どくがんりゅう の 軍記物語

Make Me What I was Supposed

More then a thousand years ago Kazutaka Muraki had been forgotten. How his deranged mother had dug up a millennium old, middling porno manga he would never know. Even less how she had developed a crush on the antagonist to the degree that it had become an obsession.


She hadn’t wanted a son, she had wanted a lover. Somewhere in that rotted brain of hers their blood relation had either slipped awareness or didn’t matter. At least her obsession had meant there was plenty of material present in the house to discover who he was made to be. Who he didn’t want to be.

He hadn’t killed anyone. Still.
The veneer was cracked, though. While some languished in the developmental and social deprivation of isolated living, he had relished it. No one touched him except in martial practices. No one was his friend. No one was his lover. All the latent psychotic episodes-waiting-to-happen had been safely averted and kept at bay. He was not Muraki, whatever appearances might argue. He had his own name, his own life, and he was living almost normally.

Then there was Yuuki.
And now everything was fucked.

There were stained hands flatted against his chest in the shadows of dreams. Shaking, bloody fingers. Yuuki was before him, laid flat on a table and his legs were wrapped around …Muraki’s…hips. It was not himself. It could not be.

Yuuki’s arms were tourniqueted. Slow-leaking slits up from armpit to wrist. No wonder his hands shook. The will alone to move his arms was delicious, and he took him harder in those moments, feeling heat against his own thighs and the act smoothen as Yuuki choked. He was bleeding inside now.

Such dreams. He shook he head. How long had he been staring at the wall terminal? Everyone must know it was over. He may as well be calling yuuki by that other name, tsuzuki was it? He couldn’t remember. It must be why Yuuki appeared on no searches, no inquiries turned up his name, location, anything. He was hidden somewhere within Babylon, but blessings and curses, he was kept from his sight.

Maybe he would be lucky and die in a mission outside. He had put in to be sent to Mars, let them be merciful and grant it. He was tired of shadows in the night, the waking in a hot sweat with his heart pounding and a painfully full erection. Tired of the empty release of his own hand.

The council wouldn’t give him Yuuki, and he didn’t, in what was left of him, want to hurt the other man who had considered bedding him. No one else would have him. Being alone was just madness now, and he needed it to stop. He needed to die, and he hoped honourably. Doing something good…saving someone or something instead of tearing it apart.

Phenotypic Differences

The whole complex referred to him now as ‘the oni’. There wasn’t even a pretense of genetic humanity, whatever a computer could have argued, and he had to agree with that. ‘Phenotypic differences’ was a catch phrase that kept scrolling from what they called Delilah in debate with Dr. Eidokan and Dr. Wellsworth. He though it meant something to the effect of the differences being skin deep. It was a load of shit, and anyone with eyes in their head could tell that much.

Which may be the problem for the AI, it had neither a head, nor eyes. Cameras didn’t really count. Having a body must make a difference, just from the sheer difference in output and input interfacing.

Shiroishi thought everyone must have some of the same questions. What were Oni, exactly? What made them different? What could they do differently? No one wanted to leave it at a ‘if you see one, you know it is one’. They all wanted a definition, like from a book or screen, that could tell them what to expect from the creatureman that stood more solid then the gate the military men had podged together.

He was thinner then he should be. Whatever hard times had stripped Yuuki-sama had done the same to the giant. It was an ongoing siege, too, since he couldn’t have been eating enough since then in the ration conditions of the complex. Japanese would never take more then their share; they were raised with the survival of the group over the needs of the individual.

It was only a half-correct way of thinking, really. Pack was necessary, and more successful as a means of survival, but hierarchy had its demands…the weak and useless should get less. In famine, they would die and the others wouldn’t be burdened. The strong should not starve for their benefit.

