The House of Wyless boasted the colors of a strong gold, and rich purple. Though it was, after all, called the Masquerade of the Blessed, everyone would be out in their house colors, giving away their identity almost immediately. In his gold and purple finery, Henry felt uncomfortable. Standing in front of his narrow full-length mirror, he couldn't reconcile the image of him as a poor street rat with the reflection before him. This couldn't really be him, could it?
A whuffling sigh distracted him, and he looked to his new furry friend.
Upon learning that it was none other than the adopted son of the Wyless family who wanted the cu sith, Bonacarte had expedited everything required for such a beast, and now Forfax was already properly settled in Henry's elegant bedchamber.
"Oh, don't sigh at me Forfax. I can't help the state I'm in!" Henry lamented. "This is my first such event, and I'm supposed to be on my very best behavior. And look at you! You're green. While your eyes go splendidly with the house colors, green is certainly not a suitable replacement for gold." About to turn his head in exasperation, motion tugged his eyes back just in time to see Forfax's coat ripple as the green seemed to vanish, replaced by golden fur. Henry stared. "I had no idea you could do that." Forfax merely whuffled with purpose at his master, and gave him a large, canine grin.
Shaking his head in fondness, Henry checked the time, then cursed. It was nearly time to go, and he still had one more thing to do. He straightened his suit in the mirror once more before turning to grab the purple mask on his bed. It was what he would wear that evening, done in the design of a wolf. He carefully arranged the ears so that they appeared to be protruding form his own head, and arranged the snout of it atop the bridge of his own nose.
Looking at Forfax, he smiled, the lower half of his face still visible. Opening the door, man and beast set out through the extensive hallway network connecting the family manor before arriving at the foyer. Mr. and Mrs. Wyless were already waiting. Andrew Wyless was a Blessed of illusion, while Maura Wyless was a Blessed of creation. They cared not for such social functions, and would not be attending the event, but were sending Henry's trusted valet, Martin. Tearfully, Maura hugged her adopted boy, sending him off with praise, tears, and reminders to be good.
It was time to become the delight of the social season.
--
The Blessed were in every direction he looked. While Henry had known the Masquerade of the Blessed was an important event, he had gravely misjudged the size of it. He was surrounded by a buzz of activity, but Martin surreptitiously guided him to the doorman, who straightened up at his podium upon seeing the House Wyless colors. His face paled when he saw the giant beast arriving alongside Henry. Swallowing hard, he kept a wary eye on Forfax, but took Henry's invitation, and gestured he head inside.
The interior of the room was a dark wood, and various supporting pillars were carved with fantastical designs. The muted light of the chandeliers was subtle, but warm and inviting. Occasionally, a little liquid pearl of light dripped from them, but vanished in mid-air before dropping. A neat trick of craft.And still, there were people everywhere. People milling about, chatting, smiling, laughing, and Henry felt his stomach tighten as he became painfully aware how out of place he was. Everyone at Lesurge had, at the goading of one particular boy, treated Henry as if he was weird, despite his now noble status. No one wanted to associate with him, making him a freak, even though he was in the upper echelon.
Dancing had already begun, and he could see ladies with jackalopes nesting in their fancy up-dos, and dodo birds cuddling against men's pant legs. It saddened him to see the dismissive attitude the masses seemed to take towards their companion animals, and he reached out to pat Forfax's head, as much to reassure the cu sith as himself. Forfax, sensing his master's distress, nuzzled his head into Henry's hand. Smiling at Forfax, Henry continued making his way into the main ballroom area, Martin remaining along the edges of the room with other personal valets. A central staircase was bathed in bright light as the family holding the masquerade appeared.
"Greetings, welcome to all! Ladies and gentlemen, Blessed alike." The speaker was an elegant older man, his hair silver but his body still like that of a fit man in his 30s. The Grand Duke smiled as the noise of the crowd died down, and he received undivided attention. "Throughout the evening, we will be accepting nominations for the various costumes you see here. Please, let the organizing staff know so that one very exciting aspect of our party can commence!" With that, he began descending the staircase, and as if it was a signal, everyone fell into a frenzy of hushed whispering.
Henry, now frowning, slipped out a set of back doors, avoiding Martin's watchful eye. He wandered through the corridors of the Grand Duke's home until he was alone with Forfax. Removing his mask, he sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "I'd rather no one know who I am here..." Staring at the colors of his suit, Henry let the power within him blossom. It was a quick crafting, not anywhere near his highest level, but it would easily fool the people here. Instead of purple and gold, his suit was now white and silver. No house had those colors. A smile tilted his lips as he slipped the now silver mask back on. Looking to Forfax he grinned, "Come now, Forfax! I know you can do the same."
It wasn't merely that Forfax was an obliging beast, there was a special connection between the two, and his eyes became silver, his coat white. Andrew and Maura had been insistent that Henry never tell a soul the truth of himself. That he was not simply a Blessed who had power within one spectrum, but had been Blessed with power in every known scope. He was no mere destroyer, creator, transformer, illusionist, or anything else. He was everything. However, the first talent he had discovered was transformation, and it was therefore the one he was formally educated in. When he had met Forfax, he had transformed the mental waves of the cu sith to match his own, then changed their brains just enough to create common communication between them both, internally. It was incredibly delicate work, but it had paid off. Forfax was undeniably smart, one of the reasons he was a fairy dog after all, and he thought with greater efficiency and reasoning than most humans Henry knew. It was why they understood one another so well, and were so willing to care for one another.
With a nod of satisfaction, Henry led the way back to the ballroom, and let himself relax. Now that he was no longer obliged to the Wyless House colors, he felt at ease. He could be who he was, no automatic assumptions coming from anyone here by the colors he wore. Henry danced many a dance, chatted with the men, and charmed many a lady. All with Forfax by his side. The behemoth of a dog was, funnily enough, quite well-behaved and sneaky. Though he constantly remained at Henry's side, people failed to notice his presence for quite some time, and their startled expressions when realizing what a large beast accompanied Henry was endlessly amusing. After all, the cu sith was not a popular companion, yet the mysterious man with a wolf mask dressed in white and silver, and the dog of snow fur and eerie eyes seemed a perfect fit for one another.
Hours wore on, and eventually the Grand Duke took the stairs once more. Conversation died down as he cleared his throat.
"As many of you know, we determine the winners of the contest through a play of skill in their craft. Without further ado, I present the nominated ladies: Lady Amarine, Lady Teruna, Lady Pella, and Lady Millicent."
The crowd began to ebb back towards the edges of the remove, creating a wide circle in the center where the four young ladies remained standing. Delicately removing their masks, they all smiled at the cheering crowd. When the applause quieted, the Duke set Amarine against Teruna, and Pella against Millicent. When it was clear that Teruna and Millicent were the respective winners of their battles, they faced one another. Ultimately, Lady Teruna emerged as the victor. There was a grand show made of the young lady's prize; a delicate filigree crown of pure silver, sparkling in the light. He placed it a top her head and everyone gushed, cheered. Henry followed suit, but was curious as to what the prize meant, not realizing it was merely a decorative fun thing.
The Duke cleared his throat again, "This year we have, ah, received only two nominations for the men's costumes. Our first nominee, Sir Barclay. Our second nominee..." The Duke's brow furrowed, "The masked man in white and silver." Henry, shocked, found himself jostled forward, Forfax by his side, and placed across from the same man who had made his life hell as a young boy. At Lesurge, it had been due to Barclay's goading that Henry was outcast. Barclay had been in his age group, and never forgiven him for rising from street rat to an upper-class aristocrat. Of course, Barclay had no idea he stood across from Henry, no idea he was standing before the boy turned man that he had so viciously tormented as a child. With an insincere smile to Henry, Barclay removed his mask. The women all made fluttering noises of appreciation. Standing still, Henry made no move to remove his. Pandering to the crowd, Barclay looked around and shrugged his shoulders.
"So be it!" Barclay returned his focus to Henry, "Let's begin."
These shows of skill were reminiscent of duels. They were not meant to be dangerous, merely enjoyed, but Henry didn't trust Barclay to play fair. This proved correct when a snake of fire suddenly lunged at his face from the ground. There was a gasp from the crowd, but with a quick flick of wrist, the snake became water, and he kicked through it, dissolving the spell. It was only then that Martin realized it was Henry in the white and silver. It was only then he recognized Sir Barclay as a Blessed of destruction.
Barclay smiled and inclined his head, as if acknowledging his opponent's skill. But just as quickly as he smiled, a barrage of destructive power surged forward, heading for an assault on Henry. Seeing that Barclay was not taking this as a childish, playful activity, the Grand Duke began shouting out, trying to call things into order. Despite Henry skillfully neutralizing the spells, the crowd was growing anxious and distressed at the ordeal. Many wondered if they should simply leave now. Full blown duels between two Blessed tended to have a large amount of collateral casualties.
Then, Barclay did something no one would have thought he had the complete audacity to do. He sent out the most dangerous and powerful spell of the destructive craft. Henry was enveloped in flame, as if he was a living fireball. This spurred Forfax to action, and the snow white dog snarled as he charged Barclay. With a flippant manner, Barclay sent a harsh spell barreling into Forfax's side, and sending the cu sith into one of the pillars, where he slowly sank to the ground and lay panting, whining. His side was badly scorched, and his eyes had gone glassy.
Somewhere, inside of the fireball, Henry screamed.
Time stopped. It was craft, but one that no one could counter. In fact, it was also the craft of the Grand Duke, the reason he had such a position of power in the first place. He was the only one immune to the craft, and as soon as he noticed the standstill, he searched the frozen flames for signs of life. An unscathed man with a silver wolf mask and silver and white suit stepped out from it, hatred and rage visible in the dark eyes peeking out of the mask. He gently shuttered the flames down, and walked to Barclay. Time resumed, and Henry punched the offending man straight in the face. Barclay staggered and fell immediately, blood gushing from his face.
But Henry didn't care. He flung his mask down to the ground, and ran to his dog, tears welling in his eyes. "Damn it!" The anguished cry seemed to be the only noise in the entire room. Everyone had fallen into a stunned silence, no one understanding quite what had happened beyond Barclay committing an atrocious act against a man no one knew. The Grand Duke roused them into action.
"Get the healers to that beast, NOW!"
The Blessed elite immediately began falling back into organized chaos, some running to spread the news, others to arrange for the beast's care, others to get authority for detaining Barclay. Martin slipped quietly out of the room to get Henry's parents while the Grand Duke quietly picked his way over to Henry, who had his hands on Forfax's scorched side, angry tears slipping down his face, despite how hard he fought to hold them in. The Grand Duke realized as he neared that Henry was talking to himself.
"...and never practiced your damn healing magic, what were you thinking? Idiot, idiot, idiot! Should have known it would be helpful to actually get good at healing, after all, if you can do it you should probably learn to utilize it..." He trailed off when the Duke's boot entered his line of sight. He lifted his head up, staring into the gentle eyes of the Grand Duke.
"Don't worry lad, I'll not tell a soul. Not even about your trick of time back there." Color flooded Henry's cheeks, but the Duke shook his head, "A promise is a promise, I have my own honor to care for. Besides, you seem to be stabilizing your pet at least."
Henry looked back down and found the soft glow of healing magic ponderously squirming over Forfax's side. The cu sith let out a soft huff of air and closed his eyes, but still breathing. Henry looked at his pet, pain and despair etched on his face. "It'll be alright, Forfax. Just hang in there."
A lady dropped to her knees on Henry's other side, startling both men. She was now completely ruining her fine gown, but what did it matter with her tears already having made a mess of her makeup? Looking at Forfax, she whispered, "I'm Alice. Please, let me help, I'm a healer." Healing craft was incredibly rare, but it did pop up. The Blessed healers were all segregated from the other Blessed, kept in a safe, nurturing place where their gifts could grow. They were empathetic individuals, rarely out of sight from their keepers, but it seemed this Lady Alice had gotten away.
Slowly pulling away his hands, he watched with fascination as she put her hands where his had once been. Closing her eyes, she hummed softly under her breath.
"What's his name?" Lady Alice asked.
"Forfax."
Eyes still closed, she nodded to herself, and he could hear snippets of softly sung song, catching Forfax's name in it. His breathing strengthened, the burn beginning to heal. Tissue scarred over before his eyes, and before two minutes had passed, Forfax opened his eyes and struggled to stand.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. He mustn't sit up, not yet. He'll be tired now, healing does that to a patient," Lady Alice fretted, attempting to halt the cu sith's clumsy progress but not having the strength.
"Let me," Henry murmured, overlapping her hands and arms. She withdrew, her eyes glued on Henry as he slowly forced the cu sith back down, quietly speaking to his beast with a smile. Then he turned back to her. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I can't... I can't even... How can I ever repay your kindness?"
Furious blush spread across her cheeks, the shy Alice now scooting back a bit. "Uhm, no, no, there's no need for that, uhm, Sir Wyless..." It was then that the Grand Duke came to the same realization about the young man before him; this was Henry Wyless. Barclay had picked a fight with the beloved, adopted son of the most powerful family around. He was an unimaginably gifted boy, and now the Duke knew, gifted to even greater heights.
Henry shook his head, "No, I insist. Please. Look, you didn't treat me any differently when I was the man in silver and white. Please...don't start now..." It was the strange mist of painful memories across his eyes that caused Alice to reluctantly nod her head.
"W-well, see...I don't really need anything really. Not really."
"You're here with someone then?"
"Well now, I...uhm... I snuck out here."
"Aha!" Henry grinned, "I knew there was no way a healer of your caliber would be out of sight. But you're clearly the adventurous sort. Let me repay you by taking you on more adventures, eh?"
Alice's eyes widened slightly, "Wow, that's, uhm...that's...very generous of you, Sir Wyless."
"It's just Henry, no need to be formal. After all, you saved my cu sith's life."
"R-right...and I'm just Alice."
It was then that a distraught Andrew and Maura Wyless were led by faithful Martin to their son. Immediately, he was surrounded in a torrent of activity, the man and wife demanding answers of the Grand Duke, Alice cast to the background. She quietly slipped away from the reunited family, knowing she had to hurry back to the healer's manor.
When next Henry looked, she was already gone.
--
Several long days passed. What felt like eternity.
