counter. I could not see his face. In that same heavily accented and raspy voice, he introduced himself. He was a treasure hunter in his younger days, and he had traveled the world many times over. Now, he made a living selling the finest treasure maps, and he had in his possession one that would be of great interest to the Dominion. At that, he reached under the many folds of his cloak and pulled out a wrinkled, yellow piece of parchment. Upon it was elaborately written in dark red ink “The Hearts of the Xel’Naga.” I regretfully informed him that I had no money, revealing my empty pockets as proof. But then, to my surprise and horror, the eyeball ring tumbled out and rolled slowly across the table. The shadowy merchant stiffened. Roughly, he grabbed my hand and forced the crumpled map into my palm. Then, snatching the wide-open eyeball from the counter, he briskly strode through rear flaps of the tent. And, as I turned to leave, I fancied I saw a strangely serpentine tail disappear through the fluttering of the exit.

May 2503 – into the inferno. The following month, we followed the map vigilantly, for we had no other leads. After all, the drawings were authentic, and the depiction was perfect. Our hopes remained high, despite our previous setbacks. Little did we know that we were tumbling headlong into the fires of hell.


Scrap Station:
We came upon a small outpost docking station, the geographic terrain cutely sculpted into the silhouette of a ship. A layer of scattered junk and debris orbited this inconspicuous satellite town, testing our navigator’s fortitude. Running low on supplies, we landed for a brief pit stop and were accosted by an old and gruff engineer who grumbled something about “watching your steps” as we casually strolled into the city. The dim lights of a quaint and humble town welcomed us. All was peaceful and quiet. Eager to explore the nightlife, our crew split their separate ways, leaving me to roam the empty streets. And so I walked aimlessly through twisted alleys and corridors, innocent and unsuspecting. Little did I know that this unsuspicious junkyard station was one of the most rampant outlaw havens in the entire sector. And not even a thought of doubt or unease entered my mind as a loud thump resounded throughout my skull and the world went black and disappeared. I awoke much later to see the captain’s face hovering overhead in an expression of genuine concern. The back of my head throbbed uncontrollably, and I was mummified in bandages. To this day, the captain won’t speak of what happened in that shady little town. “You’re just lucky to be alive.”

Steppes of War:
Blood caked and splattered these blasted lands, submerging a valley of splintered bones in a sea of red. An uneasy silence hung like death, a fragile truce perpetually interrupted by the concussive boom of a siege tank merely a shot’s length away from the opposing natural. The chokes were walled and barricaded with rusty supply depots, exiling me to the tiny strip of ground between the offensive fronts known as no man’s land. Just a minute’s roundabout hike took me to a cobbled ledge. Peeping over the mighty rocks, I could just distinguish the burning bunkers and war-scarred trenches, housing dark and grim faces that gazed off into oblivion, into the eyes of death. “Nothing to see here,” the captain muttered, letting a heavy and solemn hand fall stiff on my shoulder. As we gunned our engines and lifted ourselves out of this hell, I looked down and saw the damned raise their wretched arms, clawing at the sky. The “Steppes of War,” indeed.

Metalopolis:
The cityscape breached the night sky, steel teeth gnawing away at the clouds. These majestic spires, white lights ablaze, beckoned us, mesmerized us like the Sirens of Odysseus’s stormy seas, urging us to take a closer look. And so we followed these bright and flaming beacons, edging closer until the towers rose like mountains beside our ship. So small indeed did I feel amongst man’s grand design – the flickering neon signs, the windows gleaming and sleek upon mighty pillars of black iron. And so, we watched the looming walls enclose us, swallow us, consume us in complete and awe-struck silence. Then, a moonbeam knifed through the dazzling spectacle of bright color and pitch black shadow, revealing a grotesque and contorted tentacle dripping in ooze and toxic fluid. The urban landscape suddenly burst into a fury of monstrous and putrid jittery infestation, as if awakened by some great and silent alarm. Masks of horror contorted our features as we saw the metropolis for what it truly was: a festering and wretched hive, a hatching ground for the disgusting newborn Zerg. Desperation pumped deep through our veins as we flew higher and higher, a horde of slimy tentacles shooting behind. Never shall I forget the creep-covered windows or the thousands upon thousands of mutated eyes. Never shall I forget the City of the Zerg.

