Hammering sounds on the door woke Ezekiel Walker from his nightmares.
His eyes opened with perfect clarity, and it took him only a moment before he pushed himself up in bed, turning to plant his feet on the floor.
"A minute," Ezekiel called in a scratching voice. The hammering ceased. Ezekiel ran a hand through his unruly, dirty blond hair and hoped it would be enough. Passing a quick glance at the clock, he frowned. Someone at the door at this hour? It could only be bad. He quickly dressed in his normal clothing; a plain shirt covered by a black duster, dark blue jeans, working boots, and as always the falchion in its sheath against his back. Once he was done, he opened the door.
Framed in the doorway was Wyatt Walker, sheriff of the small town of Barrow, and Ezekiel's adoptive brother. At this hour, the sheriff's presence meant Ezekiel's assumptions were correct.
Wyatt dipped his black Stetson at Ezekiel and beckoned him outside.
"What's wrong?" Ezekiel asked as he stepped out, closing the door behind him. Wyatt was scuffing the ground with his boots, clearly agitated. As Wyatt was the calmest man Ezekiel knew, there was a certain sense of dismay that came over him.
"No clue. Most I know is that the klaxons went off, and I got a distress call," Wyatt said in his soothing drawl. However, there was a hint of unease in his tone. Not quite fear, but certainly not the norm. "I need you to go with me to Torrent."
Torrent was the major port of Earth, one of the few holdout towns on the now dusty rock. In Torrent, one could ignore the searing burn of the sun. Children shrieked and played, women and men sold and traded their various goods to alien visitors. Torrent was full of color and life and brightness, and not the wind, the dust, nor the tumbleweeds could block the beauty bursting from that town. In fact, Torrent was the major supply town for the other scattered communities still trying to make a life on Earth. Of course, most in the 'verse claimed Earth had been overcome by the American Wild West, but Ezekiel knew better. He lived it.
"Alright. Tell me more about this distress call?" The two men began to walk in the western direction, knowing Torrent was a few hours distance by foot.
"Ain't much to tell. Surprised the heck outta me, but... Static. Real faint in the background, you could hear screaming..." Wyatt shook his head sadly. "Nothing really happens out here, you know? To have a major distress call..."
There was a silence as the men walked, each lost in their own thoughts.
Ezekiel's mind wandered to his adolescence. When he first arrived on Earth, he was still prepubescent, not quite a child, but not quite a teenager. Torrent had been the town he'd landed in. At the time, the hustle and bustle, the brightness and loud noises, it had all been too much for him to take. He'd run away, out past it all. It was during this wandering that Norma and Will Walker found him. They already had their own son, but for some reason - call it guilt, or faith, or plain kindness - the couple couldn't find it in themselves to ignore the boy. He became a part of the family, and Wyatt took him as a brother. He hadn't been back to Torrent since.
They walked.
On a jagged cliff of hard packed dirt and sand, the two men stood side by side and took in the sight before them. The stench of death and decay infiltrated their noses, the winds bringing the awful smell from the town. Not a soul could be seen, though with that kind of scent, how could you expect there to be? Still, signs of a once-bustling civilization were there. Wares for sale or trade sitting out in the open, children's toys littered about the street.
The real problem was that neither man knew what they were up against. Sure, a distress call had come from Torrent, but it had been static and screams. Now, this lively town was devoid of people and living things... It was disturbing.
"Whaddya think, Zeke?" Wyatt asked quietly.
"Trouble."
"No shit," Wyatt grinned sardonically. "But do you have any ideas on what coulda caused it? You've seen the 'verse beyond this rock. Tell me. Anything out there you know of that could do this?"
Ezekiel snorted. "Plenty of things, but they leave traces. Bodies and blood, spoor to follow and track. To disappear without a trace? No. I have no idea."
"Well, not quite without a trace," Wyatt murmured. He began to pick his way down the cliff overlook, heading toward the town. Ezekiel followed. Wyatt pulled his kerchief from his back pocket and held it in front of his nose and mouth, "Certainly left a damned-awful smell." He began to work his way into town, and Ezekiel could see he was trying to follow the smell by how bad it was. Where it was worse, he would follow.
There was a reason the two worked well together. Wyatt was no country bumpkin - he purposefully gave off the impression and milked it for all he was worth, but the man was brilliant. Ezekiel, on the other hand, was smart, but he'd been raised to fight. To be an army of one. His sills lay in keeping the two of them alive, rather than finding the trouble.
And oh did Wyatt find trouble like some people took in oxygen.
Wyatt paused, stock still, and Ezekiel did the same. There, through the pigeon-shit streaked window, was a figure... It appeared to be a child, but it was impossible to tell for sure. One thing was certain - it was the only living thing besides them for miles, and it was standing in the lobby of Torrent's hotel. With a blur, the figure disappeared.
Wyatt quickly backtracked, pulling out his blaster from his holster as he went. Ezekiel took up watch on Wyatt's back, eyes darting around as he attempted to pinpoint where the blurred creature had gone. He wouldn't pull his sword unless he absolutely had to.
"Now who might you two be?" A little girl's voice sounded from above. The two men cast their gazes upward, and there she was, looking down at them through an open window, her arms resting on the sill. For all intents and purposes, she seemed like such a sweet little girl, but... Something was wrong. What was wrong was difficult to pinpoint, but it was there. Signs of sins and secrets, all pointing to her sweet face being a sinister mask.
