Duty

Corporal Kurihara was oblivious to the sweat coursing down his neck as he stared through the dark mass of foliage with implacable patience. His now-tattered fatigues hung like the limp, dank fronds around him. No one walking the barely present path would have noticed his motionless rifle.

It had been some considerable time since he'd last sighted the enemy. Nor, strangely, had there been any contact from HQ - but they would come to relieve him in due course.

As dusk shrouded the jungle, he mentally checked-off the date: August 30, 1946. It was a long war - that much was certain.

Uncertain Shores

An Observation Torpedo flashed past his ship as it looped crazily - and detonated. Its visblast tore into his locality. The fragile wave functions that spun like filigree whorls around him instantly collapsed, the set of possible realities reducing alarmingly.

Graeth's face remained impassive as his fingers danced through the control volumes; the Schrodinger Drive whined then shrieked like a frustrated toddler, redlining at seven megacats. A boundary condition edged closer - unseen - blazing cold and sharp.

Too close. It intersected the ship; Graeth's decoherence pattern smeared across the plane in complex glory.

It was no comfort that another, unreachable self survived.

Saurian Dissolution

Sir Gadsley stroked his not inconsiderable moustache, and regarded the slumbering dragon.

Magnificent creature, really. A monstrous furnace of destruction, wrapped in adamant scales and fuelled by inexhaustible greed.

Carefully, Gadsley unwrapped the giant wand that the wizard had given him to slay the dread wyrm. He still felt dubious about this “ancient artifact”; those kind of people were not entirely reliable. One knew that from experience. Still, he may as well try the blasted thing - if he wanted the King’s reward.

He peered again at the mysterious runes etched into its hard surface:

M1 Bazooka - This End Towards Enemy

Chef

"You need to add some marjoram."

"Not for this. What it needs is cardamom."

Shuka was a soft-spoken girl; no one had ever heard her raise her voice, and she hated it when others seemed angry with her. But she knew her culinary arts. They were the only thing that gave her confidence.

Mrabko frowned, then shrugged and reached for the clay pot.

The figure stirred and moaned, straining uselessly against the wire that bound him to the slow-turning spit. Shuka smashed him in the temple again with her rock.

Consciousness meant fear - and that would only spoil the meat.