The events of the masquerade were recalled by a variety of sources, an angry and enraged Maura Wyless making the city feel her rage. Henry was put into isolation, but didn't mind since it let him look after Forfax, who was steadily becoming himself once more. The Grand Duke had long meetings with the Wyless family about their son of many talents. He was, in a way, brought into the know, sworn by Blessed oath to keep it a secret, lest the oath's magic kill him.
But Henry hadn't shirked his other duties. Martin was faithfully looking into discovering who the mysterious Alice who helped Forfax was. And at the healer's manor, Alice let go of her hope that he would fulfill his promise.
--
There was a knock on the door.
Alice opened it, somewhat confused at what anyone would want with her.
Henry stood, leaning against on side of the doorframe, Forfax sitting behind him, a ridiculous, charming grin on his face. "Ready for an adventure?"
A Man of Graveyards
Monday, October 20, 2014
In the graveyard, he was close to silence. The dead had no thoughts swirling through their minds; they had no impulses running through their veins. They were full of embalming fluid and sawdust. It was the nearest to silence he would ever find, and he treasured each moment of it. This propensity for visiting graveyards was what Cailtin Richards chose to exploit.
He hadn't heard them coming, as he had finally relaxed for once. He was alone with his own thoughts, and that meant he could daydream. The thoughts of animals were often too fast-paced and erratic for his mind to really latch onto, though he could if driven to desperation. Enjoying a fall breeze on a bench beneath deciduous trees that had gone to hues of yellow, orange, and red, his mind had drifted to the Edges. It wasn't until the cold tip of a gun barrel pressed itself to the back of his neck that his eyes opened, and everything flooded in
-shit, shit, shit, I'm just a rookie, I can't be up against guys like this, and -- no place to run, no place to hide, what now smart -- darkness, death, despair, fire and flames and destruction and ohgodohgodohgod-
It was the last wave of thoughts that he chose to focus on. The mind of someone in the grips of full blown terror. He mentally reached out, stroked his power along their brain waves, and settled them. Shhh, his power seemed to whisper, shh, everything is okay. There was a gasp from the side. His eyes finally focused on the moment, and a multitude of SWAT men and women appeared in front of him, tactical guns drawn and focused on him. His peripheral vision processed several different well-dressed men and women, likely of differing agencies, and one who had a tight grip on a teenage boy. The boy's eyes were wide, stared straight at him, and though he couldn't hear the words, he could hear the thoughts that accompanied the words, and read the boy's lips.
"He did it!" He actually did it! "He heard what I was projecting and completely washed it away in a calming tide." How, how did he do that?! "This is him, this is definitely him." I can't believe it.
The softest breath of a sigh escaped him, his body going limp on the bench. The tip of the gun dug deeper against his neck, a harsh voice grunting,
"Don't try anything funny, I'll blow your fucking spine out, got it?"
There was no answer to that question, there couldn't be one. After a moment, a female agent stepped between the line of SWAT, and raked her eyes over him. She wasn't overly average, but possessed a normal height and weight, her sharp blazer hiding the firm muscles of her arms, and the flared slacks she wore disguising her slender legs. Her gold-brown hair was swept back into a very efficient, tight bun. Her bright brown eyes were judgmental and harsh, filled with unpleasant memories that had taken their toll. She crossed her arms over her chest, and raised on exquisite eyebrow at him.
"So, you're the famous telepath, huh? Don't look like much to me."
His eyes strayed down to his body, to his ratty tan duster, rumpled slacks, wrinkled and stained green dress shirt. He looked back up at her and shrugged, "I think I look alright."
"Yeah, well, the commonwealth would disagree. Do you know how this goes Mr. Lewis, or do I need to explain it to you."
"No," a soft sigh breathed out of him, "I know how you want it to go."
The SWAT team, the agents, the teenage boy even, all fell to the ground simultaneously. The female agent's lips widened slightly, her hand darting to her sidearm, but it was too late. He had her mind in his grip, and her movements stilled. She was the only one awake, the only one conscious. He stood slowly, brushed off his pants and straightened his coat. Walking closer to her, he stopped in front of her and shook his head. He stepped around her, but paused when his body was parallel to hers.
"Caitlin Richards - that is your name, isn't it? - you have no idea what you're getting into. Chasing me is dangerous, but I'm not the one you should be concerned about, because when you chase me, you will find many dark, unfathomable things follow me already." His head dipped slightly, a creeping sad smile turning up one corner of his mouth, "You want to make an impression on the WIA, I understand, but this isn't the way. Finding me is one thing, and arresting me is another. But removing me from my current location is a thing that would lead to pain and suffering for millions. Not by my hands, I assure you. Please, take care Caitlin. Good day."
With that, he continued to walk. For twenty minutes, she remained frozen, and everyone around her remained unconscious. When they began to groan and rouse themselves, sitting up with pain in their limbs and ringing in their ears, Caitlin Richards turned her head to look at the space he had walked through. Her mind was reeling, and she determined then that she needed to know more about Mr. Lewis.
He hadn't heard them coming, as he had finally relaxed for once. He was alone with his own thoughts, and that meant he could daydream. The thoughts of animals were often too fast-paced and erratic for his mind to really latch onto, though he could if driven to desperation. Enjoying a fall breeze on a bench beneath deciduous trees that had gone to hues of yellow, orange, and red, his mind had drifted to the Edges. It wasn't until the cold tip of a gun barrel pressed itself to the back of his neck that his eyes opened, and everything flooded in
-shit, shit, shit, I'm just a rookie, I can't be up against guys like this, and -- no place to run, no place to hide, what now smart -- darkness, death, despair, fire and flames and destruction and ohgodohgodohgod-
It was the last wave of thoughts that he chose to focus on. The mind of someone in the grips of full blown terror. He mentally reached out, stroked his power along their brain waves, and settled them. Shhh, his power seemed to whisper, shh, everything is okay. There was a gasp from the side. His eyes finally focused on the moment, and a multitude of SWAT men and women appeared in front of him, tactical guns drawn and focused on him. His peripheral vision processed several different well-dressed men and women, likely of differing agencies, and one who had a tight grip on a teenage boy. The boy's eyes were wide, stared straight at him, and though he couldn't hear the words, he could hear the thoughts that accompanied the words, and read the boy's lips.
"He did it!" He actually did it! "He heard what I was projecting and completely washed it away in a calming tide." How, how did he do that?! "This is him, this is definitely him." I can't believe it.
The softest breath of a sigh escaped him, his body going limp on the bench. The tip of the gun dug deeper against his neck, a harsh voice grunting,
"Don't try anything funny, I'll blow your fucking spine out, got it?"
There was no answer to that question, there couldn't be one. After a moment, a female agent stepped between the line of SWAT, and raked her eyes over him. She wasn't overly average, but possessed a normal height and weight, her sharp blazer hiding the firm muscles of her arms, and the flared slacks she wore disguising her slender legs. Her gold-brown hair was swept back into a very efficient, tight bun. Her bright brown eyes were judgmental and harsh, filled with unpleasant memories that had taken their toll. She crossed her arms over her chest, and raised on exquisite eyebrow at him.
"So, you're the famous telepath, huh? Don't look like much to me."
His eyes strayed down to his body, to his ratty tan duster, rumpled slacks, wrinkled and stained green dress shirt. He looked back up at her and shrugged, "I think I look alright."
"Yeah, well, the commonwealth would disagree. Do you know how this goes Mr. Lewis, or do I need to explain it to you."
"No," a soft sigh breathed out of him, "I know how you want it to go."
The SWAT team, the agents, the teenage boy even, all fell to the ground simultaneously. The female agent's lips widened slightly, her hand darting to her sidearm, but it was too late. He had her mind in his grip, and her movements stilled. She was the only one awake, the only one conscious. He stood slowly, brushed off his pants and straightened his coat. Walking closer to her, he stopped in front of her and shook his head. He stepped around her, but paused when his body was parallel to hers.
"Caitlin Richards - that is your name, isn't it? - you have no idea what you're getting into. Chasing me is dangerous, but I'm not the one you should be concerned about, because when you chase me, you will find many dark, unfathomable things follow me already." His head dipped slightly, a creeping sad smile turning up one corner of his mouth, "You want to make an impression on the WIA, I understand, but this isn't the way. Finding me is one thing, and arresting me is another. But removing me from my current location is a thing that would lead to pain and suffering for millions. Not by my hands, I assure you. Please, take care Caitlin. Good day."
With that, he continued to walk. For twenty minutes, she remained frozen, and everyone around her remained unconscious. When they began to groan and rouse themselves, sitting up with pain in their limbs and ringing in their ears, Caitlin Richards turned her head to look at the space he had walked through. Her mind was reeling, and she determined then that she needed to know more about Mr. Lewis.
Cotard Syndrome - A Fictional Account
Thursday, October 9, 2014
My name is David True.
I'm dead.
Not dead in the traditional sense. I'm not a zombie or reanimated corpse. It's just, one day I woke up and realized I was dead.
It all started about a year ago. See, I tried to kill myself. It wasn't anything personal against the world, I just didn't really want to live anymore. Well, it's more complicated than that, it always is, but this isn't a story about how I got to where I was then. It's about how I got to being dead. So it started with when I was found in my bathtub by a nosy neighbor, life swirling away down the drain. Police officers, ambulance, lots of flashing lights. It was kind of surreal, the hustle and bustle going on that seemed to be at hyper speed. The voices speaking but seeming to far away, so slow and tedious. Then the oxygen mask, the dullness of my forearms.
I got out of course. They patched me up and sent me off to get my brain repaired. I did, to some degree, and then I went home. Three days later I woke up and realized I no longer had a brain, that I was dead.
Again, my nosy neighbor couldn't stay away, and found me slowly wasting away on the couch. I wasn't really wasting yet, but I had stopped eating, stopped cleaning myself, stopped everything. I was dead, y'know? What was the point? I asked him to just take me to the mortuary, that I wanted to be with other dead people, but instead he called 911. Again.
This time, I got escorted by police, no ambulance for me. They kept looking at me like I was crazy, with a weird sort of bemusement. My brain was just gone. I knew, I knew my brain was no longer in my skull, but they refused to believe me.
"David, how can you be dead if you're talking to me right now?" The psychiatrists asked. I tried to explain it to them as well. Eventually they got fed up, frustrated. Hey, I was frustrated too! I didn't know how I could be walking, talking, breathing with no brain, but I knew I didn't have one. Let the experts figure it out! Eventually, phone calls were made. That was when Dr. Mulligan came into the picture.
Mulligan ordered a PET scan of my brain and set to work. A barrage of tests came before the PET, but that was the scan that convinced them I had a point. After all, it turned out I had metabolic activity in my brain comparable to someone in a vegetative state. Mind you, I'm fairly certain I don't have a brain, but everyone else seems convinced that I do. Mulligan told me I was a phenomenon. Apparently my brain function resembles that of someone asleep, or under anesthesia, but I'm awake. Me? I'm pretty sure I'm dead.
They've been pumping me full of drugs since them, keep putting me into this or that therapy They're forcing me to live in a psych ward. The last time they let me go home, I just went back to how I was. I'm dead! There's no point in eating or moving or grooming anymore. But they keep on trying, say they'll get me back to functioning soon enough. I'm tired of being force fed though. Tired in general.
What I don't understand is, why am I the only one who knows I'm dead?
I'm dead.
Not dead in the traditional sense. I'm not a zombie or reanimated corpse. It's just, one day I woke up and realized I was dead.
It all started about a year ago. See, I tried to kill myself. It wasn't anything personal against the world, I just didn't really want to live anymore. Well, it's more complicated than that, it always is, but this isn't a story about how I got to where I was then. It's about how I got to being dead. So it started with when I was found in my bathtub by a nosy neighbor, life swirling away down the drain. Police officers, ambulance, lots of flashing lights. It was kind of surreal, the hustle and bustle going on that seemed to be at hyper speed. The voices speaking but seeming to far away, so slow and tedious. Then the oxygen mask, the dullness of my forearms.
I got out of course. They patched me up and sent me off to get my brain repaired. I did, to some degree, and then I went home. Three days later I woke up and realized I no longer had a brain, that I was dead.
Again, my nosy neighbor couldn't stay away, and found me slowly wasting away on the couch. I wasn't really wasting yet, but I had stopped eating, stopped cleaning myself, stopped everything. I was dead, y'know? What was the point? I asked him to just take me to the mortuary, that I wanted to be with other dead people, but instead he called 911. Again.
This time, I got escorted by police, no ambulance for me. They kept looking at me like I was crazy, with a weird sort of bemusement. My brain was just gone. I knew, I knew my brain was no longer in my skull, but they refused to believe me.
"David, how can you be dead if you're talking to me right now?" The psychiatrists asked. I tried to explain it to them as well. Eventually they got fed up, frustrated. Hey, I was frustrated too! I didn't know how I could be walking, talking, breathing with no brain, but I knew I didn't have one. Let the experts figure it out! Eventually, phone calls were made. That was when Dr. Mulligan came into the picture.
Mulligan ordered a PET scan of my brain and set to work. A barrage of tests came before the PET, but that was the scan that convinced them I had a point. After all, it turned out I had metabolic activity in my brain comparable to someone in a vegetative state. Mind you, I'm fairly certain I don't have a brain, but everyone else seems convinced that I do. Mulligan told me I was a phenomenon. Apparently my brain function resembles that of someone asleep, or under anesthesia, but I'm awake. Me? I'm pretty sure I'm dead.
They've been pumping me full of drugs since them, keep putting me into this or that therapy They're forcing me to live in a psych ward. The last time they let me go home, I just went back to how I was. I'm dead! There's no point in eating or moving or grooming anymore. But they keep on trying, say they'll get me back to functioning soon enough. I'm tired of being force fed though. Tired in general.
What I don't understand is, why am I the only one who knows I'm dead?
Carnivorous Cows!
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Cows are normally considered herbivores, but whoever made earth and programmed cows to function as such had clearly never been to Bodaciavore 5. The plant was nice, as nice as it could be when populated with meat-eating cattle, but Cello wasn't really meat to begin with.