"You first," Wyatt said, pointing his blaster up and towards her. Ezekiel cringed. While he logically understood that this little girl was no innocent thing, a part of him still reviled the idea of a gun aimed at a child. There was a strong urge to rip the gun from Wyatt's hand, but he knew if he did that, they were both dead.
"You wouldn't shoot a little girl, would you?" She asked, her face a perfect imitation of surprise. At least, until she dissolve into giggles. "Just kidding! I know they sent you a distress call. It's interesting that there's two of you though. Which one of you is called Ezekiel?"
"Again, who's askin'?" Wyatt snapped, tightening the grip on his blaster.
"Not you then, huh?" She smiled. Then she was gone with a blur of motion, and Wyatt dropped his gun to eye level, eyes on the hotel door.
It shocked both men when the glass of the closest window exploded outward, and a snarling girl was already flying through. Except she wasn't truly a girl anymore. Her nails were sharp, hooked claws, and every tooth was needle sharp, her eyes a deep glowing red. She bowled Wyatt over, and spring boarded from his prone form to launch herself at Ezekiel.
He recognized those red eyes. There was no doubt. She had to be one of the Thanatos' creations. Nothing in the 'verse could transform the way she just did, not a single damn thing. She had to be an experiment, just like him.
Ezekiel spun to the side at the last moment, the girl missing him by a hair's breadth. As he whirled, he pulled his falchion, the blade slicing thinly along the girl's left calf.
She landed with a tumble, all to turn and howl at him in outrage. Ezekiel didn't bother to give her time, instead already moving forward, moving to strike once more. This time, she dodged out of the way, launching herself once more at him. It seemed the Thanatos had created their own little killing machine, but she sure as hell had no idea how to adapt. She only had one method of attack. Ezekiel stopped moving, and instead waited, angling his sword just so...
A hush of breath escaped her as her body slid down on his blade. For a moment, she struggled, then stopped. She had impaled herself on his sword, so single-minded in her attack that she hadn't noticed his obvious play. Behind him, he heard Wyatt groan and lift himself up. The girl's eyes stayed locked on Ezekiel's, and blood drooled from her slightly open mouth. She was still alive but no longer fighting.
"Put her out of her misery," Ezekiel said quietly, eyes briefly darting a glance at Wyatt.
There was no response except the soft whumph of a blaster going off, and then the girl sagged entirely, a hole straight through both sides of her head.
Ezekiel hefted his sword and her body, turning the tip to the ground. Her limp, lifeless corpse slid down and onto the dirt. Gingerly, he pulled his sword back out, and sheathed it once more.
"The fuck was that?" Wyatt mumbled.
"Dunno. Only one of its kind though."
"Lord..." Wyatt shook his head. "We need to get back to Barrow. I gotta report this, get Torrent fixed back up."
"What about the people?"
"Can't you tell with the smell, Zeke? The girl was covered in the aroma of death. My guess is, she probably stashed 'em all in the basement. Let the reparation crews handle it. We can't do anymore here."
"We could bury them."
"Zeke..." Wyatt sighed. "Unless it starts raining in the next 30 minutes, it ain't gonna happen." Wyatt turned and tugged open the door of the hotel, his kerchief going to his mouth. "I'll do you one better," he mumbled through the fabric. Even with his nose blocked, the smell of copper, blood, shit, and piss still filtered through. It smelled like hell. Wyatt entered, Ezekiel close behind him. Wyatt kicked the basement door open with one booted foot, then rummaged in his pockets for a box of matches, Ezekiel watching closely. Wyatt lit it, then dropped it on the first step of the basement. The flames licked up the hot, dry woods, and quickly traveled down the rest of the steps. Briefly, the light of the embers illuminated the horrified, crammed faces of the residents of Torrent, all of whom had seen their death coming. Then it all went up in flame.
Wyatt closed the door, turned, and shouldered past Ezekiel outside. It worried Ezekiel to see Wyatt looking so hard and cold. In a way, it did make sense. Wyatt was the strongest person he'd ever met, though Wyatt would certainly say the same thing about Ezekiel. Either way, the two men were ready to walk back to Barrow. Either way...
...it was the only thing they could do.
Warriors
A hazy mist swirled around the half-elf's head, and he suppressed a grumble of irritation as he crouched in the damp dirt outside of the fortress. Kneeling in the shrubs was one of his least favorite activities, yet whenever a heavily armed force of over 30 needed taking out, that's where he ended up. Why the Exemplaries kept sending him on such damnable missions was a mystery to him. But so was the Exemplar, with the decision to fill forests with insects, several of which were enjoying biting Ike.
"-they're all a bunch of nuts, they are." The two guards stationed just outside the fortress gate talked with odd fluctuations in volume. It would be almost lyrical if the words Ike could pick up didn't sound like those of a fool. Or maybe that was his bias showing, as he knew exactly who they were referring to, and didn't like people calling him a nut. Crazy bastard, okay, that was reasonable, he could understand that, but a nut? It was an attribute to be given to an unruly small child, or a favorite hound, or a relative who wasn't fully all there in the head. To call a grown man a nut, well, that was purely insulting.
He looked up at the sky, calculating the angle of the moon. He couldn't make his move until it reached a certain peak point, and he could use the haze of the mist to disguise his attack. But he was getting antsy. The violence was welling up under his skin, and it made him itchy. He wanted to rush forward, do some killing, get his job done, and go home to collapse in bed. Maybe grab a pint and a quick bath before passing out. Waiting wasn't his strong suit. He wasn't a patient man, nor was he intrinsically violent, but to be so deeply entrenched in Heretic territory left him feeling a sense of unshakable insecurity. He disliked that feeling of vulnerability, that damn niggle in the back of his skull that kept a relentless course of adrenaline pumping through his body, even while he was at rest. Those feelings were the cause of his desire for violence.
