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Contest Entry: Diabolus Ex Machina"We are the punishment of God, if you had not committed such great sin; then God would not have sent deliverers such as us"
The fields of sand and dead trees was buried under the red rivers that poured form the corpses of the Arrancar and Hollows that fell. Split and carved, decimated and turned to ashes. Nothing remained but dead bodies. No prisoners were taken, no information was needed, only bodies and lots of them.
There could not have been a more perfect assault. Flawless planning and flawless execution. The lords of death had swept in and taken anything that wore or resembled wearing a white mask. They had numbered in the hundreds, a small enough group but with significant figures involved. Fraccion were a plenty, even a few Privarron. They had been bloodthirsty troopers that died screaming the name of the false God.
They burned those that dear cry Aizen like the heretics of old.
Bob Butoukai wiped the blood off of her knuckles. She had deep gashes all over her, and her once char
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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