He docked his craft, which masqueraded as one of Galacar's finest, at the space port, and got his boots on the ground. The main port was a riot of various cultures and species, all melding and merging and trading. Some were even crewing up. Most would think Cello was looking for a crew, but this simply wasn't the case. His craft didn't need a crew; it was linked to him already. If he wanted, he could call his ship to him, navigating it through the sky while at a secondary location. It was another reason his superiors had picked him for the mission on Bodaciavore 5. Sure, these cows ate meat, but Earth cows ate plants. Plants! That was millions of years of evolutionary fear built into Cello that activated in the presence of cows. Unfortunately, he was the only one within the entire intelligence organization who met the necessary requirements for the mission. Namely, he wasn't made of meat.
Wading through the crowded main concourse, he broke free of the space-port and found himself at the welcoming center for the planet. A bovine with dewy brown eyes smiled at him from behind her desk. Her teeth were needle sharp. "Hello, sir. Can I help you?" Cello already suspected the intel they had received would prove correct.
"Yes, sorry. I'm a bit lost. I'm trying to get into the main city? I've got some items for exchange," Cello answered. As if to prove the point, he hefted the sack in his hand so the cow could see it, and favored her with an apologetic smile. The sack had been carefully chosen and constructed to appear as if it was somewhat damp, bulging with various...contraband items. However, Cello knew the truth. The sack was filled with his dirty laundry, carefully arranged to appear as what the cow imagined. The cow of Bodaciavore 5, by the by, thought it was severed human limbs.
"Oh! Certainly, sir!" Her eyes narrowed with anticipation, and she licked her lips slowly while typing into the computer on the desk. After several moments of meticulous tapping, a small arch appeared in the middle of the wall behind the desk, and the clerk cow smiled once more. She beckoned Cello over and sent him on his way. She didn't offer any instructions, so he figured he was supposed to know this part and take care of it on his own. Shrugging to himself, he headed down the dark tunnel.
When he finally emerged into light, he found himself in a basement kitchen. It was the new fad of the galaxy. Restaurants would serve you from the surface entrance, but on the lower floor, an immense, sprawling kitchen was busy at work. Several cooking stations were set up, the clang and clamor of pots and pans penetrating the air, along with the shouts from various chef-types. Looking around, somewhat helplessly, Cello was spotted by a large brown bull with white spots on his chest.
"You! Is that the homo sapiens meat?"
"Sure is!" Cello smiled. The recording device hidden within the sack had picked that up, loud and clear. His mission was technically complete the moment he got confirmation on what had been suspected. The carnivorous cows of Bodaciavore 5 were indeed eating the meat of sentient species. However, Cello couldn't be content letting things lie. As it stood, this kitchen was headquarters, the place of operation, which meant he had an obligation - a duty! - to shut it down.
Narrowing his eyes at the bull, he gave his own fake smile, and then the blasters went off.
Above them, screams filtered down. His craft was shooting up the main restaurant, and even dropped a bomb. The bomb blast rocked the entire foundation of the place, and dust drifted down from the ceiling above. The bull shouted out, "What the hell is going on?!"
Cello dropped the sack, rolls of dirty underwear spilling out. He whipped out a hand, and from his hand spread choking roots that took down multiple cows with ease. Some tried to bite him to no avail, for they had the teeth of carnivores and could not damage the hardy plant substance. Eventually, only piles of beef remained, and Cello calmly entered the tunnel once more. In fact, he walked down the tunnel with a hop in his step, and a whistling tune from his lips.
When he came back out, the female clerk cow was cowering behind her desk, and Cello did her the favor of a root straight to the brain, no suffering for her. From there, it was easy to maneuver through the chaos, and by the time he was back at the space-port, his ship was waiting for him.
He boarded and smiled, patting the interior.
Cellulose was home.
He docked his craft, which masqueraded as one of Galacar's finest, at the space port, and got his boots on the ground. The main port was a riot of various cultures and species, all melding and merging and trading. Some were even crewing up. Most would think Cello was looking for a crew, but this simply wasn't the case. His craft didn't need a crew; it was linked to him already. If he wanted, he could call his ship to him, navigating it through the sky while at a secondary location. It was another reason his superiors had picked him for the mission on Bodaciavore 5. Sure, these cows ate meat, but Earth cows ate plants. Plants! That was millions of years of evolutionary fear built into Cello that activated in the presence of cows. Unfortunately, he was the only one within the entire intelligence organization who met the necessary requirements for the mission. Namely, he wasn't made of meat.
Wading through the crowded main concourse, he broke free of the space-port and found himself at the welcoming center for the planet. A bovine with dewy brown eyes smiled at him from behind her desk. Her teeth were needle sharp. "Hello, sir. Can I help you?" Cello already suspected the intel they had received would prove correct.
"Yes, sorry. I'm a bit lost. I'm trying to get into the main city? I've got some items for exchange," Cello answered. As if to prove the point, he hefted the sack in his hand so the cow could see it, and favored her with an apologetic smile. The sack had been carefully chosen and constructed to appear as if it was somewhat damp, bulging with various...contraband items. However, Cello knew the truth. The sack was filled with his dirty laundry, carefully arranged to appear as what the cow imagined. The cow of Bodaciavore 5, by the by, thought it was severed human limbs.
"Oh! Certainly, sir!" Her eyes narrowed with anticipation, and she licked her lips slowly while typing into the computer on the desk. After several moments of meticulous tapping, a small arch appeared in the middle of the wall behind the desk, and the clerk cow smiled once more. She beckoned Cello over and sent him on his way. She didn't offer any instructions, so he figured he was supposed to know this part and take care of it on his own. Shrugging to himself, he headed down the dark tunnel.
When he finally emerged into light, he found himself in a basement kitchen. It was the new fad of the galaxy. Restaurants would serve you from the surface entrance, but on the lower floor, an immense, sprawling kitchen was busy at work. Several cooking stations were set up, the clang and clamor of pots and pans penetrating the air, along with the shouts from various chef-types. Looking around, somewhat helplessly, Cello was spotted by a large brown bull with white spots on his chest.
"You! Is that the homo sapiens meat?"
"Sure is!" Cello smiled. The recording device hidden within the sack had picked that up, loud and clear. His mission was technically complete the moment he got confirmation on what had been suspected. The carnivorous cows of Bodaciavore 5 were indeed eating the meat of sentient species. However, Cello couldn't be content letting things lie. As it stood, this kitchen was headquarters, the place of operation, which meant he had an obligation - a duty! - to shut it down.
Narrowing his eyes at the bull, he gave his own fake smile, and then the blasters went off.
Above them, screams filtered down. His craft was shooting up the main restaurant, and even dropped a bomb. The bomb blast rocked the entire foundation of the place, and dust drifted down from the ceiling above. The bull shouted out, "What the hell is going on?!"
Cello dropped the sack, rolls of dirty underwear spilling out. He whipped out a hand, and from his hand spread choking roots that took down multiple cows with ease. Some tried to bite him to no avail, for they had the teeth of carnivores and could not damage the hardy plant substance. Eventually, only piles of beef remained, and Cello calmly entered the tunnel once more. In fact, he walked down the tunnel with a hop in his step, and a whistling tune from his lips.
When he came back out, the female clerk cow was cowering behind her desk, and Cello did her the favor of a root straight to the brain, no suffering for her. From there, it was easy to maneuver through the chaos, and by the time he was back at the space-port, his ship was waiting for him.
He boarded and smiled, patting the interior.
Cellulose was home.
Bloody Mourning
Thursday, September 25, 2014
The sky is raining blood. Deep copper tears of rust run down buildings older than the oldest child, and pools of ruddy liquid gather in the pavement cracks. It is angels' blood, and it is falling from Heaven onto the streets of Hell. He takes in this information with a disconnected apathy, not at all concerned for what is happening.
In truth, the whole thing was coming sooner or later.
People seemed to assume that angels had no free will, that it was a punishment of the rebellion, or that the free will enabling the rebellion itself was a fluke. He found this amusing. Of course all angels had a mind of their own! Hive mentality was a difficult thing to break away from, and it was difficult to betray what a parent instilled into you from existence. But those of the rebellion had been precocious scamps. Now, other angels had begun asking questions, begun displaying curiosity. They felt lied to, betrayed, and asked important things.
"If the reason for Hell is to punish sinners, doesn't that mean the people running it are on our side? Why is there eternal damnation, what if these people can be redeemed? What about those born in Hell to demons, don't they have any say in the matter? Why is Hell permanent, why isn't it merely a phase one must go through?"
Eventually, the hardcore fanatics and those brave enough to question the system were fighting one another in Heaven. Once upon a time, he might have cared, but he had long ago lost his compassion. Anything he had believed he could accomplish in Hell had long since been abandoned. So many looked to him for guidance, but what could he provide? He was just as stuck in this eternal torment as they were. He had been his father's favorite, the whole reason he was in this damn position. The rebellion was a ruse that went too far, he only did it at his father's urging. He knew what his father knew; people needed someone to blame, and he could provide the perfect scapegoat. But even though he truly was on the side of the "angels", he no longer felt so benign on the matter.
Father had said it was a responsibility, that he had a purpose of greatness in the universe. Greatness. In a dank, dark, stinking, rancid pit. Right.
From his tower, he looked out the window the the ground. Demons and fallen and damned souls alike meandered through the streets, throwing back their heads and opening their mouths, catching the blood on their tongues like snowflakes. Mad laughter filtered up from the streets below to his tower. This is what his father had damned them all to. Madness. One couldn't maintain their sanity and pureness in such a filthy place.
It took a minute for him to realize he had shattered the glass of brandy in his hand. The glass shards were slowly pushing out of his skin and the cuts healing over. He stared at his hand for a minute, thinking. Raising his head, he looked up at the ceiling of his tower, pretending that this time his father would listen and respond.
"Dear Father in Heaven, it's me, the Devil..."
In truth, the whole thing was coming sooner or later.
People seemed to assume that angels had no free will, that it was a punishment of the rebellion, or that the free will enabling the rebellion itself was a fluke. He found this amusing. Of course all angels had a mind of their own! Hive mentality was a difficult thing to break away from, and it was difficult to betray what a parent instilled into you from existence. But those of the rebellion had been precocious scamps. Now, other angels had begun asking questions, begun displaying curiosity. They felt lied to, betrayed, and asked important things.
"If the reason for Hell is to punish sinners, doesn't that mean the people running it are on our side? Why is there eternal damnation, what if these people can be redeemed? What about those born in Hell to demons, don't they have any say in the matter? Why is Hell permanent, why isn't it merely a phase one must go through?"
Eventually, the hardcore fanatics and those brave enough to question the system were fighting one another in Heaven. Once upon a time, he might have cared, but he had long ago lost his compassion. Anything he had believed he could accomplish in Hell had long since been abandoned. So many looked to him for guidance, but what could he provide? He was just as stuck in this eternal torment as they were. He had been his father's favorite, the whole reason he was in this damn position. The rebellion was a ruse that went too far, he only did it at his father's urging. He knew what his father knew; people needed someone to blame, and he could provide the perfect scapegoat. But even though he truly was on the side of the "angels", he no longer felt so benign on the matter.
Father had said it was a responsibility, that he had a purpose of greatness in the universe. Greatness. In a dank, dark, stinking, rancid pit. Right.
From his tower, he looked out the window the the ground. Demons and fallen and damned souls alike meandered through the streets, throwing back their heads and opening their mouths, catching the blood on their tongues like snowflakes. Mad laughter filtered up from the streets below to his tower. This is what his father had damned them all to. Madness. One couldn't maintain their sanity and pureness in such a filthy place.
It took a minute for him to realize he had shattered the glass of brandy in his hand. The glass shards were slowly pushing out of his skin and the cuts healing over. He stared at his hand for a minute, thinking. Raising his head, he looked up at the ceiling of his tower, pretending that this time his father would listen and respond.
"Dear Father in Heaven, it's me, the Devil..."
A Magical Menagerie Masquerade (Part 1)
Friday, September 19, 2014
Choosing a magical companion animal wasn't something one undertook lightly, especially when choosing the wrong pet could absolutely ruin your chances at getting an invitation to the ball. In Heartdale, the Masquerade of the Blessed was the most important event of each year. It was an enormous affair involving elaborate costumes, immense spreads of food, grand dances, and the most elite members of society.
You couldn't simply pick any animal you liked. You needed to know what was in fashion at the moment and what was not. This was why Pluckywhistle's Menagerie existed. It was a complex taking up an entire street, filled with gilded cages and enclosures housing a variety of beasts. It also had everything one needed for whatever animal they chose as catching their fancy. The most in season were always kept at the front, often rotating as tastes changed.
However, there was one particular Blessed who had just been selected to choose his animal, and he didn't care about such things. He only wanted a loyal companion, one who would kill and die for him and evoke the same sentiment in him. He had always been a peculiar Blessed. Originally an orphan turned street urchin, the township had been beside itself when discovering he was a Blessed. He was given a name, and a high society family adopted him as their own. Henry Wyless received an education at the magnificent Academy Lesurge, the most prestigious of schools for the Blessed. An entirely new wardrobe was provided for him, and school supplies were acquired. What had surprised everyone though, was that Henry worked tirelessly to pay them all back, and somehow managed to make straight-A's at the Academy. He was a prodigy, and refused to take anything for free. Now, he finally had the chance to pick a companion animal.
Upon entering Pluckywhistle's, he had been immediately targeted by salesman Bonacarte. The small man was decked out in fine livery, and had an unfortunately high-pitched voice. As Henry began to move to the back, he felt Bonacarte following behind him.
"The more updated creatures are at the front, sir. You do want an invitation to the ball, don't you?"
Knowing the gentleman behind him couldn't see, Henry rolled his eyes. "No. I'm looking for a true companion animal, not a prop to get invited to a social event." After all, he would be invited regardless. The Wyless' were a prominent family, and had no other children of their own. He was, in essence, their only son and a bachelor. Not inviting him would be a massive mistake in the eyes of the ladies.
Silence fell as Henry's sharp eyes took everything in. He quickly noticed the cage that was set far in the back, nearly obscured by the shadows. He weaved past a variety of different creatures to the forgotten number, much to Bonacarte's audible dismay. As he neared, a large mass with glowing red eyes rushed the bars, slamming into them. The whole cage rattled. Henry didn't flinch, but moved closer, cocking his head in curiosity. The beast in question wasn't growling or snarling, but panting. In front of him was a dog about the size of a cow's calf, and the most brilliant emerald shade. The bright eyes were violet in color, not red, and the beast seemed rather friendly.
"Who is this incredible creature?" Henry asked.