"-yeh, we took them little bastards, 'cause-" Ike tilted his head to the side. Were they talking about the boys? His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, and he glared fiercely through the leaves at the guards. Heretics kidnap young boys, yet he's the nut. Yeah. Right.
Time passed.
Ike was half-fallen asleep by the time the aware part of him noticed the moon at its precision point. It was time for action. He quickly swiped the sleep from his eyes, and moved forward, staying low to the ground. With the mist thickened, he skittered around the guard closes to him, then bludgeoned the back of the man's skull with his sword hilt. The guard collapsed, and Ike dropped to the ground once more. The other guard had noticed something was wrong, turning in circles as he called out for his mate. There was a certain sense of satisfaction that came from scaring full grown men.
He was no fool, he knew quite well the danger of his chosen life and how early it could be lost. He knew how to be scared when he needed to be - but these were mere humans. Regular folk who probably had never traveled to the Dark Mountains, maybe never heard of them. They had never been forced to pit themselves against predators smarter than the average man. When you were on the menu, you learned to be better, faster, stronger. You became a survivor. These men were clumsy, slow, untrained. It was an easy matter to slip behind the second guard and clap a damp gloved hand over his mouth and nose, his other arm snaking across his arm and torso, locking him in place. The guard feebly wriggled, but Ike merely kept the pressure up. Eventually, the man stopped moving. Ike lowered him to the ground and neatly slit his throat.
In normal circumstances, true unconsciousness only lasts a few minutes at most - otherwise you've knocked them out in such a way that means severe damage, and no one wants to live hindered for the rest of their life. This way, the man couldn't inconvenience Ike in his mission, and also wouldn't live the life of a cripple. He was doing the man a favor by cutting his throat.
The gate guards down, Ike was free to move forward.
He'd infiltrated many fortresses in his time, most of them were either converted places of religious significance, or they were special projects conducted by a kingdom, and therefore had a strikingly similar layout.
This fortress was not like any he'd ever seen before.
Moving through the gate didn't lead to an open courtyard with various means of entrance and exit in a fairly circuitous manner. Instead, it was a dark room that was pentagonal in shape. On each wall, there was a single door, each with a candle lighting the way. Now he was faced with multiple doors, and damned if he knew which to take.
Seeing there no other option in the situation - was already in too deep, and if he didn't move quick, it was likely the Heretics would start killing the boys - Ike chose a door at random.
The door farthest to the right led to a large hallway that was furnished with exotic marvels from across the world. It was luxurious, no doubt about it. Ike's lip curled up in revulsion. The Heretics lived in such wealth, while all around them people were starving to death and dying for lack of supplies. They could support every family in a single village with all of this, while still keeping a large cache of their own. He pulled out his sword and placed the point against one of the beautiful threaded rugs on the wall. A little pressure and it popped like a bubble, and Ike waked the length of the hall, his sword tearing the fabric the whole way.
By the time he got to the other end of the hallway, he had a giant smile on his face. The smile vanished when he opened the door and was faced with several very angry looking Heretics.
"Bugger," he muttered. Then he tumbled backwards, rolling up onto his feet now within a stretch of the hallway, giving him more room to fight. Five men poured in after him, all of them angrily brandishing weapons.
"You think us stupid enough not to have learned from all your other attacks?!" The one in the lead shouted.
"Seeing as how I've hit at least ten of these places before encountering resistance, I'm going to go with 'yes'."
"You nutty bastard, you're dead. You hear me?! Dead!"
"Less talking, more stabbing."
With an angry roar, the man lunged at him. Ike side-stepped the brash move, and swatted the back of the man's legs with the flat of his sword as he flew passed. Internally, he sighed. Heretics were drama queens, and he hated these melodramatic scenes. Was posturing needed? Were the obnoxious screams and roars necessary? The hallway was all flat, solid surface: perfect acoustics. The man could have whispered and Ike would have heard him as clear as a bell. Now, he only had a headache.
The man stumbled forward, but regained his balance, and spun back around. Persistent. Well, Ike didn't have time to bother with the whole song and dance. With a merciless efficiency, he cut the man down, then moved to the other four Heretics. With cold calculation and a face lacking emotion, he didn't hold back as he brutally slaughtered them. By the end, his blade was dripping blood.
It might seem callous to the outside eye, but Ike knew the truth.
He'd been too late when he'd gotten to the fourth fortress in the series of Heretic attacks. It had already been abandoned, and when he searched the place, he'd found the boys' dismembered corpses cramped and packed into the kitchen. They'd been left to rot, and already had begun to putrefy, maggots crawling on the dead tissue. That wasn't the worst part - it was the bite marks on the boys' arms and legs, the places where giant chunks of flesh were gone, the only mark a clear impression of a human's bite.
It would not happen again.
He swiped his blade on the dead leader's coat, cleaning it of blood, then continued forward. The room he entered from the hallway was a barracks, and now the sudden angry men made sense. While the layout might not be identical to all others, he could still orient himself to a degree: same general distance from the barracks as always. Toilets out back closest, dining hall the inside closest room, and so on. Priorities.
Judging on the size of these barracks and the memory of the room he first entered with its many doors, he figured the force had been divided into individual clusters. It would theoretically make it easier to defend from incursion, only one entrance to the main area, but to get all the way in, one would always have to pass a barracks - it was a perfect floor plan for repelling intruders. Unless, of course, that intruder happened to be cranky and highly motivated.