Hideo had collapsed a week and two days before. Rana had not eaten or taken drink in five days. His ribs were plain like walls stripped to corrugation. He seemed like something out of a dream, hard-knot muscles rendered extreme in wood and set outside some shrine. He had been taken to a shrine by his grandmother when he was five. He couldn’t remember much, but the statues outside had frightened him. They weren’t real, and neither was the oni in the gate some thirty feet away. Dr. Wellsworth insisted that humans could only live for a week without water, even though he also insisted that Rana was not a human. They should make up their minds faster.

How often did oni have to eat? How the statues and Rana looked seemed the normal image. Were they usually starved? Was it starvation? Maybe they could go longer times without eating or drinking, if they came from far reaches. There might not be abundant resources. He was certain they ate people. People, at least, could be plentiful. Wars would be harvest. What did they eat the rest of the time?

They did have an answer that Oni could stand awake, alert, and on guard longer then humans. Rana had taken no drugs, but for five days he’d been standing there looking evil and was perfectly alert to whether anyone dared approach to interrupt. He didn’t speak much, but would order that “proximity is dangerous.”

So oni could go for a long time without sleep and keep working. They could last at least 5 days without food or water. They were huge. They were stronger then humans. They live in caves and have claws that can cut stone. This one, at least, was territorial.

Which made Shiroishi worry, were there more?

The Moment Rescue Comes

Oceans moved with the tides, drawn by moons. Unseen puppet strings to lead them along sandy roads. Passed dead man’s crabs and bodies, sunken ships, coral graveyards and fish with halos. Lantern to lure the unwary. Light was a lie.

Light-blind, the teeth behind were invisible until the jaws were already shut and the hot wet running down kicking legs and struggling ribs. Sand stuck in wounds and caked. Drowned. The drowned men were dead men.

Dead and walking

Talking, stalking

Sulking, should be, wanted to be, could be would rather be

Flying. Soaring, singing.

There was only Noise

Noise, noise and the noise noise was outside while no words or colours except red dwelt inside only silence

Back to suffering.

Scratching? Came a scritch scritch crash upon the chamber and it shook his bones. The crunching bones, his own ribs gnawed out from inside Quiet. It had crawled in and he could not stop it. Crash. again.

Rock fell but did not hurt, had no weight underwater to impede the great steps that vibrated through the floor. It was no man. A demon, real, had come. He was damned.

Gathered, gathered. Lifted up like hands thrust into fallen petals and there was still no sound but the bull-breath of the living evil that crouched. Shadowed? There was a boy…girl? Boy? There. Painted soft and whiteRed hues and dressed for Murasaki’s tea and Igo.

Oh, it stirred, stretched. Why did they speak? His jaw would come off with much more and he would not sing again, unless the dead could. Hideo, he could smell Hideo. He wanted to kiss him again, with unmarred, memory lips and feel him warm and hard beneath him. In him. To hear that old name said with neither an r or an l, harsh in the deeps of inaka Japanese throats and yet melodious. Like the name itself was a supplication. Wrapped in white feathers and light, and loved. Free and loved as more then a technical achievement, a soldier, a teacher…he had been just himself. It hadn’t mattered what that self was, it was simply allowed and prayed to with staff and mantra. Rhythm, heat, tears and seed.


A Man Kissing Yoshimitsu

Hideo was going. Tsubasa felt cold and impersonal in his looming as he directed the chair from behind. They were going back to his room. If he were at a park the carnie would guess his weight 30 lbs over. He wasn’t really in a hover chair. He was a floating seed, curled, being ushered down a metallic hall by a man-made angel.

