Gifflenberg, despite experiencing what many would consider a plethora of apocalypse-tier events within the last day, was quiet and peaceful this evening. It was dark in the sky not due to soot or due to clouds or the impact of a meteor, or at least not any more - now it was dark due to revolving of the planet Nomachiato, and the presently visible moons hung in the sky like three glowing coins of joy.

It seemed, almost, to be a perfect evening. Save for one sound. A sound that was shrill, a sound that was jarring, and a sound that was ultimately altogether distracting.

Many folks had no idea where it was coming from, and most of them did not care to know, either. After all, the previous day had been hell on Nomachiato, and everyone was just happy they were alive. Still, if you stepped outside, you could hear it from most any part of the downtown area.

Now, sometime the sound was fainter than others. Especially on the south side of town, you could really barely hear it. Still, it was there. It was never not there. Well, okay, if you were in Outer Gifflenberg, you probably wouldn't hear it. But you couldn't hear much in Outer Gifflenberg over the sound of all the backfiring transport pods and illegal fire elemental explosion blasters, of which many folks in Outer Gifflenberg were quite fond of.

So, what was it?

Jimothy War Magerson III was a young, angry little boy. Jimothy, or Jim as he was called by his friends - he was called Mothy by his enemies - didn't like a lot of things. He detested soup, he hated spiders, and he could not stand his family. Well, except his dad. His dad was his idol, and many figured his dad hated his family, too - so, in a way, they were well aligned there.

Mothy was eighteen years young. He was a strong, stubborn boy whose mental imagery could be summed up with a large fist. He had a mother and five sisters, and he wanted them all to go away from him forever - while at the same time, he had a strange feeling that he would lay down and die for all of them. Then again, Mothy wondered sometimes if that impulse was instead just his own misplaced desire to lay down and die for the sake of it. He was, if nothing else, simply miserable - and looking for reasons to be more miserable.

Mothy was exceptionally powerful. He had a system, because of course he did - he was his father's only son, he had to have a system. He had living wood all over his hands, just like his dad. And he had some pretty wicked [skills], too.

Everything went downhill for Mothy - well, it is fair to say things were always headed downhill for him, but everything went more downhill for Mothy - when he got notice that his father, Jimothy War Magerson Junior, was back home from heading out to fight a strange interloper who'd stolen a canoe. Why was he so mad, exactly?

"Dad, you said you'd take me with you next time they send you out to dispatch a fugitive!" said Mothy with a voice full of vitrol. "But you went and dispatched them without me! That's so unfair, I mean, it's bullshit, Dad!"

"Yes, well, next time I feel like you're ready to come with me when they send me out to dispatch a fugitive, I will." He sighed and shook his head. Jimothy War Magerson Junior was, after this reaction, absolutely relieved that he had not taken his son with him to dispatch the fugitive. After all, it had been a serious battle, and he'd even taken some damage. Other people were even spouting rumors about the fugitive not being dead. It was all very embarassingh for the older man, not to even mention the fact that he could not bear the presence of his son and, above all else, wanted to be away from him.

"But Dad! That's not what you said! That's bullshit!"

"Stop saying that everything is bullshit, son. Seriously, I swear to the gods, it's about the only word that comes out of your mouth these days. Your mother prepares you a nice, warm meal? Bullshit. I help you fill out your enrollment application for pre-pre-post-post-fourth-dary-school? Bullshit. We take you to see your grandparents? Bullshit. I get you that pod you wanted? Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, son, all I ever hear from you is bullshit. It's exhausting." Jimothy War Magerson Junior buried his head in his hands. He knew that an onslaught of poorly thought explanations and excuses would soon be hurled his way. It was actually one of his son's [skills] to quickly think of excuses, which was another embarassment to a man whose entire bloodline was known for strictly overpowered, combat-based [skills].

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"But Dad! That dinner Mom made was soup and I hate soup because it's bullshit. And that enrollment application wasn't for pre-pre-post-post-fourth-dary-school, it was for pre-pre-post-post-fourth-dairy-school. I don't want to go to a dairy school, Dad, I'm lactose intolerant because lactose is bullshit. And grandma and grandpa own a bull farm so there's bull shit everywhere when we go to visit them and it got all over my nice new sneakers. And that pod that you got me had, like, fifteen leaking inner vine valves that cost like five hundred pence to fix, and that bill was bullshit."