Incineration Zone:
The heat was stifling, unbearable, even, as we at last landed haphazardly atop the molten earth, our final destination. Lava seeped through the cracks in the brimstone beneath our feet, singeing our travel-worn boots and biting our heels like thousands of flaming vipers. Not a living soul could be found in this desolate maze. The narrow stone walls stifled and enclosed us, sapped us of our strength, robbed us of our sanity. The only water lay in the rivers of lava that encircled us. All else was charred sand and ash-covered stones. Much was our surprise when a rustling sound scattered the pebbles nearby. And out slowly crawled a pitiful and lonesome Zergling, bruised and burnt from this flaming dungeon. Staring at us imploringly with scared, doe-like eyes, it seemed almost human. Almost. The marine to my right quickly and brutally gunned it down, spraying our grimy visors and suits with a mist of blood. It didn’t even let out a cry of despair as it writhed painfully on the smoky ground, the light fast fading from its forlorn eyes. And we turned and walked away. Such is how the mind is warped upon entering the labyrinth of hell.

June 2503 – epilogue. Thus ends our two months of fruitless searching, and our exploration of this new and fantastic world. Though our adventures were many, our successes were few, and we returned to the Dominion empty handed. But that is not to say that nothing has changed. For we have braved the hive of villains, the land of the dead, the heart of the Zerg, and the very fires of hell itself. Creases of sorrow and despair have slowly crept their way across our features. And as we depart this inconspicuous June day, I sense a darkness, a despair and unrest that has filled the depths of every man’s heart.

Chapter Five: B.Net 1.984
(A story of the future of Battle.net)

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Stumbling quickly across the dust covered patchwork streets, Winston)Smith approached a rusted and wind-battered shack. His head was tucked deeply inside a heavily worn gray coat, sparsely sheltered from the dirt and debris the all too frequent gusts of wind would toss at his tightly closed eyes and mouth. He fumbled with the door – the knob was loose and desperately needed a replacement – and lurched inside.

The shack consisted of a single tiny room, sparsely furnished. A flimsy desk sat somewhat erect in the center, accompanied by a lopsided stool, while a single grimy mattress hugged a shadowy corner. A dull and dusty screen was built into a side wall, easily overlooking the entire room. It was turned on, as always, projecting a simple middle-aged man reading a list of names and numbers. Pasted roughly against the far wall opposite the door was an enormous and intimidating poster featuring a well-groomed and bearded face. Underneath was a message written in big bold letters. “ACTIVISION BLIZZARD IS WATCHING YOU.”

This was home. There were many more just like it. They littered the colorless and dusty streets, sprawling eternally across the flattened soil. No one knew where these shacks began, or where they stopped. A common rumor, a widely held belief was that there was in fact no end; that the shacks continued on and on in a massive circle, covering the surface of the land and back again. And each person had his own shack. Or, rather, each person was allotted a shack. It would be wrong for him to call it his “own” – a crime, even. For nothing belonged to him. The shack, the single mattress, the tattered clothes on his back, the very creations of his fragile mind; none of it was his.


Each shack was the same. Each contained a single mattress, desk, chair, screen, and poster, and each reeked of sweat and despair. The only difference was the doors; upon some, a glaring red “X” was painted. No one knew what this meant, but it was in one’s best interest to ask no questions. There were no two room shacks or three room shacks. The rule was strict and simple: one shack, one body. More than one body would lead to conversations, gossip, idle chatter, and more than one conversation would lead to sloth, lawlessness, anarchy. Silence was a virtue. The walls, flimsy barriers against the endless rain and sleet and snow, were curiously reinforced to withstand one thing – sound. To discuss matters of business, one had to trudge on foot for miles, possibly, to find a coworker. No local area transportation network existed. It would be too exploitable, the party said. And so, an eerie silence hung over the wretched streets and shacks, only broken intermittently by the lonesome howl of the wind or the distant scuffle of well-worn boots.