"This is our cu sith, he's a fairy dog. We've been looking to get him placed elsewhere, he takes up too much space and no one is interested in adopting him. Are you interested in him, sir?"
"Yes. Yes I believe I am. Can I meet him?" Henry turned toward Bonacarte with an eager expression.
"You...you want him out of the cage?" Bonacarte squeaked.
"Well... Yes."
"Okay..." Bonacarte inched his way around Henry and slid forward. He tentatively touched a hand to one of the cage bars, and muttered the spell before leaping backwards, expecting an attack. The cu sith sat back on its haunches, not even making a move to leave the cage, still panting in a friendly way. Henry smiled an moved close, boldly coming up to the beast and placing one hand atop its head. His eyes closed. After a moment, they snapped open with a new clarity, and he turned to the small salesman.
"I want this animal and all of the required items for such a creature's keep. I'm taking him."
"Very good, sir." Bonacarte replied, thoroughly baffled but happy to be rid of the monstrosity. The cu sith had never acted with such calm as it had today, it was almost unbelievable. Watching Henry, the most peculiar feeling slid down Bonacarte's spine, but he shrugged it off. It was lucky Henry had chosen the beast, the items to keep such a monster were many, but the fee for him had been slashed and slashed until he was mere pennies. It wouldn't hurt the young man's pockets much.
After Bonacarte had scurried off, Henry smiled and looked over his new companion. "We've got to think you up a brilliant name. Maybe Forfax? It's an honorable name, you see." The dog merely smiled wider, continuing to pant. Henry nodded at his furry behemoth of a friend. "Forfax it is."
You couldn't simply pick any animal you liked. You needed to know what was in fashion at the moment and what was not. This was why Pluckywhistle's Menagerie existed. It was a complex taking up an entire street, filled with gilded cages and enclosures housing a variety of beasts. It also had everything one needed for whatever animal they chose as catching their fancy. The most in season were always kept at the front, often rotating as tastes changed.
However, there was one particular Blessed who had just been selected to choose his animal, and he didn't care about such things. He only wanted a loyal companion, one who would kill and die for him and evoke the same sentiment in him. He had always been a peculiar Blessed. Originally an orphan turned street urchin, the township had been beside itself when discovering he was a Blessed. He was given a name, and a high society family adopted him as their own. Henry Wyless received an education at the magnificent Academy Lesurge, the most prestigious of schools for the Blessed. An entirely new wardrobe was provided for him, and school supplies were acquired. What had surprised everyone though, was that Henry worked tirelessly to pay them all back, and somehow managed to make straight-A's at the Academy. He was a prodigy, and refused to take anything for free. Now, he finally had the chance to pick a companion animal.
Upon entering Pluckywhistle's, he had been immediately targeted by salesman Bonacarte. The small man was decked out in fine livery, and had an unfortunately high-pitched voice. As Henry began to move to the back, he felt Bonacarte following behind him.
"The more updated creatures are at the front, sir. You do want an invitation to the ball, don't you?"
Knowing the gentleman behind him couldn't see, Henry rolled his eyes. "No. I'm looking for a true companion animal, not a prop to get invited to a social event." After all, he would be invited regardless. The Wyless' were a prominent family, and had no other children of their own. He was, in essence, their only son and a bachelor. Not inviting him would be a massive mistake in the eyes of the ladies.
Silence fell as Henry's sharp eyes took everything in. He quickly noticed the cage that was set far in the back, nearly obscured by the shadows. He weaved past a variety of different creatures to the forgotten number, much to Bonacarte's audible dismay. As he neared, a large mass with glowing red eyes rushed the bars, slamming into them. The whole cage rattled. Henry didn't flinch, but moved closer, cocking his head in curiosity. The beast in question wasn't growling or snarling, but panting. In front of him was a dog about the size of a cow's calf, and the most brilliant emerald shade. The bright eyes were violet in color, not red, and the beast seemed rather friendly.
"Who is this incredible creature?" Henry asked.
"This is our cu sith, he's a fairy dog. We've been looking to get him placed elsewhere, he takes up too much space and no one is interested in adopting him. Are you interested in him, sir?"
"Yes. Yes I believe I am. Can I meet him?" Henry turned toward Bonacarte with an eager expression.
"You...you want him out of the cage?" Bonacarte squeaked.
"Well... Yes."
"Okay..." Bonacarte inched his way around Henry and slid forward. He tentatively touched a hand to one of the cage bars, and muttered the spell before leaping backwards, expecting an attack. The cu sith sat back on its haunches, not even making a move to leave the cage, still panting in a friendly way. Henry smiled an moved close, boldly coming up to the beast and placing one hand atop its head. His eyes closed. After a moment, they snapped open with a new clarity, and he turned to the small salesman.
"I want this animal and all of the required items for such a creature's keep. I'm taking him."
"Very good, sir." Bonacarte replied, thoroughly baffled but happy to be rid of the monstrosity. The cu sith had never acted with such calm as it had today, it was almost unbelievable. Watching Henry, the most peculiar feeling slid down Bonacarte's spine, but he shrugged it off. It was lucky Henry had chosen the beast, the items to keep such a monster were many, but the fee for him had been slashed and slashed until he was mere pennies. It wouldn't hurt the young man's pockets much.
After Bonacarte had scurried off, Henry smiled and looked over his new companion. "We've got to think you up a brilliant name. Maybe Forfax? It's an honorable name, you see." The dog merely smiled wider, continuing to pant. Henry nodded at his furry behemoth of a friend. "Forfax it is."
Pandemonium, Part 3 - Conclusion
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
There was only the brilliance of the lilac light.
There was only this moment, the here and now...and then there was nothing.
--
Sticky eyes peeled back and squinted at the harsh light centered directly above them. It was bright. It hurt. The eyes closed again. My ears could hear snatches of words. Simple things:
"...we're losing him..."
"...get me 5 ccs..."
"...scalpel, no, clamp..."
"...blood pressure is dropping again..."
When her voice cut through it all, my body became hyper alert. Suddenly, every sensation was raw, and brushed the wrong way on my nerves. The clingy, sweat-stained fabric of something was plastered to my skin, making it itch. There was a deafening silence in the room that stank of fear. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, the taste unpleasant, like a mouth full of dirty socks. I didn't open my eyes again. I just listened to her bare feet on the floor, stepping closer and closer to me.
"Hello, dear," Her voice was creation in itself, painfully full of meaning.
"Hello, Mother," I barely croaked out, my throat red and raw. There was a pulsing in my mouth and I tried to smack my lips together for moisture, but my mouth was drier than the Gobi desert.
"You haven't used your power in a long time. You didn't think there wouldn't be a backlash, did you?"
"Had to save her."
"The ghoul," I could hear the distaste in her voice. She couldn't understand why I would sacrifice myself for a "lesser" creature. Not speciest, just factual in her opinion. She had never understood my need to help others. Never understood why the loss of people I cared for was so damn painful. I like to believe she once cared about things like that, that so much exposure caused her mind to seal that part of herself off, to keep her from feeling that pain ever again. But moments like this, I'm not sure. "Regardless of your foolish decision, I am not going to allow you to die." I wanted to say I wished she would, but the few words I had already spoken had scraped against my throat like a hacksaw. I couldn't, plain and simple.
Her hand touched my forehead, cool and comforting. Then, there was darkness again.
--
I woke up in a hospital room. I hadn't been in a hospital room in a long, long time. The window blinds were pulled up, curtains drawn to reveal the gray skies of Pandemonium. Necromicon went on chugging while I lay feeble in a bed with a horrible need to use the bathroom. I settled for continuing to observe my environment.
The walls were taupe, a little stained here and there, probably by a bodily fluid of some sort that I would rather not contemplate. Minimal furniture, a recliner next to the bed's nightstand. The bathroom was tiny, I could see from here. The floors were brown linoleum. There was one picture on the wall, a small watercolor of a particular flower framed and put up as if an afterthought. I sighed.
The door opened, much to my surprise. A shaggy blonde poked his head through and muttered, "Thank god!" upon seeing me before he ran in. Clutching his hand was a small eight year old boy with bloodshot eyes and a red, running nose. Releasing Wally's hand, Fen leaped at me, landing on my stomach and hugging me so tightly I thought he might break me.
"Dad!" Fen said, voice muffled by my hospital gown. Tears from his eyes were already soaking through the standard issue garb, and I gently untangled him from around my neck.
"Hey. There's no need to cry, bud," I said, tipping his chin up and smiling. His lip quivered. "I'm alive, see? It's alright. Did Wally treat you well?"
Fen cracked a smile at that. "He let me ride on his shoulders, and he made funny faces, and sometimes he drank red stuff from little baggies, but he wouldn't share it. He kept saying you'd be okay but..." An embarrassed blush crept across his face, "I didn't believe him."
"Well, I guess you ought to start believing him now, huh?"
Fen giggled, and I looked over at Wally, offering him a small smile which was returned. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was paler than the norm. Fen had put him through the wringer. Damn.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and then Tyr pushed his way inside. A huge breath left him when he saw me there sitting up, and he came over, grabbing my hand to give it an enthusiastic shake.
"Mal, don't you ever do that again. I thought you were dead! Well, dying." I had never seen Tyr so emotional before, and it made me feel...weird. Apparently he felt the same way, because he cringed and fidgeted on his feet. "So, uh... Due to everything that's transpired..." Tyr grimaced. "I hate to be the one to have to say this... The department can no longer affiliate itself with you. You've got to get out, find a new place of business, and reapply for your specialist permit."
"Are you kidding me?!"
Tyr looked apologetic, "I'm sorry, but you know how it is. I kept your secret as long as I could, but once others found out who your mother was, I mean after all that happened..." The regular joes, he meant. Once they found out my mother was The Almighty, they didn't want a damn thing to do with me. Suddenly, I was upgraded from threatening, to dangerous. I solved so many cases, and this is how they repaid me. Damn it!
"Fine, I'll move out."
"That's great, Mal," Wally nodded enthusiastically. "Good that you're gearing up to get back on your feet." He moved closer to my bed and pulled out a newspaper from behind his back, several things circled in red. "Might I suggest one of these fine buildings?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "What, you;'re already real-estate hunting? You don't even know if I'm really going to take you on as my partner or not."
"Oh, you totally are," Wally said dismissively. He pointed to a picture on the paper, "Look at this one."
We stayed that way for a while. Fen on my lap, Tyr standing by my left, Wally on my right jabbering on about something or other. Eventually, Tyr cleared his throat and excused himself, off to bring justice to the masses. Wally took Fen to get dinner, and I was left on my own.
With effort, I got out of the bed and made it to the bathroom. I finished up and was exiting when I was stopped cold by the sight of Belinda on the recliner by the bed. Her gaze was focused outside, and she had a "Get-Well!" bear in her lap. There was a bag of candy treats on the nightstand.
"Belinda?" It came out as a question, me almost not believing what I was seeing. She'd been exposed to me when I was cranking out full power but she had come back? Even my wife wouldn't have a damn thing to do with me after seeing me like that...which ended with her and our daughter being killed. Now, someone I'd never done anything more for than try to get her to smile was here and waiting for me.
She turned, startled. "Oh! Hi, Mal." Awkward silence poured into the room, filling it to capacity. "I, uhm, I came to say thanks."
"Oh, uh. No problem, any time. Not that I wish there's another time, but, I mean...you know what I mean." Idiot.
"Yes," She smiled. I moved back to the bed, not able to keep standing on my legs which were threatening to give out. I made it to a sitting position with a grunt, and pulled my legs up to the bed itself, the head raised almost like we were sitting in two chairs. It would have been cozy had we not been in a hospital. "Have you talked to anyone about...things?"
"What things?"
"Well, you know Mal," Belinda blushed. My brow furrowed, I truly didn't know what she meant. When she saw I was serious, she bit her lower lip and tried to explain. "I mean, everything that happened. I don't even know everything that occurred. I thought I was going to, well... I thought that was the end. Then you did that crazy light show thing, and people are saying The Almighty is your mother, and..." She forced herself to stop and looked at me.
"It's a long story."
"I don't have anything else to do. They put me on leave at work."
"Alright then... You're right. The Almighty is my mother. I'm her only son." Belinda cringed at the information, but I understood. For several years now in Pandemonium, most citizens see her as a cold bitch, and I agree. She is. She lets the lesser gods do their thing, and wants nothing to do with her creations. The only thing she cares about is me, but we don't have a good relationship. She's not the ultimate being people want, but they don't push me away because of that. They simply don't want to do something to upset me that might upset her and get them obliterated. Like she'd take time out of her "busy schedule" to bother smiting someone. Like I couldn't do it myself.
"So, how long have you been..."
"Alive?"
"Yeah."
I sighed. "Millennia."
"Wow."
"Yeah. She only saved me because I was dying. If I die, she'll get in a mood. It keeps everyone else safe when I'm alive. I grew up with most of the gods. Babysat for them when they had kids, watched those kids grow. They all know me, but only Tyr knows the truth. The others think I'm some god of a pantheon that was long ago destroyed except for me. It's a dumb theory, but they like it. Guess that's ruined now.
"I've got a lot of power. As much as my mother does, actually, but she'd never admit it. I wouldn't either. I do my best to never use it, never let it surface. That's why I got so torn up after everything went down. I hadn't used it in so long, it was going to burst me apart. My body wasn't used to the power, wasn't a good conductor. I guess now I'll have to start slowly building back up my usage and tolerance for it."
"Is that why you take care of Fenrir?"
"How do you know about that?" I asked,sharper than I meant to.
"Wally told me," Belinda said softly.
"Oh," That idiot kid. "But, yes. I'm not truly a god. Fen can't accidentally kill me or hurt me. I have experience with kids. Loki doesn't. It's better this way."
"When are you coming back to work?"
My brow knitted in confusion, "Uhh, didn't Tyr tell you? I'm not coming back. Everyone wants me out. Find my own building, reapply for a permit and all that."
Her face paled, and it took me a minute to remember that for ghouls, outrage and anger make them pale. "I can't believe that! Well, if they're firing you, I'll just quit."
"Belinda--,"
"No!" She cut me off. "That's not acceptable behavior. Besides, if you're left to run your own office, you'll never survive the paperwork." She gave me a look. Okay, so maybe she did all of my paperwork when I got called onto cases, but she didn't have to rub my face in it. "So I'll work for you."