Tsubasa wouldn’t appreciate the image. He had been making out with Hideo, after crying, after all that. The Thing was being loaded onto a ship, Grayson was a demon or who knew what with no chance of anything, and he had been snogging a man. Everything was perfect. Perfect in every way. Maybe the metal walls and sliding doors, solitary confinement, cafeteria and soldiers…it all was perfectly matched with a high security funny farm. They’d been talking about rape and hell, reincarnation and a dead demon, or something, like it was all the most normal shit in the world. Hideo had laughed. And I want to be kissing a man. More then that. To the sound of the door sliding open, Tsubasa laying him on his bed, he felt the sicky, bile ball rise in his throat. The seraph had a waste bin in front of him the moment he shifted to try to get off the bed. There wasn’t much there, the chirashizushi bits and tea. Tsubasa pet between his shoulders. “Fast-”He managed between dry heaves, the last of it gone while his muscles had a royal freak out. “It could be worse.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Yeah, he could be gutted again and laying in his own intestine again. He wasn’t going to complain about some dry heaves, other then it Fucking Hurt. When things Hurt, you expressed that fact if you weren’t trying to prove your balls of steel to someone. “There are only two stories to tell in life, Yoshi. Ones where you spend the whole time trying to forget what you’ve already read, and ones where you can’t remember anything beyond a certain point, but you can see the glued pages or missing and torn edges where they used to be …meaning you spend the rest of the book trying to find out what was in them. " “What….” The heaves weren’t stopping. “Delilah, replicator, muscle relaxant quick release.” Tsubasa had retrieved the air-injector from the replicator tray before Yoshi’s eyes, even with their augments, could record the motion. The nozzle was pressed, cold, to his belly. Like a gun to the already inflamed wound that had festered while Dr. Chen had hauled him along. He could have died then. Should have. He wouldn’t have to be dealing with all this shit if he had. He would have gone out after a gun fight, after seeing Hideo again and knowing that Rana and Damocles and San were being carted off to whatever new life was beyond the tunnels of Undercity. He had just been with Kitten. He’d been really confused, but kinda happy. “Yoshi.” “Un” “Be glad you remember his face. Its all greetings and partings, and you still have more to do. " “The fuck? " He didn’t need another pep talk. And there was no way he was going to end up kissing Tsubasa. Not like Tsubasa wasn’t one of the kingpin freako’s in the joint. “It isn’t that simple.” “You can’t figure it out anyway. " Yoshi hit him, as hard as he could, across his face. There was a smear of blood from some opened knuckles, but Tsubasa wasn’t surprised or phased. He probably could have dodged it. “Yoshi, accept your feelings, that is all you can do with them. Sometimes there isn’t a solution. " “That’s fucking different then being too dumb.” “Sorry.” Just because it was true, didn’t mean it needed said. He hadn’t ever fucked with Tsubasa. "So is that what you’re going to do? Can you just accept your shit and move on? What the hell is your deal, anyway? I didn’t say ‘hey, Tsubasa, get up in my shit and be my fucking councilor.’ " “My shit has to do with what I was made into, what is inside me. Machine and man, and whatever other curses my maker deigned to place on my model. " “You were Juliet-ing for your Romeo when you though Hideo was dead, but I don’t see you getting the fuck over all that. You just stand there and stoner instead of getting on his jolly-roger.” “I’m not gay, Yoshi.” Tsubasa stood, and took the waste bin to the sink to rinse while the yakuza flopped over on the bed again. "I haven’t fully accepted what has happened, no. But at least I know I have to. You didn’t know and are just circling around, like a lost pigeon in a mall, with your grief. " “Besides, "Tsubasa set the bin on the floor again, turning to go, "the Yuuki Hideo I knew and wanted to fuck is as much a fairytale as your cleaner is now. "
Vae Victis

“Good Morning”

Parroting was the correct response, but on-board systems indicated that it was, in fact, late evening. The phrase was facetious, hints of fruity sarcasm and genuine pleasure mixed with personal pride and sense of accomplishment. It was more precisely ’You’re awake." Pointing out the discrepancy served nothing but annoyance, and being awake at all was something of a victory.

The lab was different, mostly because it wasn’t the lab at all. Dr. Ozaki’s fat face was haloed with incandescent light. The ceiling wasn’t cold, glossy tiles, but translucent, living granite that had been patterned ostentatiously with knotwork and precious metals.


The good doctor grinned again. “Oh good, the brogue seems less. Say something else.”