Ike navigated the corridor leading to the inner sanctum, and followed the wall towards the dining hall, figuring the kitchen would be near. He paused at the sound of raucous laughter, freezing against the wall. He slowly edged forward, and saw that the men of the fortress were now in the dining hall, tossing back brew and gorging themselves on food. He slipped quietly by - it was too chaotic for anyone to notice him.
Several yards on, he started to get worried. What if he'd misjudged the distance? But then he heard soft crying. Finally, his eyes made out the door in the dim lighting, and he opened it. Slipping inside, he quietly shut it behind him, and looked to face the occupants of the kitchen.
Overwhelming claustrophobia hit him as he took in the state of the boys. They were packed in like sardines, all of them sitting, knees scrunched in close to their bodies with barely a breath between them and the next one. Most had tears and snot on their faces, some of them were a little bloodied, bruised, and banged up. But none were dead. The entire gaggle of them filled the kitchen, the closest only a few inches from Ike's foot.
"Cavalry's here, boys," Ike murmured. They stared at him with solemn eyes, understanding the need for silence. "Follow me," he softly whispered as he turned and opened the door again. Taking his sword, he moved into the hall and cast his gaze around. "C'mon," he gestured to them.
Darting to the dining room, he stood watch in the way of the door, still in the shadows, while he hurried the boys past them. They had had little training thus far, but they'd received enough to know they needed to remember how they were brought in and how they could get out. Ike thought they'd be in the clear when a Heretic finally noticed the escape occurring.
"Intruders!" A gruff man with grizzled features and great body mass yelled. "Exemplaries!" The previously cheerful chaos of the room became murderous in a mere moment, and several men charged at Ike. He braced himself and drew his sword up, the last children still streaming behind him. The littlest one, the last one, paused briefly, horror on his face.
Ike had no choice but to glance at him and hiss, "Go! You're expected."
While Ike might be initiating the break solo, there were always other combat trained Exemplaries nearby to get the boys safe and sound. Usually there would be a caravan prepped and ready to go with a plethora of guards on it. Currently, he knew he couldn't expect the others to wait for him. His job was to save the boys, even at cost for his own life, and he'd come to terms with that a long time ago. In fact, it was one of the best ways he could think of leaving this life.
Taking his warrior's stance, he caught the blade of a great axe against his long sword. The large Heretic who had called the warning before grunted in surprise, astonished that he could not flatten the much leaner, smaller man before him. It was all part of Ike's plan.
The great wave of Heretics were pushing relentlessly against their comrade in their fervor to get out and fight, drawing his face closer and closer to his own axe blade and Ike's sword. Ike locked eyes with the man and gave him a close-lipped smile. Their pressure was about to get one of their own killed, and when his body fell, it would trip the first man to come next, and then they were all dominoes. He would be left with plenty of time to escape. Or at least, that was the theory.
But thank the Exemplar for miracles, because die the Heretic did. Ike immediately jumped back, sword in hand, and began to sprint down the corridor, through the barracks, down the hall, out the pentagon room... He could hear swearing and cursing behind him, but thus far no one had caught up. As he melted into the woods, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Exemplar, and let out a great gasp of air.
Then, a scream ripped through the night.
He was already moving toward the sound, fear now flushing through his body and wiping away his sense of accomplishment. He stumbled into the clearing, and was shocked to see another Heretic. A commander by the looks of him, holding the youngest boy by the neck. Most of the Exemplaries around him were lying on the ground. Several were dead, a few were mortally wounded, and a sparse handful were merely wounded. The boys were huddled with their backs to the trees, eyes round with fear.
The commander turned to lock eyes with Ike, and then smiled.
"Brother."
Ike's blood ran cold.
"Wulthus."
"What, you will not address me as your own?" The big man feigned hurt. "I'm shocked. After all we've been through."
"You tried to kill me."
A belly laugh escaped the man named Wulthus. "I did, didn't I? Thought I had, too. See, you would have saved us all some pain and trouble if you'd just died when you were supposed to."
"You couldn't even come to me as a warrior. Why would I die to such a coward as you?"
Wulthus's eyes hardened. "That's a bit far there, Isaac. Bit far." He released his grip on the boy's neck, the child falling to the ground in a boneless heap. Still breathing, just barely, but that was enough. "Shall we settle this right now?"
"If you insist. If you offer the formal challenge."
Annoyance flickered on the man's face and Ike smirked. "As you wish, Brother." Pulling his spear from the sheath on his back, he stared at Ike. "I challenge you, Isaac the Angel of Death at Karris," Wulthus spat out, only composing himself as he finished, "to a Jumong"
"I accept. Let us begin."
There was no pause before the men immediately went for one another, each moving with brutal skill, violence rippling from them. The men hacked and cut at one another, back and forth, spraying blood in the night, staining the ground. Sweat poured from them both as the two looked for an opening, a weakness. They warily circled one another, hatred boiling in their veins.
Ike dropped his sword arm, feigning fatigue, and oh how Wulthus fell for the obvious ruse. He lunged forward, looking to impale Ike, who merely stepped to the side at the last moment, and followed through by swinging his sword down at Wulthus's neck as he fell to the ground.
"Swear submission," Ike gratingly spoke, the truth of his body's fatigue evidenced in his tone. He pressed his sword against Wulthus's neck. Not hard enough to cut, but a symbol of having bested him.