Winston)Smith looked up at the screen. The program had changed; it was now flashing a black and white war film, and the sound of muted gunshots and explosives reverberated softly inside the silent room. Eurasian bodies, riddled with bullets and shrapnel, littered the battlefield as a calm and even voice steadily narrated the scene. Something about victory in Europe or Asia or Oceania, somewhere so remote and far away, no one really knew if it existed at all. In fact, nothing was known outside this single territory of scattered shacks save what was shown upon that dusty flashing screen. But Winston)Smith wasn’t listening; his thoughts had drifted to what had happened at work this peculiar morning...

Sparsely scattered amongst the sea of shacks were enormous grim factories abutting coal mines and brimstone quarries. Towering smokestacks sprouted from the rooftops, belching cloud after cloud of grime and smog above the windowless concrete walls. Each was given a name such as Medivac Alamo or Lurker Sigma, and each operated with the same raw efficiency, consuming the same amount of coal, and generating the same amount of energy, regardless of the strength, determination, and competency of the throng of faceless men that tended to the smoky beast from within. Among these was Winston)Smith. Or Winston)Smith.491, to be precise. For names were not unique; uniqueness was a sin, an evil that bred corruption and discontent. There was no place for such radical and dangerous ideals.

As the clock struck twelve, an obnoxious-sounding siren blared from the speakers spread throughout the complex. It was time for the Two Minutes Hate. The massive screen on the front wall of the factory flickered, projecting a blood red backdrop. The workers gathered round like blind and faithful sheep flocking to a crimson shepherd. To Winston’s immediate left stood a short and fervent shrew of a woman, one of those who worshiped the party with all of her heart. To his right was a massive man whose face radiated a quiet and reserved intelligence ill-suited to his grappling physique. His name was Rotick, a prominent figure of the party, an overseer of this sector who ever so rarely would drop by for an inspection. But, Winston knew deep down, instinctively, even, that there was something unsettling, something not quite right about this man. Something more. The siren stopped and gave way to a calm and droning voice that belonged to a curly haired man who now contrasted sharply the red background. His nose was pointed and angular and his mouth was contorted into a silly, stupid smile that matched his bright and beady eyes. He was ranting about the insurgency and the lies of Activision Blizzard, advocating dangerous rebellious ideals: freedom of speech and freedom of thought. But nobody was listening. A great hissing erupted unanimously from the faceless crowd, with scattered boos tossed around with the utmost zeal. The droning voice was quickly drowned amidst the tidal uproar as fists of outrage were raised and small objects were hurled at the screen. Marching boots and deafening gunshots joined the din, resonating from the battalion of twenty foot Eurasian soldiers that had appeared on screen behind the massive profile. Several of the crowd, including the tiny woman to Winston)Smith’s left, shrunk in fear. Others, consumed by blinding rage, yelled and swore and went into a frenzy. Even the giant Rotick to Winston’s right, normally calm and collected, was choked with anger, his face veined and purplish red. And, as the head on the screen gradually mutated into the grotesque visage of a Zerg overlord, Winston found himself inescapably drawn to the rage and hate that suffocated the entire building. Was image on the screen a face or an alien? Winston could no longer tell, so blinded by emotion was he. And who could resist? For so fearsome a power bonded the souls of the frenzied workers and kindled and stoked the wildfires that enflamed their hearts that they kicked and shouted and screamed as one fearsome beast, one single wild and burning conflagration guided by hands unseen.

But as Winston hurled flaming verbal javelins at the gruesome specter that still grinned stupidly from the screen, it dawned upon him that his cries of anger and hate and incredulity were directed not at the infuriating propaganda, but rather at the party itself. He hated the slummy and unkempt streets, the never ending food rations, the dingy shack allocated to him. He hated the oppressive silence, the mind-wrenching rumors and secrets, and the furiously mundane life he lived. He hated Activision Blizzard. And so he welled up all of the remorse, despair, and fervent passion that dwelled within his breast and, in this single minute, unleashed it upon the world.