"Wait, what?"
"Wally said you're already looking at places. You'll need an administrator. Who better than me?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Besides, then...maybe I'll be safe," Her voice dropped, became quiet once more.
"Safe? From what?"
Her eyes widened in horror. "From Krishna!"
"Why would you need to be safe from him when he's gone?"
"Mal, he's only gone. He could come back!"
"No, that's not..." I gave a frustrated sigh. How to explain what I'd done? "He isn't going to come back. He's not gone in a traditional sense. He's simply gone. All of the atoms, molecules, particles that made up the god Krishna are not in existence. There is no longer a Krishna. How could you think I'd just let him get away after what he did to you?" I was a little hurt, I'll admit it. I mean, I save her life and she thinks I must have done a half-assed job of it? Does reputation count for nothing anymore?
"Y-You did that?" And now I've scared her off.
"Yes."
"For me?" Her voice squeaked.
"Well, yeah."
"That's, uhm, that's..." Belinda blushed a brilliant crimson shade I had never before seen and got up. She gathered her purse and flung the teddy bear at me. As she rushed out of the room, she called back, "That's really very sweet Mal, I have to go now and we can talk job stuff later, thank you."
I was left alone with no clue what just happened. At least no more people would be dying.
At least, not until it was another day in Pandemonium.
There was only this moment, the here and now...and then there was nothing.
--
Sticky eyes peeled back and squinted at the harsh light centered directly above them. It was bright. It hurt. The eyes closed again. My ears could hear snatches of words. Simple things:
"...we're losing him..."
"...get me 5 ccs..."
"...scalpel, no, clamp..."
"...blood pressure is dropping again..."
When her voice cut through it all, my body became hyper alert. Suddenly, every sensation was raw, and brushed the wrong way on my nerves. The clingy, sweat-stained fabric of something was plastered to my skin, making it itch. There was a deafening silence in the room that stank of fear. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, the taste unpleasant, like a mouth full of dirty socks. I didn't open my eyes again. I just listened to her bare feet on the floor, stepping closer and closer to me.
"Hello, dear," Her voice was creation in itself, painfully full of meaning.
"Hello, Mother," I barely croaked out, my throat red and raw. There was a pulsing in my mouth and I tried to smack my lips together for moisture, but my mouth was drier than the Gobi desert.
"You haven't used your power in a long time. You didn't think there wouldn't be a backlash, did you?"
"Had to save her."
"The ghoul," I could hear the distaste in her voice. She couldn't understand why I would sacrifice myself for a "lesser" creature. Not speciest, just factual in her opinion. She had never understood my need to help others. Never understood why the loss of people I cared for was so damn painful. I like to believe she once cared about things like that, that so much exposure caused her mind to seal that part of herself off, to keep her from feeling that pain ever again. But moments like this, I'm not sure. "Regardless of your foolish decision, I am not going to allow you to die." I wanted to say I wished she would, but the few words I had already spoken had scraped against my throat like a hacksaw. I couldn't, plain and simple.
Her hand touched my forehead, cool and comforting. Then, there was darkness again.
--
I woke up in a hospital room. I hadn't been in a hospital room in a long, long time. The window blinds were pulled up, curtains drawn to reveal the gray skies of Pandemonium. Necromicon went on chugging while I lay feeble in a bed with a horrible need to use the bathroom. I settled for continuing to observe my environment.
The walls were taupe, a little stained here and there, probably by a bodily fluid of some sort that I would rather not contemplate. Minimal furniture, a recliner next to the bed's nightstand. The bathroom was tiny, I could see from here. The floors were brown linoleum. There was one picture on the wall, a small watercolor of a particular flower framed and put up as if an afterthought. I sighed.
The door opened, much to my surprise. A shaggy blonde poked his head through and muttered, "Thank god!" upon seeing me before he ran in. Clutching his hand was a small eight year old boy with bloodshot eyes and a red, running nose. Releasing Wally's hand, Fen leaped at me, landing on my stomach and hugging me so tightly I thought he might break me.
"Dad!" Fen said, voice muffled by my hospital gown. Tears from his eyes were already soaking through the standard issue garb, and I gently untangled him from around my neck.
"Hey. There's no need to cry, bud," I said, tipping his chin up and smiling. His lip quivered. "I'm alive, see? It's alright. Did Wally treat you well?"
Fen cracked a smile at that. "He let me ride on his shoulders, and he made funny faces, and sometimes he drank red stuff from little baggies, but he wouldn't share it. He kept saying you'd be okay but..." An embarrassed blush crept across his face, "I didn't believe him."
"Well, I guess you ought to start believing him now, huh?"
Fen giggled, and I looked over at Wally, offering him a small smile which was returned. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was paler than the norm. Fen had put him through the wringer. Damn.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and then Tyr pushed his way inside. A huge breath left him when he saw me there sitting up, and he came over, grabbing my hand to give it an enthusiastic shake.
"Mal, don't you ever do that again. I thought you were dead! Well, dying." I had never seen Tyr so emotional before, and it made me feel...weird. Apparently he felt the same way, because he cringed and fidgeted on his feet. "So, uh... Due to everything that's transpired..." Tyr grimaced. "I hate to be the one to have to say this... The department can no longer affiliate itself with you. You've got to get out, find a new place of business, and reapply for your specialist permit."
"Are you kidding me?!"
Tyr looked apologetic, "I'm sorry, but you know how it is. I kept your secret as long as I could, but once others found out who your mother was, I mean after all that happened..." The regular joes, he meant. Once they found out my mother was The Almighty, they didn't want a damn thing to do with me. Suddenly, I was upgraded from threatening, to dangerous. I solved so many cases, and this is how they repaid me. Damn it!
"Fine, I'll move out."
"That's great, Mal," Wally nodded enthusiastically. "Good that you're gearing up to get back on your feet." He moved closer to my bed and pulled out a newspaper from behind his back, several things circled in red. "Might I suggest one of these fine buildings?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "What, you;'re already real-estate hunting? You don't even know if I'm really going to take you on as my partner or not."
"Oh, you totally are," Wally said dismissively. He pointed to a picture on the paper, "Look at this one."
We stayed that way for a while. Fen on my lap, Tyr standing by my left, Wally on my right jabbering on about something or other. Eventually, Tyr cleared his throat and excused himself, off to bring justice to the masses. Wally took Fen to get dinner, and I was left on my own.
With effort, I got out of the bed and made it to the bathroom. I finished up and was exiting when I was stopped cold by the sight of Belinda on the recliner by the bed. Her gaze was focused outside, and she had a "Get-Well!" bear in her lap. There was a bag of candy treats on the nightstand.
"Belinda?" It came out as a question, me almost not believing what I was seeing. She'd been exposed to me when I was cranking out full power but she had come back? Even my wife wouldn't have a damn thing to do with me after seeing me like that...which ended with her and our daughter being killed. Now, someone I'd never done anything more for than try to get her to smile was here and waiting for me.
She turned, startled. "Oh! Hi, Mal." Awkward silence poured into the room, filling it to capacity. "I, uhm, I came to say thanks."
"Oh, uh. No problem, any time. Not that I wish there's another time, but, I mean...you know what I mean." Idiot.
"Yes," She smiled. I moved back to the bed, not able to keep standing on my legs which were threatening to give out. I made it to a sitting position with a grunt, and pulled my legs up to the bed itself, the head raised almost like we were sitting in two chairs. It would have been cozy had we not been in a hospital. "Have you talked to anyone about...things?"
"What things?"
"Well, you know Mal," Belinda blushed. My brow furrowed, I truly didn't know what she meant. When she saw I was serious, she bit her lower lip and tried to explain. "I mean, everything that happened. I don't even know everything that occurred. I thought I was going to, well... I thought that was the end. Then you did that crazy light show thing, and people are saying The Almighty is your mother, and..." She forced herself to stop and looked at me.
"It's a long story."
"I don't have anything else to do. They put me on leave at work."
"Alright then... You're right. The Almighty is my mother. I'm her only son." Belinda cringed at the information, but I understood. For several years now in Pandemonium, most citizens see her as a cold bitch, and I agree. She is. She lets the lesser gods do their thing, and wants nothing to do with her creations. The only thing she cares about is me, but we don't have a good relationship. She's not the ultimate being people want, but they don't push me away because of that. They simply don't want to do something to upset me that might upset her and get them obliterated. Like she'd take time out of her "busy schedule" to bother smiting someone. Like I couldn't do it myself.
"So, how long have you been..."
"Alive?"
"Yeah."
I sighed. "Millennia."
"Wow."
"Yeah. She only saved me because I was dying. If I die, she'll get in a mood. It keeps everyone else safe when I'm alive. I grew up with most of the gods. Babysat for them when they had kids, watched those kids grow. They all know me, but only Tyr knows the truth. The others think I'm some god of a pantheon that was long ago destroyed except for me. It's a dumb theory, but they like it. Guess that's ruined now.
"I've got a lot of power. As much as my mother does, actually, but she'd never admit it. I wouldn't either. I do my best to never use it, never let it surface. That's why I got so torn up after everything went down. I hadn't used it in so long, it was going to burst me apart. My body wasn't used to the power, wasn't a good conductor. I guess now I'll have to start slowly building back up my usage and tolerance for it."
"Is that why you take care of Fenrir?"
"How do you know about that?" I asked,sharper than I meant to.
"Wally told me," Belinda said softly.
"Oh," That idiot kid. "But, yes. I'm not truly a god. Fen can't accidentally kill me or hurt me. I have experience with kids. Loki doesn't. It's better this way."
"When are you coming back to work?"
My brow knitted in confusion, "Uhh, didn't Tyr tell you? I'm not coming back. Everyone wants me out. Find my own building, reapply for a permit and all that."
Her face paled, and it took me a minute to remember that for ghouls, outrage and anger make them pale. "I can't believe that! Well, if they're firing you, I'll just quit."
"Belinda--,"
"No!" She cut me off. "That's not acceptable behavior. Besides, if you're left to run your own office, you'll never survive the paperwork." She gave me a look. Okay, so maybe she did all of my paperwork when I got called onto cases, but she didn't have to rub my face in it. "So I'll work for you."
"Wait, what?"
"Wally said you're already looking at places. You'll need an administrator. Who better than me?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Besides, then...maybe I'll be safe," Her voice dropped, became quiet once more.
"Safe? From what?"
Her eyes widened in horror. "From Krishna!"
"Why would you need to be safe from him when he's gone?"
"Mal, he's only gone. He could come back!"
"No, that's not..." I gave a frustrated sigh. How to explain what I'd done? "He isn't going to come back. He's not gone in a traditional sense. He's simply gone. All of the atoms, molecules, particles that made up the god Krishna are not in existence. There is no longer a Krishna. How could you think I'd just let him get away after what he did to you?" I was a little hurt, I'll admit it. I mean, I save her life and she thinks I must have done a half-assed job of it? Does reputation count for nothing anymore?
"Y-You did that?" And now I've scared her off.
"Yes."
"For me?" Her voice squeaked.
"Well, yeah."
"That's, uhm, that's..." Belinda blushed a brilliant crimson shade I had never before seen and got up. She gathered her purse and flung the teddy bear at me. As she rushed out of the room, she called back, "That's really very sweet Mal, I have to go now and we can talk job stuff later, thank you."
I was left alone with no clue what just happened. At least no more people would be dying.
At least, not until it was another day in Pandemonium.
Burn
His feet were cold.
It was the first sensation Joshua Anderson became aware of as he woke. His feet were cold and he didn't know where he was, and though he felt his eyes were open, he could see no light. It wasn't until after several minutes spent fumbling in the dark that he remembered what had happened.
The little boy had been tucked in by his mom in his race-car bed, his rocket pajamas tight but not uncomfortably so. His mom had promised to make pancakes the next day, kissed the top of his head, and bid him goodnight before she closed the door and turned out the lights. That's when the screaming started. First his dad's harsh yelp of pain, and then his mother's scream of terror. The little boy blinked, his powers coming to life, but as soon as the door was opened, he'd been shot with a dart. There was something in it. Drugs, probably. Lots of drugs. He had lost consciousness.
Remembering this, he sniffled, wiped his nose with a dirty hand and kept moving around until he saw a small light, like that at the end of a tunnel. Was he in a tunnel? No, this wasn't a tunnel. This was a cave. He walked outside, still in his rocket pajamas, and was immediately blinded. Everything was covered in reflective white snow. The ground and the trees. Flakes still fell from the gray sky. He blinked rapidly until he could look around, and took everything in. He was alone in the wilderness. He was only eight years old, but he was a hero, and it was time to act like one.
With that thought secured in his head, Joshua Anderson blinked once more, and was engulfed by a violent fire.
--
Hunter had been put on the case several years ago by the underground mutant movement. This wasn't X-Men, it wasn't some fairy tale. Mutation caused by exposure to toxic radiation. So many people dead, only a fraction alive but now drastically changed. Governments promised them the same rights as before, but this was a lie. The mutants had been driven underground, but a few had stayed able and fighting - though they fought for the good of other humans. They were like superheroes of their own, getting little girls from burning houses and keeping mothers from being hit by stolen cars filled with stolen money. Hunter was a mutant, but no one in his squad knew it.
These were not men ruled by the government. They were undercover, recruited by a general who had a personal problem with the mutants, and wanted them eradicated. Small teams went into residences, apprehended the offender, and dumped them in the middle of nowhere for Hunter's team to finish off. It was disgusting. Like they were hunting, but they weren't hunting rabbits and ducks. They were hunting little kids, old men and women, people in the prime of their life, people just starting to get a taste of the world... And not a one saw the abrupt end coming.
Next to him, Liam swore.
"The kid woke early. Look!" Following Liam's pointed finger, Hunter saw the smoke rising in the foothills near the cave. The serum had worked. Hunter had swapped out the batch for something a lot less extreme, hoping to buy the kid some time. He'd only been able to keep a handful of mutants from getting killed while maintaining his cover. The mutant movement knew he was doing his best, and they appreciated every person he brought back alive. But for Hunter, it wasn't enough. He had the blood of feeble women and little girls on his hands. The blood of young men and fathers. His hands were dripping in the stuff, and no matter how hard he scrubbed at his hands with industrial soap under burning hot water, he couldn't get all of the imagined blood off.