"Never. I wouldn't in Karris, and I won't now."
Ike let out a world weary sigh. "As you wish." He swiftly decapitated Wulthus, finding bleak humor in the expression of shock left on the dead man's face. "Arse."
Looking around him, Ike slowly dropped to his knees, hardly able to keep himself upright. The boys moved forward, the success of their side and death of the enemy now clear. They easily prioritized their care. The eldest of the children granted merciful deaths to the Exemplaries who were dying slow, painful dmises, and the others bandaged the men who would clearly make it.
The youngest approached Ike, his hand tentatively touching the man's shoulder, trembling with nervousness. For a moment, they stayed that way, neither speaking. Then, the young child tore a piece of cloth from the dead men's garments, and began to clear Ike up.
"-they're all a bunch of nuts, they are." The two guards stationed just outside the fortress gate talked with odd fluctuations in volume. It would be almost lyrical if the words Ike could pick up didn't sound like those of a fool. Or maybe that was his bias showing, as he knew exactly who they were referring to, and didn't like people calling him a nut. Crazy bastard, okay, that was reasonable, he could understand that, but a nut? It was an attribute to be given to an unruly small child, or a favorite hound, or a relative who wasn't fully all there in the head. To call a grown man a nut, well, that was purely insulting.
He looked up at the sky, calculating the angle of the moon. He couldn't make his move until it reached a certain peak point, and he could use the haze of the mist to disguise his attack. But he was getting antsy. The violence was welling up under his skin, and it made him itchy. He wanted to rush forward, do some killing, get his job done, and go home to collapse in bed. Maybe grab a pint and a quick bath before passing out. Waiting wasn't his strong suit. He wasn't a patient man, nor was he intrinsically violent, but to be so deeply entrenched in Heretic territory left him feeling a sense of unshakable insecurity. He disliked that feeling of vulnerability, that damn niggle in the back of his skull that kept a relentless course of adrenaline pumping through his body, even while he was at rest. Those feelings were the cause of his desire for violence.
"-yeh, we took them little bastards, 'cause-" Ike tilted his head to the side. Were they talking about the boys? His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, and he glared fiercely through the leaves at the guards. Heretics kidnap young boys, yet he's the nut. Yeah. Right.
Time passed.
Ike was half-fallen asleep by the time the aware part of him noticed the moon at its precision point. It was time for action. He quickly swiped the sleep from his eyes, and moved forward, staying low to the ground. With the mist thickened, he skittered around the guard closes to him, then bludgeoned the back of the man's skull with his sword hilt. The guard collapsed, and Ike dropped to the ground once more. The other guard had noticed something was wrong, turning in circles as he called out for his mate. There was a certain sense of satisfaction that came from scaring full grown men.
He was no fool, he knew quite well the danger of his chosen life and how early it could be lost. He knew how to be scared when he needed to be - but these were mere humans. Regular folk who probably had never traveled to the Dark Mountains, maybe never heard of them. They had never been forced to pit themselves against predators smarter than the average man. When you were on the menu, you learned to be better, faster, stronger. You became a survivor. These men were clumsy, slow, untrained. It was an easy matter to slip behind the second guard and clap a damp gloved hand over his mouth and nose, his other arm snaking across his arm and torso, locking him in place. The guard feebly wriggled, but Ike merely kept the pressure up. Eventually, the man stopped moving. Ike lowered him to the ground and neatly slit his throat.
In normal circumstances, true unconsciousness only lasts a few minutes at most - otherwise you've knocked them out in such a way that means severe damage, and no one wants to live hindered for the rest of their life. This way, the man couldn't inconvenience Ike in his mission, and also wouldn't live the life of a cripple. He was doing the man a favor by cutting his throat.
The gate guards down, Ike was free to move forward.
He'd infiltrated many fortresses in his time, most of them were either converted places of religious significance, or they were special projects conducted by a kingdom, and therefore had a strikingly similar layout.
This fortress was not like any he'd ever seen before.
Moving through the gate didn't lead to an open courtyard with various means of entrance and exit in a fairly circuitous manner. Instead, it was a dark room that was pentagonal in shape. On each wall, there was a single door, each with a candle lighting the way. Now he was faced with multiple doors, and damned if he knew which to take.
Seeing there no other option in the situation - was already in too deep, and if he didn't move quick, it was likely the Heretics would start killing the boys - Ike chose a door at random.
The door farthest to the right led to a large hallway that was furnished with exotic marvels from across the world. It was luxurious, no doubt about it. Ike's lip curled up in revulsion. The Heretics lived in such wealth, while all around them people were starving to death and dying for lack of supplies. They could support every family in a single village with all of this, while still keeping a large cache of their own. He pulled out his sword and placed the point against one of the beautiful threaded rugs on the wall. A little pressure and it popped like a bubble, and Ike waked the length of the hall, his sword tearing the fabric the whole way.
By the time he got to the other end of the hallway, he had a giant smile on his face. The smile vanished when he opened the door and was faced with several very angry looking Heretics.
"Bugger," he muttered. Then he tumbled backwards, rolling up onto his feet now within a stretch of the hallway, giving him more room to fight. Five men poured in after him, all of them angrily brandishing weapons.
"You think us stupid enough not to have learned from all your other attacks?!" The one in the lead shouted.
"Seeing as how I've hit at least ten of these places before encountering resistance, I'm going to go with 'yes'."
"You nutty bastard, you're dead. You hear me?! Dead!"
"Less talking, more stabbing."