Finally, the grotesque figure softly melted into a calm and reassuring face that exuded peace and stability, the same face plastered across the countless posters that littered the populace. A wave of relief swept across the crowd, and an audible sigh could be heard. The crowd applauded and cheered, and the shrewish woman to Winston’s left curled up in a small ball and burst into tears. Their savior had come. Slowly, the crowd broke into a low chant. “A-B! …A-B!” And Wilson followed suit. But something caught the corner of his eye, a glimmer perhaps, or maybe just the simple certain and inescapable feeling that his attention was required. He turned, half-expectant, to meet the intense and probing gaze of Rotick, staring straight into the depths of his soul. Those eyes, two glassy portals into worlds beyond comprehension, reflected wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Grasping Winton’s burning mind, those yawning pupils pulled and tugged at Winston’s desires and fantasies. And for once, he dared to dream. For the first time, he saw the world with clarity. Europe and Asia and Oceania, they really existed. The party was on the cusp of a new local area transportation network that they had long ago tossed with the ideological rubbish of the past. Though they lived in the gray twilight hours, a new and golden dawn awaited just beyond the horizon. And with it lay change and freedom and a new beginning. Soon, the world would be silent no more.

The morning shift came to a quiet and unremarkable end. Winston and Rotick parted without exchanging a single syllable, for such was the silent bond between the two men, the unspoken understanding that transcended mere words. They were brothers for the same unmentionable cause, fighters wrapped in the same unremarkable drab and colorless guise of a comrade of the party. Change was just around the corner.

Winston snapped back to reality. It was a mere hour since those events transpired, and the eyes brimming with forbidden knowledge still burned clearly in his mind. He looked with utter disgust upon his repulsive soiled cot and ramshackle furniture. A cockroach scuttled across the bare dirt floor, just out of Winston’s reach. The stench of sweat and despair was suddenly unbearably noticeable, choking his mind and clouding his senses. He flung himself outside in a coughing fit, stumbling painfully across the scattered litter and debris. Looking up to the cloudless gray and open sky, he fancied a bold ray of sunshine pierced the impenetrable layer of smog that hung so stiflingly overhead. And for the second time in his life, Winston)Smith dared to dream. He saw the imminent change, the incredible future, the wonderful truth suppressed beneath a layer of oppression and silence and solitude. A burst of inspiration seized his fevered mind, penetrated the core of his frontal lobe, tugged at the fringes of his sanity. Inexorably, his mouth opened, and a rumbling overtook his vocal cords. He knew what was coming and couldn’t stop it; he didn’t want to stop it. It was inevitable. With a mouth open wide, he mustered all of the hope and dreams that resided in his soul. “Down with Activision Blizzard! Down with Activision Blizzard! Down with Activision Blizzard…”

No sooner had those words escaped his lips than a dark and heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. A shiver shook his entire body as he twirled to confront this unsuspecting assailant. And he met a countenance so horribly contorted, an expression so astonishingly twisted that, upon first impulse, he believed this disfigured face to be the face of a complete stranger. The face of Rotick. His pupils, once unfathomable pools of knowledge, now radiated only mindless rapacious hunger, an insatiable desire for unimaginable suffering. A spasm of pain shot through Winston’s shoulder, and he dropped to the ground in a fetal ball and saw no more.

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. The wind howled furiously, battering row after endless row of dilapidated shacks that stretched endlessly across this gray and sullen expanse. A massive and well-built man, dressed smartly in the tidy but colorless garb of the upper party, trudged through the filthy streets. His cap was pulled low to screen the dirt and dust the wind flung mercilessly at his shadowed face, and his gray cloak was wrapped tightly around his bulky figure. Passing an unremarkable shack, he paused. Its door bore a blood red “X.” The door that once led to the abode of Winston)Smith.491. The dark man gave a slight nod of approval, and a tiny grin crept across his stolid countenance, for he knew that inside fluttered a single piece of paper, upon which was written a single word: “BANNED.”

And he walked away.