"Then let's go," Hunter muttered. He knew the kid was a hero, revered by the public. He couldn't believe the general was willing to kill this kid, especially when it would be found out. And when it was, the public would be in outrage, demand the government answer for their heinous crime. It would all point back to the general. And then them, the squad. The kid had to live, for several different reasons that all totaled millions of lives.
Hunter had long dreamed of being like the kid. Taking on a heroic name, the kid's was Burn (not very inspired, but it sure seemed to fuel the passion of the nation), and fighting regular crime. Saving regular people. If an eight year old kid could do it, why couldn't Hunter? Because his powers were so much more violent, destructive. He was trained as a soldier, still was at heart, but now he had the powers to match. The power of a nuclear bomb in his hands, but he'd never use it. He was chock full of powers, but forbidden to use them.
The squad hiked through the woods in the direction of the smoke, presumably from where the kid had activated his powers as Burn. Become a living, walking, talking body of magma and flame.
--
Wherever he was, he didn't like it. He wanted to go home. Then he remembered his mom and dad were dead. Tears sizzled on his cheeks, instantaneously evaporating on his fiery flesh. He continued to cry as he trudged through the snow. His footprints left spaces of mud, the dirt below now watered from the melted snow. Around him, the forest was alive, but Joshua couldn't muster an appreciation for it. His parents were probably dead.
Survived the equivalent of world devastation just to get killed because of him. Because he had powers and they had known but still loved him and treated him like a normal kid. Because they bought him a race car bed and tucked him in at night and made him pancakes in the mornings.
The scream of a pained boy startled several birds into flight, and Joshua dropped to his knees and began to punch the ground as he continued to scream. This went on for a full minute. When he was drained, he stood, the tears stopped, and he began to walk again.
--
"What the fuck?" Liam exclaimed as the boy's scream rang through the trees. Hunter winced. The team had done a number on the kid. He'd heard some civilians had been hurt in the cross-fire, but based on the kid's screams... They'd been more than hurt. They'd been killed. That was never part of the mission, and it pissed Hunter off. Even if he was a mutant, he'd still gotten to know the guys on his squad. Mostly they were affected by tragedy, thought they were doing their country a service. They never would have started this on their own. It was all the general's fault. Anger in Hunter had the sky churning with dark clouds and lightning cracking through the sky. A freak storm. Right.
"Let's move it," Hunter growled, and his squad picked up the pace. They ran through the woods. He had to stay in character, hated to do it. He wanted the kid to live, and prayed the kid would. But when they got to the clearing, the kid was standing there. Waiting for them.
--
"This is all your fault!" Joshua yelled before running at the man closest to him. Shots fired, yells rang through the night. He didn't care. He was angry, so angry. Then, strong hands grasped his arms and pulled him away from the man he was on with impossible strength. His aggressor wasn't screaming from his hands being burned as they must have been. Joshua struggled, squirmed, shrieked, but the hands held him fast, and then the body threw itself sideways, taking Joshua with it.
Brilliant flames poured out from his body, and lightning sliced through the sky.
--
In later reports, the men would say it was crazy. They would say they thought they were done for, that the kid was about to kill them all. That Hunter just grabbed the kid, and hauled him off Liam, straight into the path of lightning. The kid went off like a molten light, and Hunter was engulfed by the fire. They would say the lightning seemed to strike at exactly the spot they were standing. They would say only a crater remained, that the kid's body had been recovered, but Hunter must have been ash. There was nothing left of the squad leader.
That's what the reports would say.
--
Pain. Profound. Brilliant.
Fire. Ice. Burn, burn, burn.
Shock. Electric. Scream. Scream, and scream, and scream.
Silence. Darkness. Where am I now?
--
The site of the incident was cauterized, sterilized. The general crossed Burn off his master list of mutants, and surveyed the names left. It was sad that he had lost his best squad commander, but Hunter had always been too soft on the mutants, didn't understand the full brevity of the situation. So the crater remained, and the events of the week, the events of the day Hunter died, were forgotten.
But the man who had been standing at the exact center of the radiation blast when it went off and rocked the planet did not forget. He was not going to let the boy named Joshua Anderson, a.k.a Burn, die for no reason.
A small fire began to burn in the center of the crater, seemingly from nowhere. There were no witnesses, no one around. The fire grew, and grew. Ashes drew together, bound themselves to the fire.
And rising out of the fire was a head as dark as the fire was bright, a shadow trapped within the light.
Hunter screamed.
It was the first sensation Joshua Anderson became aware of as he woke. His feet were cold and he didn't know where he was, and though he felt his eyes were open, he could see no light. It wasn't until after several minutes spent fumbling in the dark that he remembered what had happened.
The little boy had been tucked in by his mom in his race-car bed, his rocket pajamas tight but not uncomfortably so. His mom had promised to make pancakes the next day, kissed the top of his head, and bid him goodnight before she closed the door and turned out the lights. That's when the screaming started. First his dad's harsh yelp of pain, and then his mother's scream of terror. The little boy blinked, his powers coming to life, but as soon as the door was opened, he'd been shot with a dart. There was something in it. Drugs, probably. Lots of drugs. He had lost consciousness.
Remembering this, he sniffled, wiped his nose with a dirty hand and kept moving around until he saw a small light, like that at the end of a tunnel. Was he in a tunnel? No, this wasn't a tunnel. This was a cave. He walked outside, still in his rocket pajamas, and was immediately blinded. Everything was covered in reflective white snow. The ground and the trees. Flakes still fell from the gray sky. He blinked rapidly until he could look around, and took everything in. He was alone in the wilderness. He was only eight years old, but he was a hero, and it was time to act like one.
With that thought secured in his head, Joshua Anderson blinked once more, and was engulfed by a violent fire.
--
Hunter had been put on the case several years ago by the underground mutant movement. This wasn't X-Men, it wasn't some fairy tale. Mutation caused by exposure to toxic radiation. So many people dead, only a fraction alive but now drastically changed. Governments promised them the same rights as before, but this was a lie. The mutants had been driven underground, but a few had stayed able and fighting - though they fought for the good of other humans. They were like superheroes of their own, getting little girls from burning houses and keeping mothers from being hit by stolen cars filled with stolen money. Hunter was a mutant, but no one in his squad knew it.
These were not men ruled by the government. They were undercover, recruited by a general who had a personal problem with the mutants, and wanted them eradicated. Small teams went into residences, apprehended the offender, and dumped them in the middle of nowhere for Hunter's team to finish off. It was disgusting. Like they were hunting, but they weren't hunting rabbits and ducks. They were hunting little kids, old men and women, people in the prime of their life, people just starting to get a taste of the world... And not a one saw the abrupt end coming.
Next to him, Liam swore.
"The kid woke early. Look!" Following Liam's pointed finger, Hunter saw the smoke rising in the foothills near the cave. The serum had worked. Hunter had swapped out the batch for something a lot less extreme, hoping to buy the kid some time. He'd only been able to keep a handful of mutants from getting killed while maintaining his cover. The mutant movement knew he was doing his best, and they appreciated every person he brought back alive. But for Hunter, it wasn't enough. He had the blood of feeble women and little girls on his hands. The blood of young men and fathers. His hands were dripping in the stuff, and no matter how hard he scrubbed at his hands with industrial soap under burning hot water, he couldn't get all of the imagined blood off.
"Then let's go," Hunter muttered. He knew the kid was a hero, revered by the public. He couldn't believe the general was willing to kill this kid, especially when it would be found out. And when it was, the public would be in outrage, demand the government answer for their heinous crime. It would all point back to the general. And then them, the squad. The kid had to live, for several different reasons that all totaled millions of lives.
Hunter had long dreamed of being like the kid. Taking on a heroic name, the kid's was Burn (not very inspired, but it sure seemed to fuel the passion of the nation), and fighting regular crime. Saving regular people. If an eight year old kid could do it, why couldn't Hunter? Because his powers were so much more violent, destructive. He was trained as a soldier, still was at heart, but now he had the powers to match. The power of a nuclear bomb in his hands, but he'd never use it. He was chock full of powers, but forbidden to use them.
The squad hiked through the woods in the direction of the smoke, presumably from where the kid had activated his powers as Burn. Become a living, walking, talking body of magma and flame.
--
Wherever he was, he didn't like it. He wanted to go home. Then he remembered his mom and dad were dead. Tears sizzled on his cheeks, instantaneously evaporating on his fiery flesh. He continued to cry as he trudged through the snow. His footprints left spaces of mud, the dirt below now watered from the melted snow. Around him, the forest was alive, but Joshua couldn't muster an appreciation for it. His parents were probably dead.
Survived the equivalent of world devastation just to get killed because of him. Because he had powers and they had known but still loved him and treated him like a normal kid. Because they bought him a race car bed and tucked him in at night and made him pancakes in the mornings.
The scream of a pained boy startled several birds into flight, and Joshua dropped to his knees and began to punch the ground as he continued to scream. This went on for a full minute. When he was drained, he stood, the tears stopped, and he began to walk again.
--
"What the fuck?" Liam exclaimed as the boy's scream rang through the trees. Hunter winced. The team had done a number on the kid. He'd heard some civilians had been hurt in the cross-fire, but based on the kid's screams... They'd been more than hurt. They'd been killed. That was never part of the mission, and it pissed Hunter off. Even if he was a mutant, he'd still gotten to know the guys on his squad. Mostly they were affected by tragedy, thought they were doing their country a service. They never would have started this on their own. It was all the general's fault. Anger in Hunter had the sky churning with dark clouds and lightning cracking through the sky. A freak storm. Right.
"Let's move it," Hunter growled, and his squad picked up the pace. They ran through the woods. He had to stay in character, hated to do it. He wanted the kid to live, and prayed the kid would. But when they got to the clearing, the kid was standing there. Waiting for them.
--
"This is all your fault!" Joshua yelled before running at the man closest to him. Shots fired, yells rang through the night. He didn't care. He was angry, so angry. Then, strong hands grasped his arms and pulled him away from the man he was on with impossible strength. His aggressor wasn't screaming from his hands being burned as they must have been. Joshua struggled, squirmed, shrieked, but the hands held him fast, and then the body threw itself sideways, taking Joshua with it.
Brilliant flames poured out from his body, and lightning sliced through the sky.
--
In later reports, the men would say it was crazy. They would say they thought they were done for, that the kid was about to kill them all. That Hunter just grabbed the kid, and hauled him off Liam, straight into the path of lightning. The kid went off like a molten light, and Hunter was engulfed by the fire. They would say the lightning seemed to strike at exactly the spot they were standing. They would say only a crater remained, that the kid's body had been recovered, but Hunter must have been ash. There was nothing left of the squad leader.
That's what the reports would say.
--
Pain. Profound. Brilliant.
Fire. Ice. Burn, burn, burn.
Shock. Electric. Scream. Scream, and scream, and scream.
Silence. Darkness. Where am I now?
--
The site of the incident was cauterized, sterilized. The general crossed Burn off his master list of mutants, and surveyed the names left. It was sad that he had lost his best squad commander, but Hunter had always been too soft on the mutants, didn't understand the full brevity of the situation. So the crater remained, and the events of the week, the events of the day Hunter died, were forgotten.
But the man who had been standing at the exact center of the radiation blast when it went off and rocked the planet did not forget. He was not going to let the boy named Joshua Anderson, a.k.a Burn, die for no reason.
A small fire began to burn in the center of the crater, seemingly from nowhere. There were no witnesses, no one around. The fire grew, and grew. Ashes drew together, bound themselves to the fire.
And rising out of the fire was a head as dark as the fire was bright, a shadow trapped within the light.
Hunter screamed.
Magic of Humanity
Thursday, September 4, 2014
They saw the world as a web of electromagnetic fields, a blue-green net that sparked and shimmered in the dark. They were special, unlike the deaf, the dumb, the blind. Metaphorically of course, because they could very well hear and speak and see, but they didn't understand the magic. A world of technology, a place of wires and signals and wavelengths... But it took a select few to see it. And when they did, it took only one bad seed to ruin it all.
The Tech Wars nearly killed us. For all the species we've run to extinction, we were about to do one better - heading straight toward causing our own extinction. Was it a godsend that technological magic wasn't the only type. Maybe, but more likely it was work of the devil himself. For the most part, magic users were ignored and left alone. Then the techies started going crazy. The rest of us, we had to step up. We had to really drop the hammer on them, crush them to save everyone else. Now the ones we saved, all those normal people, they're terrified of us.
Humans are stubborn. It was in their best interest to shut up after the war, to be quiet and content and peaceful in their own living. Their own being. They couldn't do it, of course not. We were too strong, too powerful, and we scared the shit out of them. They wanted us gone, dead, eradicated, but they couldn't condone genocide. So the government started implementing new regulations and policies.
It started small at first. A registration form here or there, an identifying marker or two... Then the big changes came. The segregation. It was the 1800s all over again. Then it was World War 2, and we were being herded into camps.
They call it humane. We get three square meals a day, a bed, clothes, shelter... We have jobs and receive a stipend, but live in barracks inside electric fencing. They removed us from the things that fueled us, they weakened us... They castrated our magic, left us impotent. Now, we live in the deserts, those dismal places where no regular person in their right mind will go. We are watched over and kept like domesticated livestock.
This is why the truth was hidden for so long. This is why no one blew the big secret until the early 3000s. Because humanity can't take it. Humanity wants to believe it's all powerful, a divine species with godlike ability. Anything exceeding natural born ability is abhorrent and scary - only because it is better, more powerful.
Not a genocide, no.
Mass restraint, containment, and captivity, enforced until the last of us dies.
The Tech Wars nearly killed us. For all the species we've run to extinction, we were about to do one better - heading straight toward causing our own extinction. Was it a godsend that technological magic wasn't the only type. Maybe, but more likely it was work of the devil himself. For the most part, magic users were ignored and left alone. Then the techies started going crazy. The rest of us, we had to step up. We had to really drop the hammer on them, crush them to save everyone else. Now the ones we saved, all those normal people, they're terrified of us.
Humans are stubborn. It was in their best interest to shut up after the war, to be quiet and content and peaceful in their own living. Their own being. They couldn't do it, of course not. We were too strong, too powerful, and we scared the shit out of them. They wanted us gone, dead, eradicated, but they couldn't condone genocide. So the government started implementing new regulations and policies.
