Story 1: (Post Script: As the format tells this will be by a third party (or birds view) of a story. Not told by anyone but to explain a backstory of this character to lead you further into his life.) The struggle of an enemy shall end where it started. In the tall grass, and for the most part, alone. The unfamiliar scratches on his thick ash grey skin goes unnoticed by his depression of loss. He had only days ago, according to the gate keepers friendly robot servant two and a half, wondered in to his false salvation. At the same time that ate away at him, something else was too. He was hungry, starving from his over stay at the place he wants to know nickname "lost hope". His arrogant old troop, or "Nest" as they had called it, had only taught him a few things that are now useful to him. Don't repeat mistakes, anything that moves is food, and if the liquid solution smells, don't drink from it. He sat down on a boulder by a river he had spotted while on the walls side. It seemed clean and a great source of food. With his dull, dented knife in one hand he watched the shadows in the water. He carefully measured his stabbing angle, and raised his foot just out of the waters rim. Swiftly he pounded his foot. The shadow moved as he stabbed down. The body of the liquid loving specimen was on the end of his knife, yet didn't want to give up. It tried to get away with a pound against his shin, but he shook the strike off and twisted his knife sideways. Removing something from the body. It floated down the stream, just out of his reach, as he dragged the heavy corpse onto the shore line. He had never seen anything like it. This was his new hope. He could live on his own. He saw a future in this clear mucus covered, to use less descriptives, thing. He wanted to name it the grossest thing in his vocabulary. The only words that he could thing of were "Dekruu", which surprisingly was the name of his now desist elder. He thought for a moment to himself. "If that was his name. What was mine?" He had only been called a few things in his life. One was his soldier name, Vandal Code D:19_3990, or just 3990, and the occasional "ranked private Vi." That sounded familiar and had a nice roll off his tongue. He smiled to the delight of his face skin wrinkling under the pressure of his hyped emotion. He stood up from cleaning his Dekruu and announced to himself. "I am Vikhu! My name is Vikhu!" Those words had escaped his memory for ten years now. He hadn't heard it since he was enrolled at the age of 12. His celebration was short lived though. As soon as be yelled that a splinter from the tree behind him flew into the side of his face and a noise bouncing off the oak rattled his hearing. He gained his hearing back and looked up with a shaky vision. "I though we told you to get the hell out of here." Another abusive blow struck his head. He was gone now, and asleep he would be for a while.