With an angry roar, the man lunged at him. Ike side-stepped the brash move, and swatted the back of the man's legs with the flat of his sword as he flew passed. Internally, he sighed. Heretics were drama queens, and he hated these melodramatic scenes. Was posturing needed? Were the obnoxious screams and roars necessary? The hallway was all flat, solid surface: perfect acoustics. The man could have whispered and Ike would have heard him as clear as a bell. Now, he only had a headache.
The man stumbled forward, but regained his balance, and spun back around. Persistent. Well, Ike didn't have time to bother with the whole song and dance. With a merciless efficiency, he cut the man down, then moved to the other four Heretics. With cold calculation and a face lacking emotion, he didn't hold back as he brutally slaughtered them. By the end, his blade was dripping blood.
It might seem callous to the outside eye, but Ike knew the truth.
He'd been too late when he'd gotten to the fourth fortress in the series of Heretic attacks. It had already been abandoned, and when he searched the place, he'd found the boys' dismembered corpses cramped and packed into the kitchen. They'd been left to rot, and already had begun to putrefy, maggots crawling on the dead tissue. That wasn't the worst part - it was the bite marks on the boys' arms and legs, the places where giant chunks of flesh were gone, the only mark a clear impression of a human's bite.
It would not happen again.
He swiped his blade on the dead leader's coat, cleaning it of blood, then continued forward. The room he entered from the hallway was a barracks, and now the sudden angry men made sense. While the layout might not be identical to all others, he could still orient himself to a degree: same general distance from the barracks as always. Toilets out back closest, dining hall the inside closest room, and so on. Priorities.
Judging on the size of these barracks and the memory of the room he first entered with its many doors, he figured the force had been divided into individual clusters. It would theoretically make it easier to defend from incursion, only one entrance to the main area, but to get all the way in, one would always have to pass a barracks - it was a perfect floor plan for repelling intruders. Unless, of course, that intruder happened to be cranky and highly motivated.
Ike navigated the corridor leading to the inner sanctum, and followed the wall towards the dining hall, figuring the kitchen would be near. He paused at the sound of raucous laughter, freezing against the wall. He slowly edged forward, and saw that the men of the fortress were now in the dining hall, tossing back brew and gorging themselves on food. He slipped quietly by - it was too chaotic for anyone to notice him.
Several yards on, he started to get worried. What if he'd misjudged the distance? But then he heard soft crying. Finally, his eyes made out the door in the dim lighting, and he opened it. Slipping inside, he quietly shut it behind him, and looked to face the occupants of the kitchen.
Overwhelming claustrophobia hit him as he took in the state of the boys. They were packed in like sardines, all of them sitting, knees scrunched in close to their bodies with barely a breath between them and the next one. Most had tears and snot on their faces, some of them were a little bloodied, bruised, and banged up. But none were dead. The entire gaggle of them filled the kitchen, the closest only a few inches from Ike's foot.
"Cavalry's here, boys," Ike murmured. They stared at him with solemn eyes, understanding the need for silence. "Follow me," he softly whispered as he turned and opened the door again. Taking his sword, he moved into the hall and cast his gaze around. "C'mon," he gestured to them.
Darting to the dining room, he stood watch in the way of the door, still in the shadows, while he hurried the boys past them. They had had little training thus far, but they'd received enough to know they needed to remember how they were brought in and how they could get out. Ike thought they'd be in the clear when a Heretic finally noticed the escape occurring.
"Intruders!" A gruff man with grizzled features and great body mass yelled. "Exemplaries!" The previously cheerful chaos of the room became murderous in a mere moment, and several men charged at Ike. He braced himself and drew his sword up, the last children still streaming behind him. The littlest one, the last one, paused briefly, horror on his face.
Ike had no choice but to glance at him and hiss, "Go! You're expected."
While Ike might be initiating the break solo, there were always other combat trained Exemplaries nearby to get the boys safe and sound. Usually there would be a caravan prepped and ready to go with a plethora of guards on it. Currently, he knew he couldn't expect the others to wait for him. His job was to save the boys, even at cost for his own life, and he'd come to terms with that a long time ago. In fact, it was one of the best ways he could think of leaving this life.
Taking his warrior's stance, he caught the blade of a great axe against his long sword. The large Heretic who had called the warning before grunted in surprise, astonished that he could not flatten the much leaner, smaller man before him. It was all part of Ike's plan.
The great wave of Heretics were pushing relentlessly against their comrade in their fervor to get out and fight, drawing his face closer and closer to his own axe blade and Ike's sword. Ike locked eyes with the man and gave him a close-lipped smile. Their pressure was about to get one of their own killed, and when his body fell, it would trip the first man to come next, and then they were all dominoes. He would be left with plenty of time to escape. Or at least, that was the theory.
But thank the Exemplar for miracles, because die the Heretic did. Ike immediately jumped back, sword in hand, and began to sprint down the corridor, through the barracks, down the hall, out the pentagon room... He could hear swearing and cursing behind him, but thus far no one had caught up. As he melted into the woods, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Exemplar, and let out a great gasp of air.
Then, a scream ripped through the night.
He was already moving toward the sound, fear now flushing through his body and wiping away his sense of accomplishment. He stumbled into the clearing, and was shocked to see another Heretic. A commander by the looks of him, holding the youngest boy by the neck. Most of the Exemplaries around him were lying on the ground. Several were dead, a few were mortally wounded, and a sparse handful were merely wounded. The boys were huddled with their backs to the trees, eyes round with fear.
The commander turned to lock eyes with Ike, and then smiled.
