This story is fan-fiction made in the Grimdark Future universe, by One Page Rules.

The grunts almost looked harmless as they nosed through the underbrush, searching for who knew what. Tamryn swallowed his nervousness; they would look harmless until the moment they shrieked and charged at you with claws and teeth bursting out of their bodies like a snap-trap. Some of them could even fire their claws out of their hands — at least, that was the scuttlebutt. Tamryn didn’t believe it; he knew it was the experienced veteran’s privilege to lie to the new recruits. His older sister had told him it was both a rite of passage and a way for veterans to remind recruits that for all the training the Guild gave them, they didn’t actually know anything. There were some things only experience could teach you.

Tamryn’s grip tightened on his iron blaster. He wouldn’t have minded more experience before this operation. How strong were the null-pheromones? Could he sweat through them? Would the grunts attack if he got any closer? The squad was under orders; engage and then withdraw. Only fire his weapon in obvious self-defense. They were orders that made no sense to him, but that was the point of being a solider; you were a cog in a vast machine. The cogs didn’t know what the machine was doing, they knew only when and how to turn. That was what it meant to be a Dwarven soldier; serve well, bring honor to the Guild, and trust that someone knew what the machine was doing.

More and more, recently, it was getting harder to hold to that faith.

This story is fan-fiction made in the Grimdark Future universe, by One Page Rules.

Horva ith Irnwuld stared over the darkened forest at the distant horizon of the Maldadori Gap. The fog was dark with a hint of green, and the air was sour in the nostrils, the familiar signs of Hive industry. The scientists called it terraforming, but Horva had fought Hive infestation for years, and had seen the devastation left after the Hive moved on. It wasn’t terraforming, it was digestion.

She had grown used to the smell, though she was not proud of the fact. Her expertise had come at the cost of thousands of good men and women. If their charge were correct, if there really some way to end the fighting…

At first she had been skeptical. No, that was selling it short; at first she had been dismissive. Their own war-scientists had been studying the Hive for decades, and every report had been the same; they were highly advanced animals, acting on instinct and emergent hive-behavior. They communicated mostly through pheromones and growls, and there were no signs of sentience, let alone sapience, in individual beings.

I’ve had an…interesting relationship with fan-fiction over the years.

I will admit, I was quite dismissive of the genre at first. Not the effort or the results, but the desire to tell a story in another person’s playground. Every fan-fiction story out there could be re-written with minimal changes in a new universe; why copy someone else’s? It was a kind of plagiarism in my eyes; a kind of laziness.

A lot of this, I think, came from my social issues. The idea of inserting yourself was — well, still is — frightening. You aren’t the original “official” writer of Star Trek; if you wrote a story about the crew of the Enterprise, you might get it wrong.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a silly mindset when you think about how many times the official IP has “gotten it wrong,” and that’s even before you question the whole idea of a story “being wrong” in the first place. I was young and stupid.

CW: Casual discussion of catastrophe and a callous disregard for victims of tragedy.

Some men just want to watch the world burn. ~ Alfred Pennyworth

Excerpt from the Autobiography of William Forthman, Chapter VI — My Years as a Critic.

My first taste of the bouquet of human suffering occurred with the Columbine shootings on the 20th of April, 1999. A simple black and white photo from the security cameras that displayed two youths with dead eyes exploring the human condition. Something in the pose of the child on the right, leg extended and arm bent, reminded me of a dancer poised to pirouette.

I was so fascinated by this picture that I started hunting down old photographs of catastrophes. History books were a prime source for me; I found Vietnam and the second World War, I found Cambodia and Apartheid. I poured over photos and recordings with a glee that frankly surprised me until I spoke with a sommelier friend of mine. She was explaining the intricacies and bouquets of the different grapes when I realized I was becoming a Connoisseur of Human Suffering.

A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men. ~ Willy Wonka

Wilberforse Heinrich Lampozza Mondavi was born on May 23rd, 2020, in London, England. Reportedly, he did not cry nor laugh much as a child, though his nannies and doctors and teachers all reported an apparent interest in everything.

