Chop, chop, chop. The methodical sound of the axe cleaving through the wood calmed his stressed soul and relieved his worries. He put down his axe and stroked the wood, feeling every knot, every twist, every grain. It was whispering to him, telling him what it wanted to be, what it must be. This one would be a command table. He was sure. He set back to work with professional ease, the axe slicing through the wood as if it were made of water. Almost all the pieces were gathered now, and it was almost time to take them to the carpentry. He left the axe wedged into the stump, and it’s whetting stone next to it, for the next person to use. It was illegal to possess material goods in his culture. He took a map out of his pocket and glanced at it, swiftly locating his position. It read ‘Allocated to series 911.437- Claude’ on the back. Claude put the map back into his pocket and set off, weaving between felled stumps and whole trees. The trees towered into the sky, dwarfing all other signs of life, and making him feel small and unimportant. Leaf mulch covered the ground, signalling the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. A chill breeze drifted through the woods, causing Claude to tighten the cord of his Issue work clothes and march on. He came to the edge of the woods, and the barracks was laid out beneath him, like a three dimensional map.

The buildings were on ground level, but housing and accommodation were up in the trees, near the sentry towers, in case of raiders and the like. The majority of the place was taken up by facilities that have little and everything to do with wood. The city was split up into vicinities. Vicinity one was the armour and weapons depot, in the centre of the town, vicinity two was the Governmental vicinity, three was the wood choppers vicinity, four was the varnishing vicinity, five was the carving tools depot, six was the Goddess reader’s palace, seven was the chemical depot and eight was the surrounding walls and entrances. None of the main collective population owned anything. It was all owned by the Government officials and army commanders. Claude was heading for the wood choppers vicinity to deposit his days work. As he got to an entrance he flashed his woodchopper’s area code card, and was waved through. “What have you got today Claude”? One of the Gate Marshalls shouted,
“A command table for sure”! Claude shouted back, winking at the Marshall. “I’ve also got an appointment with the Senate! Can’t for the life of me think what I’ve done this time”!
Claude waddled down the street, arms full of wood and his tail carrying a basket of more wood. Claude glanced at his tail; it was the best tail in all of Iuona for all he cared. It was dark black, and glossy, but still as slim as the day he was born. It was slightly pointed at the end, and made for the Iuonian’s best short-range melee weapons. He walked down the street, whistling a happy tune, and smiling at people he walked past.

After twenty minutes of walking, he arrived outside of the wood depot when he realised something. He hadn’t seen anyone in five minutes, and he was suddenly struck by a feeling of depression and unhappiness. This was Iuonian’s gift and curse, they react to certain situations. They can empathise with anything, living or inanimate. He ran to the door of the Wood depot, and touched the door, it was hot. What Claude felt almost ripped his heart out from his chest. He could feel people trapped in there, wood dying and death spreading. He saw smoke pouring out from a gap underneath the door, and feeble fists attempting to smash down the door in vain. Claude noticed that someone had put a bar across the door. They’d then moved a heavy shop stand against the door so that in case the bar failed, it would still be impossible to get out. That was without assistance. Claude tried to move the stand but of the way, but after a few seconds he collapsed, exhausted. He looked behind the stand, and realised he might be able to squeeze behind it. It was a tight fit, but he managed it. He looked underneath. There was just enough space for him to fit his tail under; an idea was forming in his mind. He could only push the bar up to the top, but not over, so he tied some rope to the bar and stand. He then wedged his tail under the cart, and strained against it. He felt the small but strong muscles in his tail groan with exertion, and the door behind him was burning his back. He suddenly wrenched his tail upwards, and the stand was ripped from the ground, and flew across the square taking the bar with it. He felt a blazing pain in his head, and raised his hand up to touch the source of the pain. He felt a long shaft of wood sticking out, and black blood trickled down his arm. The darkness closed in, smothering him, choking him. He opened his eyes and saw a figure clad in gold peering into his eyes, his face was wizened and his eyes held a thousand secrets. Then all was gone in a cloud of red mist.

Light broke through; it looked as if it was coming through a filmy skin. Claude reached up and touched his eyes, starting to panic. A bandage was wrapped over them, and then he remembered. He felt the back of his head, and a sudden burning pain wracked his body, and he started to choke. He tasted blood on his lips, and then felt something soft brushing them. A soft, kind voice whispered into his ear “Sleep tight now Commander 911.437”, she whispered into his ear, leaving the soft scents of the moon leaf flower in his nose. He then tried to lift his tail, straining as hard as he could, but to no avail. He thought he heard faint screaming and explosions, but dismissed them as illusions of a disillusioned mind.