"Brother."
Ike's blood ran cold.
"Wulthus."
"What, you will not address me as your own?" The big man feigned hurt. "I'm shocked. After all we've been through."
"You tried to kill me."
A belly laugh escaped the man named Wulthus. "I did, didn't I? Thought I had, too. See, you would have saved us all some pain and trouble if you'd just died when you were supposed to."
"You couldn't even come to me as a warrior. Why would I die to such a coward as you?"
Wulthus's eyes hardened. "That's a bit far there, Isaac. Bit far." He released his grip on the boy's neck, the child falling to the ground in a boneless heap. Still breathing, just barely, but that was enough. "Shall we settle this right now?"
"If you insist. If you offer the formal challenge."
Annoyance flickered on the man's face and Ike smirked. "As you wish, Brother." Pulling his spear from the sheath on his back, he stared at Ike. "I challenge you, Isaac the Angel of Death at Karris," Wulthus spat out, only composing himself as he finished, "to a Jumong"
"I accept. Let us begin."
There was no pause before the men immediately went for one another, each moving with brutal skill, violence rippling from them. The men hacked and cut at one another, back and forth, spraying blood in the night, staining the ground. Sweat poured from them both as the two looked for an opening, a weakness. They warily circled one another, hatred boiling in their veins.
Ike dropped his sword arm, feigning fatigue, and oh how Wulthus fell for the obvious ruse. He lunged forward, looking to impale Ike, who merely stepped to the side at the last moment, and followed through by swinging his sword down at Wulthus's neck as he fell to the ground.
"Swear submission," Ike gratingly spoke, the truth of his body's fatigue evidenced in his tone. He pressed his sword against Wulthus's neck. Not hard enough to cut, but a symbol of having bested him.
"Never. I wouldn't in Karris, and I won't now."
Ike let out a world weary sigh. "As you wish." He swiftly decapitated Wulthus, finding bleak humor in the expression of shock left on the dead man's face. "Arse."
Looking around him, Ike slowly dropped to his knees, hardly able to keep himself upright. The boys moved forward, the success of their side and death of the enemy now clear. They easily prioritized their care. The eldest of the children granted merciful deaths to the Exemplaries who were dying slow, painful dmises, and the others bandaged the men who would clearly make it.
The youngest approached Ike, his hand tentatively touching the man's shoulder, trembling with nervousness. For a moment, they stayed that way, neither speaking. Then, the young child tore a piece of cloth from the dead men's garments, and began to clear Ike up.
Life's Ties
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
There's a comfort in the idea of death. Let me be clear, I am talking about death. Not the conceptual term of "forever" (which, frankly, terrifies me), or the metaphorical change represented by death. I mean six feet under the ground, maggots and worms squirming around your bones, death.
Before I continue, know that in order to fully explore this subject, to explain my reasons for the reasons I see it this way, you have to learn a little about me. Please, bear with me, I promise it won't be too long or ucky and boring, but I warn you that there is background information of ME as a person. You've been fore-warned.
*Ahem*. Back to the matter at hand.
The idea that we have limited time on this planet in our current form (as "YOLO" is only reasonable unless reincarnation turns out to be real. I have no what happens after death, and prefer to be prepared for that possibility) is bracing. It's like a slap of cold, crisp air to the face after being too warm for too long, huddled up indoors in cramped, claustrophobic conditions.
I won't lie. I have my life planned out. I already understand my personal life's dream, and I know what steps must be taken to achieve it. I know what house I want to own someday, the place I want to live the rest of my life, and on and on. In fairness, I have no plans as far as relationships go - let's just say I only recently had my first boyfriend ever and he didn't even last a month because he decided to sleep with a girl at a party, "sleep" in the most salacious terms just to eliminate confusion. So. I don't truly know if I'll find my "other half", or the person who helps me to be the best version of myself. What I do know is that when you want something, no matter how outrageous, you have a duty to your own self to make it happen.
Yes, there are limitations. There always are. My family isn't well to do, and I'm barely staying out of college debt, only achievable because 3/4 of my tuition is paid in scholarship money. There aren't extra funds to use on the fun splurges in life, and I had many medical issues through middle and high school. The maintenance alone on keeping me functioning and alive is rather expensive. But I know my life's dream, and I know other things I'd like to do. For example, I'd like to write a book. In fact, I have approximately 30,000 words on a single word document waiting to be edited. It didn't happen magically, I had to force myself to do it. I knew what I wanted to write and that I would love it, but I wasn't getting around to it between doctor's appointments, surgery, and trying to do schoolwork to graduate on time. I had to buckle down, and make it happen for myself, and it was hard and long, but I did it. All that's left (cue the many evil cackles from other writers) is editing.
At some point, I'd like to study overseas. Poke around Europe, take a stay in the U.K. for a bit. Not forever, but long enough to live and breathe and experience. I know it'll help me grow as a person, even though I will ultimately return to my forever home. However, I can't afford to leave and study elsewhere. At the same time, deep inside of me, there's this burning conviction to make it happen. The knowledge that, "I don't know how or when, but I WILL make this happen."
I've always believed everything was connected already in a giant spiderweb of invisible ties. That everything, all of life, was tethered together by strings we could not see. That some of those strings were stronger than others (the classic example being family members versus friends versus acquaintances). I wouldn't call this a spiritual experience for me. Ever since I was a child this was, to me, a simple fact. There was no point in arguing the validity because it just was.