Redundancy. Not answering a question was an obvious way to prompt the asker to further, if frustrated, speech. "Where is this. "

“Maybe gone even.”

There was a faint flashing, like a someone using a red laserpointer to morse code his brain through his visual feed. His claws’ locks clicked in his fingers with the Safety mode. Do not harm or injure Amakusa corp employees.

“Eaaaasy. Eaaaaaaasy, " the doctor pet his limbs, cuing some field interactions and an endorphin release in his brain.

“Where is here?”

“You’re the only they got out before the labs were destroyed. Its going to be up to three of you until the new equipment is finished and suitable raw materials-”


“-ah. .. . . .. are located and the designs reinitialized.”

“where is here?”

“Your GyPS should be able to pinpoint it. You are networked. "

Mention of it brought the text scroll up, a nanosecond flash of a location and town name that didn’t immediately have any meaning. It wasn’t Earth, the Moon, or Mars.

In the Darkest Home

Respite was a loose definition of the transfer to Demodocus. The base was smaller than even Antioch, less manned and possibly more remote by less official specifications. More people likely inhabited the Faroe Islands than Greenland, and there were more villages, but the base was deeper and not truly even connected to the landmasses nearby.

Yuuki would hate the place; many of the ceilings and walkways were of the more recent Opentech, using bionano reinforcement to a living polymer that acted like glass by being clear and liquid, but shifted itself constantly and with intelligence necessary to maintain and grow itself. The whole of the vast sea was invisible, and the light of the sun shone not even as a haze glow. Invisible, that distant roof some two-and-a-half miles away with its fish and whales and life and the islands that moored there. The short walks were usually kept lightless, though there were dim tracks along the edges to be keyed on if they were wanted. Light attracted attention. But it wasn’t this that struck him as inimical to the young warrior. Rather the palpable feel of the water, the weight of its dark presence in the back of the throat that sat in his sinuses and made breathing shallow for his three assistants who had agreed to come along. It was a place so deep that it became akin to the lack of presence of space.

Only the mecha in the close hangar provided a slow, ponderous way out as necessitated by the sporadic pauses required for the equipment and the human body to adjust to the levels of pressure. Each Brondal-class could carry six passengers, and there were three. 17 people made up Caduceus’ entire world. Four of the Crew had been stationed at Demodocus for a year, prior to their arrival, carrying out research on pressure resistant technology for the partition exodus to the dwarf planet of Pluto. They were drear, quiet folk who had become somewhat incestuous in their isolation. The few soldiers that had come, a set of twins and a transfer from Antioch, had quickly removed themselves from any association with the ‘natives’.

It was only a matter of time before they all followed suit. It wouldn’t be as limited a pool, but most humans gravitated at some point in their dealings with tension and environmental restrictions by turning to sexual relief. It would all work out well, regardless of the isolation of Dr. Beorwith, Veldwore, Massonway and Massonway. Their foursome was established and well working. His assistants may find the soldiers beds.

His bed was already claimed, active pursuit or no.

Kilkenny reached down and curled a lock of gold around his fingers. Caduceus was ‘sleeping’, more because he enjoyed being still, quiet, and heavy with the feel of his Creator’s lap beneath him then actually needing the activity. It was massively unusual for an AI of any kind to not only weather periods of little interaction, let alone relish them. On the whole, Caduceus was a study in the sheer amount of possible residual effects a given body could have on the cyborg or potential AI it housed.

“Caesar?” The mumble was preceded by a soft moan, and the ‘r’ was almost wholly dropped. It would always be a regret that he could not see the colour of blue that opened up at him, nor read the expression there. Relying on the native AI, Precia, to collect data on the expanding use of expressions was dodgy at best.

“Shh, I did not mean to wake you. I was just admiring.” He untangled the strands from his finger and started to withdraw his hand.