It started small at first. A registration form here or there, an identifying marker or two... Then the big changes came. The segregation. It was the 1800s all over again. Then it was World War 2, and we were being herded into camps.
They call it humane. We get three square meals a day, a bed, clothes, shelter... We have jobs and receive a stipend, but live in barracks inside electric fencing. They removed us from the things that fueled us, they weakened us... They castrated our magic, left us impotent. Now, we live in the deserts, those dismal places where no regular person in their right mind will go. We are watched over and kept like domesticated livestock.
This is why the truth was hidden for so long. This is why no one blew the big secret until the early 3000s. Because humanity can't take it. Humanity wants to believe it's all powerful, a divine species with godlike ability. Anything exceeding natural born ability is abhorrent and scary - only because it is better, more powerful.
Not a genocide, no.
Mass restraint, containment, and captivity, enforced until the last of us dies.
Operation: Farm Grown
It's odd, the things you remember when you're watching someone die.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but if you're a serial killer, do you die in a place full of blood and screams? Or do you see the times before things went all wrong and you started killing people in droves? What does the mass murderer see? No one's life is 100% clean and cheerful. Everyone has ugly parts in the past, present, and future. When they die, what do they see?
I'm not sure what I'll see when I die. It won't be filled with rainbows, but it will surely be better than most. I think. I'm not sure, because no one has come back from the dead to tell me what they saw when they died. No one asks Ouija boards to tell them what comes after.
My friend is dying.
He isn't really my friend. His name is Paul, and he tried to kill me thirty minutes ago. But I'm the only one here in this place, in the dark and sad and dirt. No one should be alone when they die, no one should be without at least one friend with them. That's why we're friends for the time being. His blood is starting to soak my socks.
Paul is fortyish with dark brown hair already beginning to show strands of silver, and he has fish-belly white skin, dopey brown eyes. He's got a paunch, but I guess that's what happens when you age; I don't really know. He's looking at me with all this anger, his mouth opening and closing, gaping like a fish caught on a hook. Lying on his back, he doesn't look as big as he did before, in fact he seems almost...normal. His khaki slacks are dirties by mud, and his green polo is stained with blood, ripped in some places, but all in all... I feel under-dressed. Here I am in socks, pajama bottoms, and a dingy white t-shirt. I should have dressed up for my attempted assassination.
His intestines are all in a ropey pile poking out of his stomach. I tried really hard to put them back in, but there was just so much of the stuff... At least his other organs fit in nicely. But he's bleeding all over the place, and the pool of his spreading blood has soaked my woolen socks through. It's impossible to get blood out of wool.
"W-what are you?" Paul asks, voice all raw. That was kind of my fault, though I don't think I punched him in the throat that hard. His question is weird, I mean, 'what' am I? I'm not a what, I'm a who. It's an important distinction.
"I'm just me," I answer. Crouched down next to him, I can see all the lines of his face, and it seems so odd. It reminds me of Gramps.
I miss Gramps. He wasn't actually my grandparent, but he treated me like it, and he was old with iron gray hair and lots of lines on his face. He never called me 'asset' like the other people at the farm. Like Dr. Carriday and Mr. Farson. They never called me my name, but Gramps did. Sometimes he even called me "son". He always dressed real nice and had a funny hat he'd take off when he came into my room. His coat was covered in shiny buttons, and sometimes he'd let me play with them. People got real quiet when he came around, they would stop what they were doing and listen to whatever he said.
This is what I'm reminded of watching Paul die.
"You're a freak," Paul gasps.
"That's not very nice."
Paul goes eerily quiet, and his eyes begin fading. Several heartbeats pass, and then his isn't beating anymore. I really didn't mean to hurt him. I told him to stop trying to cut me with the big fat butcher's knife he had, but he wouldn't listen. I feel bad about it. It isn't my fault but I still feel bad about it. Gramps called that feeling "guilt". He said guilt didn't have a reason or explanation, that it just was. That sometimes you felt guilty for no other reason than being alive.
I miss the farm. It was a nice enough place, there were cows and pigs and sheep and goats and horses... We grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables, and worked hard for every meal. Well, mostly I worked hard. Dr. Carriday said it was a test. All a big test. Mr. Farson was the one who wanted to shut down the farm after Gramps died. I was really upset, but Gramps always said you don't take out your anger on people who don't deserve it.
--
"Listen to me Michael," Gramps put down the hoe he had been working with while helping me till the yard, and looked at me. The sun was dazzling behind him, making his hair appear like a halo of strong iron, "People, they aren't always that smart. They'll say things and do things that hurt you, or make you angry, or just put you in a poor mood. But you can't hate them for it. They're only human."
"Well if they're only human, what am I?"
He smiled at me then. "You're you, Michael. Pure and simple. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
--
When Gramps died, I was so sad. Three weeks later, Mr. Farson came to the farm for a second time - the first time had been when he talked about closing the farm down. He came to my room and acted all nice, like he cared. Then he shot me with a needle and syringe full of funny blue liquid, and the room spun, and I passed out.
I woke up on a cold table, a gurney it's called. There was a big light right in my face, and all these people in weird blue hats and masks and gowns. They had gloves and shiny sharp things. They were doing something to me. To my insides. I could feel their fingers digging around, looking for...something. I didn't think, I just reacted.
I killed them all, even Mr. Farson. I didn't mean to, but I was scared, and everything was still a little fuzzy. I was afraid I was going to die. When it was done, I had to patch myself up. I put all of my normal shiny stuff back into my body, and I got a stapler and made sure to stick my skin back like it was supposed to be. My organs are all shiny and reflective, but all the other people I've met and seen inside have squishy weird lumps for organs. I don't know why.
Dr. Cassiday walks through the small arch that leads to the kitchen of the abandoned building. Dr. Cassiday is Gramps's real daughter. She didn't tell me until she rescued me after I got all stapled back to normal. Then she took me to live here. The place is supposed to be abandoned, but I found a little family of rats in the closet. I bring food to them and pet them and play with them, but I've never taken her to meet them. I don't want her to scare them, or them to scare her. She looks at the body on the floor and back to me, her face is sad. I wish she wouldn't look so sad, I don't know how to fix it.
"Michael... What happened?" She asks. She trusts me to tell the truth because Gramps always told me that I should endeavor to keep to the truth of the matter, and I listen to Gramps.
"He came in while I was sleeping," I point to my now rumpled pallet on the floor in the corner. "He had a big knife, and he was trying to cut me. I told him to stop but he wouldn't, and I didn't mean to, I really didn't. It just kind of happened..." Dr. Cassiday swallows, looks at the man, but when her eyes find the knife she relaxes.
"Oh, Michael," She murmurs. She walks over to me, real careful to avoid the blood, and tugs me off the floor. "Take those dirty socks off, I'll buy you some new ones. I'll take care of this, okay? I might have to be gone a little longer than usual, but I'll be back real soon, okay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She hauls the body back through the kitchen archway and I'm left alone again. Peeling off the dirty socks, I leave them in the now stagnant blood pool and pad back to my pallet, remaking it.
It's so odd, watching someone die.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but if you're a serial killer, do you die in a place full of blood and screams? Or do you see the times before things went all wrong and you started killing people in droves? What does the mass murderer see? No one's life is 100% clean and cheerful. Everyone has ugly parts in the past, present, and future. When they die, what do they see?
I'm not sure what I'll see when I die. It won't be filled with rainbows, but it will surely be better than most. I think. I'm not sure, because no one has come back from the dead to tell me what they saw when they died. No one asks Ouija boards to tell them what comes after.
My friend is dying.
He isn't really my friend. His name is Paul, and he tried to kill me thirty minutes ago. But I'm the only one here in this place, in the dark and sad and dirt. No one should be alone when they die, no one should be without at least one friend with them. That's why we're friends for the time being. His blood is starting to soak my socks.
Paul is fortyish with dark brown hair already beginning to show strands of silver, and he has fish-belly white skin, dopey brown eyes. He's got a paunch, but I guess that's what happens when you age; I don't really know. He's looking at me with all this anger, his mouth opening and closing, gaping like a fish caught on a hook. Lying on his back, he doesn't look as big as he did before, in fact he seems almost...normal. His khaki slacks are dirties by mud, and his green polo is stained with blood, ripped in some places, but all in all... I feel under-dressed. Here I am in socks, pajama bottoms, and a dingy white t-shirt. I should have dressed up for my attempted assassination.
His intestines are all in a ropey pile poking out of his stomach. I tried really hard to put them back in, but there was just so much of the stuff... At least his other organs fit in nicely. But he's bleeding all over the place, and the pool of his spreading blood has soaked my woolen socks through. It's impossible to get blood out of wool.
"W-what are you?" Paul asks, voice all raw. That was kind of my fault, though I don't think I punched him in the throat that hard. His question is weird, I mean, 'what' am I? I'm not a what, I'm a who. It's an important distinction.
"I'm just me," I answer. Crouched down next to him, I can see all the lines of his face, and it seems so odd. It reminds me of Gramps.
I miss Gramps. He wasn't actually my grandparent, but he treated me like it, and he was old with iron gray hair and lots of lines on his face. He never called me 'asset' like the other people at the farm. Like Dr. Carriday and Mr. Farson. They never called me my name, but Gramps did. Sometimes he even called me "son". He always dressed real nice and had a funny hat he'd take off when he came into my room. His coat was covered in shiny buttons, and sometimes he'd let me play with them. People got real quiet when he came around, they would stop what they were doing and listen to whatever he said.
This is what I'm reminded of watching Paul die.
"You're a freak," Paul gasps.
"That's not very nice."
Paul goes eerily quiet, and his eyes begin fading. Several heartbeats pass, and then his isn't beating anymore. I really didn't mean to hurt him. I told him to stop trying to cut me with the big fat butcher's knife he had, but he wouldn't listen. I feel bad about it. It isn't my fault but I still feel bad about it. Gramps called that feeling "guilt". He said guilt didn't have a reason or explanation, that it just was. That sometimes you felt guilty for no other reason than being alive.
I miss the farm. It was a nice enough place, there were cows and pigs and sheep and goats and horses... We grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables, and worked hard for every meal. Well, mostly I worked hard. Dr. Carriday said it was a test. All a big test. Mr. Farson was the one who wanted to shut down the farm after Gramps died. I was really upset, but Gramps always said you don't take out your anger on people who don't deserve it.
--
"Listen to me Michael," Gramps put down the hoe he had been working with while helping me till the yard, and looked at me. The sun was dazzling behind him, making his hair appear like a halo of strong iron, "People, they aren't always that smart. They'll say things and do things that hurt you, or make you angry, or just put you in a poor mood. But you can't hate them for it. They're only human."
"Well if they're only human, what am I?"
He smiled at me then. "You're you, Michael. Pure and simple. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
--
When Gramps died, I was so sad. Three weeks later, Mr. Farson came to the farm for a second time - the first time had been when he talked about closing the farm down. He came to my room and acted all nice, like he cared. Then he shot me with a needle and syringe full of funny blue liquid, and the room spun, and I passed out.
I woke up on a cold table, a gurney it's called. There was a big light right in my face, and all these people in weird blue hats and masks and gowns. They had gloves and shiny sharp things. They were doing something to me. To my insides. I could feel their fingers digging around, looking for...something. I didn't think, I just reacted.
I killed them all, even Mr. Farson. I didn't mean to, but I was scared, and everything was still a little fuzzy. I was afraid I was going to die. When it was done, I had to patch myself up. I put all of my normal shiny stuff back into my body, and I got a stapler and made sure to stick my skin back like it was supposed to be. My organs are all shiny and reflective, but all the other people I've met and seen inside have squishy weird lumps for organs. I don't know why.
Dr. Cassiday walks through the small arch that leads to the kitchen of the abandoned building. Dr. Cassiday is Gramps's real daughter. She didn't tell me until she rescued me after I got all stapled back to normal. Then she took me to live here. The place is supposed to be abandoned, but I found a little family of rats in the closet. I bring food to them and pet them and play with them, but I've never taken her to meet them. I don't want her to scare them, or them to scare her. She looks at the body on the floor and back to me, her face is sad. I wish she wouldn't look so sad, I don't know how to fix it.
"Michael... What happened?" She asks. She trusts me to tell the truth because Gramps always told me that I should endeavor to keep to the truth of the matter, and I listen to Gramps.
"He came in while I was sleeping," I point to my now rumpled pallet on the floor in the corner. "He had a big knife, and he was trying to cut me. I told him to stop but he wouldn't, and I didn't mean to, I really didn't. It just kind of happened..." Dr. Cassiday swallows, looks at the man, but when her eyes find the knife she relaxes.
"Oh, Michael," She murmurs. She walks over to me, real careful to avoid the blood, and tugs me off the floor. "Take those dirty socks off, I'll buy you some new ones. I'll take care of this, okay? I might have to be gone a little longer than usual, but I'll be back real soon, okay?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She hauls the body back through the kitchen archway and I'm left alone again. Peeling off the dirty socks, I leave them in the now stagnant blood pool and pad back to my pallet, remaking it.
It's so odd, watching someone die.
Pandemonium, Part 2
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Alas there is rogue god on the loose, and I need to stop them.
Wally is flailing around on the floor, attempting to break Fen's grip on him. But even when Fen isn't really trying, he has a nearly unbreakable hold on whatever he sets his sights on. Including his "toys" as it were.
"Let him go, Fen," I admonish gently. He pouts, but releases the vampire. Wally springs upward, backing up from Fen quickly. His eyes dart between the two of us.
"Did you say 'Fen'? As in..."
There's no point in lying to him, Wally isn't stupid. "Yes. This is Fenrir."
"So, Loki is... Loki doesn't have a god killer."
"He has a name," I snap. Continuing in a softer tone, I say, "Fen has been with me almost since the very beginning. Loki isn't cut out for kids."
"But he's humanoid?"
I shake my head and turn my attention to the little boy next to me. "Fen, go furry for me, would you?" Eagerly nodding, he changes forms instantaneously. In his place, a furry black wolf yips in a manner only to be seen as cute. I'm sure he was going for threatening, but that doesn't change how adorable he is.
"This is crazy, you know that?" Wally mutters, and for a moment, I'm afraid I've lost him. Then, "Crazy, but totally cool!" Wally grins at me, his boyish nature shining. A goofy kid - just like I've been saying. "So how are we gonna get this god? I've been on this case for a while now, and--"
"Wait," I interrupt. "Back up. How long have you been working this?"