Chapter Six: The Little Pony
(A story of the community)

Once upon a time, there was a little pony. He wasn’t your ordinary little pony, though. Every day, at around sunrise, when the sun first stretched and unfurled its soft and yellow rays onto the peaceful world below, while the other little ponies were still drowsy with sleep, he would quietly don his warm scarf and steal off into the distant woods. None of the other ponies could read his heart, understand his unfettered spirit. “He is just an eccentric,” they would mutter with sleep-laden eyes, “Better for us all that we stay as far away as possible.” Little could they imagine the exciting and far-off places that lone little pony dared venture to explore, often absent for days, even weeks at a time. But when that little pony would finally return, body dreadfully weary yet eyes brimming with golden excitement, he would chatter tirelessly, for hours upon end, of the strange and exotic sights and sounds he encountered. The other ponies, busily munching the dewy grass, simply nodded in silence, for they had much better things to do than to indulge in the fantasies of a wild dreamer.


Those down-to-earth ponies couldn’t begin to fathom the pain and hardships the little pony experienced while chasing the sky, the heavens. Spiny thickets and muddy sinkholes littered the rocky path, and more often than not, he was caked in grime and covered in bruises upon his arrival. And, all too frequently, that little dreamer would stumble, breathless but with soaring spirits, to his final destination, only to find it barren and deserted, and infested with weeds and stones. With crestfallen eyes and head hung low, the miserable little pony would slowly and resignedly lope back to his mellow home, quietly dreading the stinging silence and turned backs that awaited him. But the little pony never lost sight of his dreams. He would explore the ends of the earth, and tell his friends of the wonders that lay beyond in hopes that, one day, he would awaken in their hearts the adventurer’s spirit that so consumed and blazed in his own. And maybe, just maybe, they could one day find and unfurl their downy wings and soar together amongst the wind-swept clouds. Such was the fantasy of a dreamer.

One unsuspecting day, a deadly frost swept through the peaceful meadows, crystallizing the grassy fields in a blanket of icy white. Hungry and blue with cold, the ponies wandered aimlessly about their once so familiar home, now so harsh and unwelcoming. Day after starving day passed, but the diamond ice refused to thaw. Distraught, the frostbitten herd turned to their little dreamer, asking, imploring him to lead them into worlds anew. Taken aback, the bashful little pony reluctantly consented, and, as one, they headed off into the frozen woods.

The journey to their promised land was not an easy one. Sleeted stones and partially iced rivers littered their path ahead as hungry beasts gathered and lurked in the shadows behind with eager mouths salivating at the thought of the inevitable straggler. Other countless alien ponies joined the pack, seeking refuge from the cold, or possibly just sharing that very same spirit of adventure that tugged at their heartstrings. Most were friendly, amiable, and offered valuable insight for traversing the untamed wilds that lay ahead; others were merely a burden, slowing the herd and whittling away at the already scant provisions. Cold and exhausted, many simply fell to their wobbly knees, resigning their life to the frigid tomb of the earth. But the little pony and his pack resolutely marched ahead, stubbornly weathering the biting winds that cut the eyes and skin and the icicle stones that chaffed and chipped the hooves.

Finally, the tattered and beaten entourage arrived upon a lone majestic hill unblemished amongst the blizzard that raged below. And upon that hill grew the most ripe and delicious snowy fruit the ponies had ever seen, the fruit of the storm. Hungry mouths open wide, the ponies rushed forward and feasted to their hearts content. And, no sooner had they taken a single bite than a miraculous change swept over the dreary frost-covered plains. The ice melted and thawed, revealing the most verdant dew-bound grass and the brightest and most colorful flowers their doe eyes had ever seen. The trees yawned and stretched their weary branches as the world was bathed in a beauty and glory previously unknown to man and beast. And, as the sun shone warm and soft on the weary backs of the wide-eyed ponies, pairs of dove-like wings slowly budded and took form. Slowly, hesitantly at first, they flapped their angels’ guise, wobbly hovering to and fro. Then, with the crimson adventurer’s spirit ablaze in each of their breasts, the little winged ponies, as one, took to the skies and soared amongst the clouds, eager to explore this marvelous land, this brave new world, anew.