Caduceus had learned to move like a human outside of training exercise, but deliberately moved fast enough to catch the retreating hand, “It is not disturbing.” But instead of back to his hair, Caduceus brought the captured hand to his collar, petting the fingers flat along it. Touch me.

Kilkenny decided he may have been too quick to judge that contemporary interest in his affections was not active. The AI was still, waiting, without breath or heartbeat to warn others’ intuition. They had finished the exposures to the college baccalaureate levels three days ago regarding the developmental knowledge of social behaviors and academic learning. “You’re wondering if I do not start to move my hand because I do not want you.”

Caduceus shifted, turning on his side so that the hand slid from his neck.

“You don’t want a lesson now, but you need one. Do you know what you want? What you intend with those hopes? “

“I want you to love me. “

“You want me to make love to you, or to be made love to. But you haven’t decided which. You don’t have the necessary function, Caduceus. Your Jehova’s Apple is designed to instigate a serotonin release when good sources touch you, or caress you, but you cannot get erect or ejaculate. There is no release. “

“You’re excusing yourself from either loving a dead body, or from loving a man.”

Kilkenny smiled, startled. It was a precise conclusion, perhaps arrived at before the decision to try anyway. The development was happening unprecendently fast. Risks. “No, I don’t want you to be hurt if I can come and you can’t. “

“I want to see you like that. I want to be the reason for it. I want you to love me, not just make love.”

“And my wants?”

“You never say what you want or think. You stay at a professor’s remove from the subject. Passionate, pointing out all the angles, but never what you yourself believe.”


“It’s good for research and not influencing the development of the subject.” There was a bite in his voice, a dangerous nasal draw that meant Caduceus was probably sneering.

No, not subject. That is dangerous and close to old paths through that brain. “As a father to son, I want you to become strong, clever, wise and patient. Exemplary. But your own skills must be developed for that. I am sorry you feel distanced from me. I do love you, Caduceus. I was just lamenting that I cannot see you. How many men get to spend every day with such a creature? Something so beautiful and quick, and speak with it and teach it. I do not want to hurt you. I always worry that I may. “

It was usual, all the circumstances and signs, that Caduceus would come to love his ‘father’. The AI shifted again, up to hands and knees from the feel of the weight distribution. His long fingers brushed on either side of Kilkenny’s thighs. “I am ready for this. It hurts more to not touch you. “

“Does it?”

There was a long pause while Caduceus was calculating exact sensations. “Yes.”
A shift in weight again and long fingers slid along Kilkenny’s jaw and pet back until the steady hands cupped his face. Caduceus shifted nearer, straddling his lap. “Let me receive you, Caesarian.”

Exposing him to all the aspects of human life through high school and college may have been a mistake on my part. It had been years since anyone had touched him so earnestly or gently. The rush of heat to his cheeks and lips was embarrassing, the rush to his groin, dizzying. “You’ll be very good at seduction.”

Caduceus leaned in so that Kilkenny’s chin was rested on the dip between his own and his lower lip. His words brushed soft against the doctor’s thinner lips. “Seduction has the implications of multiple lovers.”

Where did you learn that? It was an unusual way to speak, creative. Kilkenny closed his eyes. That was fast. From ‘waking’, to brief words, and now he is straddling me. What happened to that lesson? Where did that go?

Return to Mars

Making for City ACDL, in the 32nd district of Marathon, a ruin, and has been abandoned since the establishing of the alliances of mars. From there he plans to take Orphero and Phaedean’s remains to the abandoned research dome-complex MachG-007. It is far out, in american territory of Mars, hours from the metropolis of Revere (new boston).


Transported to Mars by P&G through babylonian connections.


Is to get to the small undercity called Kurokabe, a blackwall district, highly illegal undertrade with no windows in the peripheries of where they were running after stealing tsubasa from Setsuna. The Jesuits were to drop him off in Nagahama, a satellite suburb city of shinosaka, and he was to make his way to Kurokabe an agent of Whitenoise there that would be waiting for him.


I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.