He was flying, flying above a place he felt he should remember, but couldn’t. All he could see was smoke and clouds, the smoke clogging his throat, making him choke. The clouds parted swiftly, and he caught sight of a devastated landscape, then they closed again with infinite swiftness. He plunged through the clouds, eyes wet with tears as he feels the onrush of smoke, death and destruction. It’s killing him, slowly but surely. He landed heavily on his feet, eyes shut to stop the smoke. He opened them, and was struck by the sight. Corpses littered the streets, in various stages of decomposition. He heard muffled explosions, tremors and the clash of weapon on armour. The building he was on was almost consumed by fire. He felt it lurch dangerously to one side, and heard a single, muffled scream coming from beneath him. He felt the floor give away, and he fell, landing hard on his side. He stood up, walking off the pain, sucking air into his smoke filled lungs. He doubled over, in a coughing fit. He stood up and noticed a young woman in the corner. She held a baby in her arms, which was too busy screaming to notice him. He gathered her and the babe in his arms, and moved towards the wall. More flaming debris fell where they had been less than a second earlier. They smashed down into the lower levels of the tree, causing it to pitch and sway even more. He jumped out of the building, kicking his way through the wall, jumping out into the unknown. On a whim of its own, his tail grabbed a branch near the lower levels. He felt the tree groan in annoyance, and felt several joints in his tail pop, but they were on the floor safely. For now.

He shrugged off the woman’s thanks, and trudged through the devastated streets. The trees and building where all dilapidated, all were scorched and a few harboured blood stains, and the memories of those who once dwelled there. He was too tired to remember anything, do anything, other than walk. And suddenly he was falling. It felt like ten metres, but it was only from his standing up position. He opened his eyes, and he was looking into the charred face of a deceased person. It’s blank, unfocused eyes told it’s tale of woe, war and retribution. The skin was flaking off, and crumbled to his touch. He had no idea what morbid possession had caused this momentary display of emotion, but he was shocked when the head came loose in his fingers. Something small and shiny dropped out, into the palm of his hand. It was a small, azure stone. He clasped it tight in his hand as he fell into a state of collective unconscious.

He awoke to that all familiar smell of earth and wood. He sat up and ripped the bandage from his head. Pain flared into life, but dimmed and faded as soon as he clenched his right hand into a fist. He felt a small object digging into his hand. He then felt the back of his head, but all he felt was dried blood. He pushed against his head, but could find no trace of a hole. As he took his hand away, dried blood flaked off, and settled on his shoulders. He realised he was naked, so he opened a wardrobe in the corner of the room. He saw some slightly crumpled army fatigues in the wardrobe, with Commander epaulettes on the shoulders. He knew that taking an unearned army status was one of the ultimate blasphemes, but then he glanced at his tail. It had some sort of green cast on it, making movement with it impossible. He took a small knife out of the belt of the uniform, and started chipping away at the cast. As he got down to the last two inches of the cast, something struck him. He looked at the end of his tail, namely the spike. It had a little indent in the side, the size and shape of a small pebble. He looked at the remains of the cast on the floor; a small green object glinted among the rubbish. It was his stone. He picked it up and stroked the hole in his tail. He put the pebble into the hole, and then waited expectantly. Nothing happened. He stood up and put the army fatigues on, then set to work on the rest of the cast.

Just as he’d removed the last shreds of the cast, a young woman walked in, only slightly smaller than him. The scent of Moon-flowers followed her. She looked him over him quickly. “Morning Commander 911.437”, she stated matter-of-factly. “I hope you found everything all right? Good good. Here are your ‘wings’ Commander”. As saying this she held a small box out to him, it was decorated with veins of marble and polished teak. He flipped the catch, and opened the box. Inside were tail rings, showing the correct rank of Commander. They were gold, and when he slipped them on, fitted as if they’d been made for him. “Thank you”, Claude said, slightly abashed.  “Let me fill you in on what has happened during your short leave of absence”, she said, staring deeply into his eyes. “After you saved the Governmental superiors from the first attack of the Narks, they promoted you to Commander. As I said, that was the first. There have been countless more over the last week, reducing city to mere rubble”. As saying this, she opened a window. Claude looked out. A scene of utter devastation greeted him. It was just like his dream. Then he realised; it wasn’t a dream.