He did not speak until he was five, long after most children had uttered their first words, and reportedly his first word was ‘Schadenfreude,’ the German word for pleasure felt at another’s pain. This was considered doubly odd, for Wilberforse had never been given access to any German nannies, teachers, or media of any kind.

Please read my last post before reading this one, I’m kinda jumping in the middle of a train of thought.

A train of thought that began: in Grimdark Future, you can make the argument that anyone can be a “good guy,” depending on your perspective. Good’Nuff Gaming mentions this as a pretty key point for grimdark, as you aren’t supposed to have good guys in grimdark.

Now, in Warhammer 40k you could make the argument that the Space Marines are the “good guys,” or are at least not nearly as “bad guys” as everyone else. Sure, they’ll burn heretics, but the Tyranids, Necrons, and Orks want to genocide humanity. The Chaos Gods have plans that are even worse than genocide, so being alive in an Imperial dystopia is better than death and/or eternal torment, right?

In a pure Grimdark setting, that would be an open question. The peace of the grave might be preferable to the unending machine of the Imperium, and the torment of the Chaos Gods little different than the dead Emperor’s oppressive fist. Either way, the universe will look pretty much the same no matter who “wins.” In a weird way, the ideal in the universe of Warhammer is this constant war; the instant someone wins the dystopian universe will get even worse.

The Monarch detected a charming personality hidden underneath his ragged clothes…~ Filipino Folk Tale

And so it came to pass, that in the old land of Dup, children, when the sun was fresh as a new daffodil, and the fish swam like birds through the creamy rivers, and the skies were filled with feathered beasts of all colors and sizes and shapes; when the land was so giving as to require only an hour of work a day for a farm to receive a crop of rice so pure as to be gold; when no woman was foul of skin, or wore hair lighter than purest midnight, and when no man was feeble, simple, or unable to support his family, and when no child would ever dream of dishonoring his filial duties; Here, in old Dup came Young Keh.

Keh was a poor child, having lost his parents to a vicious troll not one summer before, and had wandered across Dup, searching for a family ever since. He was a kind boy, and fair of face, but his clothing ragged from poverty, and he had nothing with which to buy food. His hunger was satiated only on the kindness of strangers, and it seemed to Keh that whenever a young knight or lost girl would offer him but a scrap of food, some fairy or spirit would appear to bless the knight or girl with riches beyond Keh’s dreams for their kindness and charity. He was glad he could help bring fortune to so many, but sometimes, in the dark of the night when his stomache ached, he wished the fairies and spirits would give him just a small piece of fortune too.

I first found the ‘Glass-Half-Question Joke’ in as a child, in Gary Larson’s The Far Side. At its simplest, the joke was generally structured in threes. First the optimist, then the pessimist, then a third classification that was the punchline. Some had four or five, each punchline building on the last. I had collected one or two of these through college that I had found quite funny, and then just started writing them down whenever I found them. These are the only ones that stuck around, and so I’ve posted them here.

I told you that last story so I could tell you this one.

This happens a lot. An idea gets stuck in my head and I work backwards. Eventually I want to talk about the idea, but I have to then start at the end and work my way to the beginning of my thoughts. Brains are strange things.

So, let’s talk about a specific genre: Grimdark.

What is grimdark?

I’ll be honest. A lot of this whole mini-series of posts is a result of me watching this video. I’ve used the term grimdark before, always with a fairly clear idea of what the term meant, and this video got me thinking about it more than I had before, and not only because they use a different definition than I do.

NOTE: As an experiment, many years ago, I decided to do some free associative writing. Words that connected in my brain were written down without filter. This worked relatively well for the beginning, but soon the surreal disjointed words shifted into poetic expression. That wasn’t the point of the exercise, and nowadays it does little more than underscore how depressed I actually was. Instead of rubbing our noses in depressive self-expression, I edited that section out and combined two attempts into one.

Ask my Know. He were no cigarette.

A start. Beginning at the crest of the flowing river starts a rolling wave through green grass and brown bark framing the picture of space travel. Hopping through lobster bisque jumps green and smiling while running, fleeing, terrified of black shadows that creep from home. Dark eyes of glowing red coals flicker, dying in the fireplace with a smoky smell of tobbacco and harsh sandpaper on the throat. A tricking water flow lands, turning stone into worth and value.