"Yes, well, I'm sure all of that was very accurate, but honestly, son, I wasn't listening," said Jimothy War Magerson Junior nonchalantly. He was starting to feel detached from the whole situation, like he was having an out of body experience. How had he allowed his life to reach this less than ideal state? How could he go on like this? The pain was almost too much to bear.

"You know, dad, that's a bunch of bullshit. I'm your son, you ought to at least care about what I have to say. And with that, might I add, I heard people saying on the radio shell that the fugitive might still be alive. That nobody saw their death recorded on a system, so there's no way to know. Is that true? Do you know whether you dispatched them, or is it all bullshit, Dad?"

"Seriously, stop talking about bullshit, son. It's too much, and it's irritating me to no end."

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!"

Jimothy War Magerson Junior looked out the wide, grimy window - it wasn't like Mothy had ever put forth the effort to clean his room in any way, of course - and sighed. This was, really, unbearable. This was his only son? Jimotyh War Magerson Junior felt sick to his stomach.

"Hey, honey, can you come help me with the dishwashing pool?" called Mothy's mother from downstairs. "Its water enchantment seems to be malfunctioning again."

"Gods damnit!" Jimothy Junior yelled and slammed his fist into the wall, leaving a big hole.

"Dad! Don't punch my walls up! Now I have to patch it, and that's bullshit!"

Jimothy Junior turned to his son, knelt down, and grabbed him by the chest. "Listen to me, son, and listen to me well, because this is the last thing you'll ever hear from me. I do not give a flying fuck about your bedroom wall. I don't care about what you think is and isn't bullshit. And you want to know something else? I've heard the rumors about the fugitive, too. It's massively ruining my reputation. I am all torn up inside. I feel like I'm getting devoured by the worms of doom, son. I feel like I'm being eaten away at."

"Dad..." Mothy looked uncomfortable. "Come on, Dad, you don't mean all that... Surely it's just a bullshit rumor anyway..."

"No! It's not! It's not bullshit, son! I have an expanded system radius. It's one of my [abilities]. And I would've seen a message if the fugitive died. I never saw a message. And that means that I failed. I don't fail, son, and I failed. Do you understand what this means?"

Mothy frowned as he tried to think. "That the concept of failure is only a transient thing and that with perserverance and dedication a failure only becomes a stepping stone to future success?"

"Wrong." Jimothy Junior looked to the window. "It means that I have nothing left to live for. My life is in irreperable shambles, and I hate it, and I hate myself. Goodbye."

Before Mothy could say anything, his father leapt through the window, shattering glass everywhere as he disappeared into the night. Mothy stood there in shock, eyes wide open and jaw wide. He ran to the sahttered window and peered out into the darkness. He called out for his father a few times, but heard nothing.

Mothy frowned. And then, he got angry. He could feel the anger boiling up inside his chest as if it were some sort of a cauldron. How could this happen? How could some stupid fugitive ruin his chances at having a relationship with his father? Clearly, this was all the fugitive's fault. Mothy hated criminals, because crime was bullshit, so maybe it was time for him to focus his energies on shifting gears and finding out whether the rumors were true.

Yes, that was the idea to stick to. Mothy would determine whether the fugitive was alive or not, and if they were, he would dispatch them. It was the least he could do.

With that, Mothy finally smiled. Then, he took as deep a breath as he could muster and began to bellow in much the same way he'd heard his father do before - although he had a different word in mind that his Dad's trademark war cry.

"REVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

On and on did Mothy yell, and throughout Gifflenberg it was heard, and to those that heard it, it inspired irritation, impatience, and potentially some bullshit. However, about half an hour or so later, it finally ended.

"-EEEEEEEENGE."

With that, the cry was complete, and Mothy's goal was defined. He was going to find this fugitive and make them pay for what they'd done. Surely, after that, his father would come back, welcoming him with open arms.