"Uh...since the beginning." That's why the future is falling into place the way it is. Wonderful.
"We need to get you somewhere safe. And warded."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Gods are the type to hold a grudge. If you got anywhere near a piece of evidence that would lead you to him, even if you didn't notice it... He'll see you as a threat. Doesn't matter what your intentions might have been."
Faced with this new truth, Wally swallows nervously. I feel bad for the kid. He never asked for this, never asked to be put on this specific case. Consultants are the reserves detectives call on for particularly rough cases. The talented types are automatically registered to be on the list, while keeping up with their day jobs. Seers, witches, crafters, you name it. But most aren't combat trained, and you can bet none of them have protections from pissed off gods.
My place is pretty heavily warded and defended, but the only people who can truly keep gods out are other gods. Fen and I can take care of ourselves if a god breaks in. Wally can't. I need Tyr.
--
In the central part of Necromicon, veritable mansions sprawl around the central tower. Realm of the gods, ostentatious and opulent. What else for the powers that be? Certainly not the "hovels" scattered about the rest of the city.
Massive oak columns flank the Norwegian pine door, the outside of the house a mishmash of carvings that tell one continuous story. I ring the silver doorbell and wait on the porch as it chimes thunderously. Wally fidgets beside me.
The door is thrown open, and there he stands.
Thick brown hair frames his scarred, young face, his blue eyes bright. His cybernetic-implant hand is the one holding the door open, allowing him to beckon us forward with flesh and blood. I'm still ticked off that Tyr lost his hand. When Loki first had Fenrir, Tyr went to play with the scamp, and ended up accidentally losing a hand to the god killer. It wasn't Fen's fault, he was a little kid. Loki should have known better. If I had taken Fen sooner, it probably wouldn't have happened.
We step into the foyer, a room filled with old relics of craftsmanship for furniture, and period tapestries everywhere. I turn to my old friend with the faintest smile
"I'm glad you finally decided to drop in, Mal. Took you long enough to visit," Tyr says in his crazy deep voice.
"Afraid I'm here on business, not pleasure," I say.
He frowns. "Too bad. So what's going on and who's your friend?"
Oh. Right. I turn towards Wally, "Wally, this is Tyr. Tyr, this is Wally."
"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Wally chirps, visibly anxious.
Tyr lets out a chuckle. "It's just Tyr here, not 'sir'. That answers one question. Mal?"
"I think we've got a god gone rogue." Silence reigns supreme now, Tyr's jaw clenched.
"You believe this?"
"Yes."
"I assume then that Wally needs protection from this god?"
"You know me well."
He nods thoughtfully. "I'll protect him for you, Mal. But be careful, alright?"
"I'll do my job, Tyr. I always do."
"Yeah, well, I want you to stay alive, too."
I merely nod before I make a hasty exit, leaving Wally dumbfounded, but safe.
--
It's a good night's sleep for me, and then off to hunt a god.
--
Another sleep filled with nightmares. I had to live through their dying once already. Now I relive it. It must be my brain working to protect me. Now I won't let anyone close again, and I'll also avoid the delusion that people I deem friend and family won't stab me in the back.
But this isn't the time for nostalgia. I've got a god to catch. I gear up like I normally do on a case; black jeans, black long-sleeved shirt, dark gray trench coat, and black boots. Black and those darker shades make hiding blood easier - it's a matter of good manners.
I give Fen his breakfast and head out, letting my senses relax and expand. Sort through all creation to pinpoint Pandemonium, and then Necromicon. The information hits me with a familiar rush, and I keep walking towards the city. I only stop when I feel that strange tug in my chest that means important things are being processed.
My mind sifts through a thousand souls, millions of thoughts and sins and virtues, before the murderous bright red is found. During all of this, my eyes had closed, but now they snap open. I know where he is.
My feet go on automatic, leading me toward my target when my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and answer it with impatience, "Yeah?"
"M-M-Mal?" It's Belinda's voice, full of fear and tears. I stop dead in my tracks.
"What's wrong?"
"H-he said...y-you took away his fun, s-so you have to be p-punished." She's openly sobbing now, and I can hear someone muttering to her in angry tones. "I-I h-have to go. T-that was all the t-time I had."
"Belinda!" I shout into my phone as the other end hangs up. The son of a bitch took her. Her time is limited. So I run.
I still have his location, I can get there in time... I have to. I run as fast as I possibly can, coat billowing out behind me.
--
The building once housed Lady Aphrodite's Naughty Brewhouse. Once upon a time, it held a thriving business with drinks, food, and scantily clad waitresses. Aphrodite made a pretty penny off of the converted warehouse, but closed it when the male patrons began getting handsier and handsier with the help. A "punishment". How stupidly fitting.
I open the door as quietly as possible, and slip into the dismal and dim building. Against the back wall, everything is nicely lit. Belinda is heavily duct-taped to a chair, no longer crying but with her makeup running, revealing her pale ghoul flesh. She's glaring at the god named Krishna.
He has skin the color of roasted almonds, full head of wavy black hair, and derangement in the depths of his brown eyes. In his hand, a straight razor. But no ordinary one. No. This was clearly forged by a crafting god and death god working together. His smile is making me sick.
"No matter what you do, Mal will catch you," Belinda says strongly in her soft voice, trying so damn hard to be brave. I want to tell her everything will be okay, but it's too early to blow my presence now.
"Mal," Krishna sneers. "Pathetic man. In fact, I think you deserve to know just how pathetic." He twitches a hand and I'm zooming from my shadowed location right into the back wall. There's no way he got that power on his own...
Blood fills my mouth, a side effect of such an impact, and I struggle to turn my head to the side and spit. Fucking bastard. It feels like I'm pinned to the wall by an immovable force. Until it yields, but only to leave me facing Krishna before the force reasserts itself.
"Pathetic," Krishna repeats, smiling wider. He wraps a hand around my throat and begins to squeeze.
Rage blinds me, his hand squeezing the life out of me, and I want to scream at him that he doesn't know what he's doing, that so much death will come of this... And then it's too late.
The power I was born with, the power I suppress and hide, it gushes out of me in a torrent. There's a hoarse scream, one I recognize as my own. Everything is covered in blinding lilac light, until I tell it to fade and it complies. Laughter echoes through the building. Laughter. My laughter. With mere thoughts, I change things. Krishna is relocated a few feet away from me, deranged look replaced by one of fear. Belinda is freed of her bonds, sitting in the chair with eyes of shock. I reach one hand out...
...and the lilac light encompasses everything.
Wally is flailing around on the floor, attempting to break Fen's grip on him. But even when Fen isn't really trying, he has a nearly unbreakable hold on whatever he sets his sights on. Including his "toys" as it were.
"Let him go, Fen," I admonish gently. He pouts, but releases the vampire. Wally springs upward, backing up from Fen quickly. His eyes dart between the two of us.
"Did you say 'Fen'? As in..."
There's no point in lying to him, Wally isn't stupid. "Yes. This is Fenrir."
"So, Loki is... Loki doesn't have a god killer."
"He has a name," I snap. Continuing in a softer tone, I say, "Fen has been with me almost since the very beginning. Loki isn't cut out for kids."
"But he's humanoid?"
I shake my head and turn my attention to the little boy next to me. "Fen, go furry for me, would you?" Eagerly nodding, he changes forms instantaneously. In his place, a furry black wolf yips in a manner only to be seen as cute. I'm sure he was going for threatening, but that doesn't change how adorable he is.
"This is crazy, you know that?" Wally mutters, and for a moment, I'm afraid I've lost him. Then, "Crazy, but totally cool!" Wally grins at me, his boyish nature shining. A goofy kid - just like I've been saying. "So how are we gonna get this god? I've been on this case for a while now, and--"
"Wait," I interrupt. "Back up. How long have you been working this?"
"Uh...since the beginning." That's why the future is falling into place the way it is. Wonderful.
"We need to get you somewhere safe. And warded."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Gods are the type to hold a grudge. If you got anywhere near a piece of evidence that would lead you to him, even if you didn't notice it... He'll see you as a threat. Doesn't matter what your intentions might have been."
Faced with this new truth, Wally swallows nervously. I feel bad for the kid. He never asked for this, never asked to be put on this specific case. Consultants are the reserves detectives call on for particularly rough cases. The talented types are automatically registered to be on the list, while keeping up with their day jobs. Seers, witches, crafters, you name it. But most aren't combat trained, and you can bet none of them have protections from pissed off gods.
My place is pretty heavily warded and defended, but the only people who can truly keep gods out are other gods. Fen and I can take care of ourselves if a god breaks in. Wally can't. I need Tyr.
--
In the central part of Necromicon, veritable mansions sprawl around the central tower. Realm of the gods, ostentatious and opulent. What else for the powers that be? Certainly not the "hovels" scattered about the rest of the city.
Massive oak columns flank the Norwegian pine door, the outside of the house a mishmash of carvings that tell one continuous story. I ring the silver doorbell and wait on the porch as it chimes thunderously. Wally fidgets beside me.
The door is thrown open, and there he stands.
Thick brown hair frames his scarred, young face, his blue eyes bright. His cybernetic-implant hand is the one holding the door open, allowing him to beckon us forward with flesh and blood. I'm still ticked off that Tyr lost his hand. When Loki first had Fenrir, Tyr went to play with the scamp, and ended up accidentally losing a hand to the god killer. It wasn't Fen's fault, he was a little kid. Loki should have known better. If I had taken Fen sooner, it probably wouldn't have happened.
We step into the foyer, a room filled with old relics of craftsmanship for furniture, and period tapestries everywhere. I turn to my old friend with the faintest smile
"I'm glad you finally decided to drop in, Mal. Took you long enough to visit," Tyr says in his crazy deep voice.
"Afraid I'm here on business, not pleasure," I say.
He frowns. "Too bad. So what's going on and who's your friend?"
Oh. Right. I turn towards Wally, "Wally, this is Tyr. Tyr, this is Wally."
"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Wally chirps, visibly anxious.
Tyr lets out a chuckle. "It's just Tyr here, not 'sir'. That answers one question. Mal?"
"I think we've got a god gone rogue." Silence reigns supreme now, Tyr's jaw clenched.
"You believe this?"
"Yes."
"I assume then that Wally needs protection from this god?"
"You know me well."
He nods thoughtfully. "I'll protect him for you, Mal. But be careful, alright?"
"I'll do my job, Tyr. I always do."
"Yeah, well, I want you to stay alive, too."
I merely nod before I make a hasty exit, leaving Wally dumbfounded, but safe.
--
It's a good night's sleep for me, and then off to hunt a god.
--
Another sleep filled with nightmares. I had to live through their dying once already. Now I relive it. It must be my brain working to protect me. Now I won't let anyone close again, and I'll also avoid the delusion that people I deem friend and family won't stab me in the back.
But this isn't the time for nostalgia. I've got a god to catch. I gear up like I normally do on a case; black jeans, black long-sleeved shirt, dark gray trench coat, and black boots. Black and those darker shades make hiding blood easier - it's a matter of good manners.
I give Fen his breakfast and head out, letting my senses relax and expand. Sort through all creation to pinpoint Pandemonium, and then Necromicon. The information hits me with a familiar rush, and I keep walking towards the city. I only stop when I feel that strange tug in my chest that means important things are being processed.
My mind sifts through a thousand souls, millions of thoughts and sins and virtues, before the murderous bright red is found. During all of this, my eyes had closed, but now they snap open. I know where he is.
My feet go on automatic, leading me toward my target when my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and answer it with impatience, "Yeah?"
"M-M-Mal?" It's Belinda's voice, full of fear and tears. I stop dead in my tracks.
"What's wrong?"
"H-he said...y-you took away his fun, s-so you have to be p-punished." She's openly sobbing now, and I can hear someone muttering to her in angry tones. "I-I h-have to go. T-that was all the t-time I had."
"Belinda!" I shout into my phone as the other end hangs up. The son of a bitch took her. Her time is limited. So I run.
I still have his location, I can get there in time... I have to. I run as fast as I possibly can, coat billowing out behind me.
--
The building once housed Lady Aphrodite's Naughty Brewhouse. Once upon a time, it held a thriving business with drinks, food, and scantily clad waitresses. Aphrodite made a pretty penny off of the converted warehouse, but closed it when the male patrons began getting handsier and handsier with the help. A "punishment". How stupidly fitting.
I open the door as quietly as possible, and slip into the dismal and dim building. Against the back wall, everything is nicely lit. Belinda is heavily duct-taped to a chair, no longer crying but with her makeup running, revealing her pale ghoul flesh. She's glaring at the god named Krishna.
He has skin the color of roasted almonds, full head of wavy black hair, and derangement in the depths of his brown eyes. In his hand, a straight razor. But no ordinary one. No. This was clearly forged by a crafting god and death god working together. His smile is making me sick.
"No matter what you do, Mal will catch you," Belinda says strongly in her soft voice, trying so damn hard to be brave. I want to tell her everything will be okay, but it's too early to blow my presence now.
"Mal," Krishna sneers. "Pathetic man. In fact, I think you deserve to know just how pathetic." He twitches a hand and I'm zooming from my shadowed location right into the back wall. There's no way he got that power on his own...
Blood fills my mouth, a side effect of such an impact, and I struggle to turn my head to the side and spit. Fucking bastard. It feels like I'm pinned to the wall by an immovable force. Until it yields, but only to leave me facing Krishna before the force reasserts itself.
"Pathetic," Krishna repeats, smiling wider. He wraps a hand around my throat and begins to squeeze.
Rage blinds me, his hand squeezing the life out of me, and I want to scream at him that he doesn't know what he's doing, that so much death will come of this... And then it's too late.
The power I was born with, the power I suppress and hide, it gushes out of me in a torrent. There's a hoarse scream, one I recognize as my own. Everything is covered in blinding lilac light, until I tell it to fade and it complies. Laughter echoes through the building. Laughter. My laughter. With mere thoughts, I change things. Krishna is relocated a few feet away from me, deranged look replaced by one of fear. Belinda is freed of her bonds, sitting in the chair with eyes of shock. I reach one hand out...
...and the lilac light encompasses everything.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 3, THE CONCLUSION
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