I admit, while I found the concept of the Universal Mind Lattice interesting, I have serious reservations. This realization only hit them after ingesting LSD? Now, I know that as a child many people didn't understand my spiderweb idea, but I thought at least maybe more creative types would. Or maybe this isn't an idea people have really considered before. After all, I was a very quiet child, watching and learning and observing. If I had interests in subjects or topics, I went out of my way to learn more about them. I have a connection to animals that none in my family share, as if there is an unspoken understanding between me and other life forms. Last spring, a baby squirrel tried to crawl up my leg (out of nowhere, I might add, since I was off to the side watching it and its mother as they were so cute), and I even got pictures. Later, it let me go and they ran off, but for a few minutes, I stood still and silent as a baby squirrel held my leg and stared up at me. It had sharp claws but didn't puncture my skin, leaving only surface scratches, no blood or pain. That wasn't a spiritual experience for me. It was, as it had always been, proof of the spiderwebs that hold life together.
Living organisms need each other, as plainly as that.
Predators need prey just as badly as prey need predators. That's how healthy ecosystems are maintained. It is a stark, dark fact and most people don't enjoy watching lions eat antelope - I don't like it either! But I can compromise logic with emotion, and I know that this is how it has to be. It isn't like lions torture the antelope - though of predators, house cats might be an exception - but in the wild reality, it's a quick motion, action, then poof! One thread falls away from the spiderweb, another thread is born somewhere else.
Personally, art is art, and I don't think a true calling can be named. This is my opinion, of course, but it seems art is subjective. I love to sketch, I'm reasonably skilled at it, but I can't paint worth a damn. It's not because I'm not good at art, or didn't have good inspiration going in, it's just not one of my skills. Certainly I could improve it, but I will never be at a level as my friend (who is flawlessly gifted at painting without thought or trying), who not only consciously works to improve herself but is naturally talented at it. I might get an idea for an evocative painting, but I couldn't do it myself. I could offer a rough sketch for someone else to paint, but wouldn't author it myself.
Everyone can do art. That sounds silly and weird, and maybe some will see it as demeaning, but stay with me for a moment. If the spiderweb (the universal mind lattice) holds true, there is beauty in a predator stalking their prey - while the predator may use it as a survival skill, an outside observer can see the amazing art that it is. After all, when is the last time you saw a cow stalking grass? And if you did, it would look so absurd and ungainly, wouldn't it? There's writing, paining, drawing, singing, playing instruments, laughing, dancing, sculpture, acting, and in essence, living.
Life it art.
It isn't about a universal mind lattice - it is fact. It exists, and sure you can't see it, but that certainly doesn't make it any less real. I'm sure philosophers would argue with me, I'm sure we could go back and forth all day, but this piece is about what I think, so I'll say it plainly. I think things can be real, even if we can't see them. On the other hand, I'm a biology major who wants to get a master's in zoology, but while I hold beliefs in the power of science, I am also an outsider.
Ever been around a bunch of scientists - or just annoyingly smart people - and known you didn't belong? I feel that way a lot. I can talk the talk with them, but I don't follow the common ideology. I don't think we can explain everything, and I don't think we were meant to either. For example: love. Okay, yes, there is a measurement to chemical reactions that occur when "in love", but I don't think that's all it is. Love is an idea, a concept, it is intangible in essence because it cannot be quantified - does a mother love her child or husband more? Or are the chemical reactions exactly the same? Does she then love them equally? But who would she choose if she could only have one of them? I am the first to admit that not understanding things upsets me. I take 15 minutes to shower, and 15 minutes to get ready to go out. I cannot understand how it is physically possible that one of my friends takes two hours to get ready, even after witnessing it. It upsets me because I have no idea how in the world it's happening, but I digress...
Life is connected by invisible threads, tying us together in a sticky, cohesive sphere sometimes called "Earth". To me, this is why I understand that we cannot understand everything. I will never fully understand love, faith, souls, or how people can treat one another so cruelly, or how people can treat one another with such compassion and forgiveness. But I don't think I'm meant to full understand it. And that's okay with me.
I would keep waxing my personal philosophy and start tying in how these threads go farther than that, off into infinity, but...
That's a story for another day.
Before I continue, know that in order to fully explore this subject, to explain my reasons for the reasons I see it this way, you have to learn a little about me. Please, bear with me, I promise it won't be too long or ucky and boring, but I warn you that there is background information of ME as a person. You've been fore-warned.
*Ahem*. Back to the matter at hand.
The idea that we have limited time on this planet in our current form (as "YOLO" is only reasonable unless reincarnation turns out to be real. I have no what happens after death, and prefer to be prepared for that possibility) is bracing. It's like a slap of cold, crisp air to the face after being too warm for too long, huddled up indoors in cramped, claustrophobic conditions.
I won't lie. I have my life planned out. I already understand my personal life's dream, and I know what steps must be taken to achieve it. I know what house I want to own someday, the place I want to live the rest of my life, and on and on. In fairness, I have no plans as far as relationships go - let's just say I only recently had my first boyfriend ever and he didn't even last a month because he decided to sleep with a girl at a party, "sleep" in the most salacious terms just to eliminate confusion. So. I don't truly know if I'll find my "other half", or the person who helps me to be the best version of myself. What I do know is that when you want something, no matter how outrageous, you have a duty to your own self to make it happen.
Yes, there are limitations. There always are. My family isn't well to do, and I'm barely staying out of college debt, only achievable because 3/4 of my tuition is paid in scholarship money. There aren't extra funds to use on the fun splurges in life, and I had many medical issues through middle and high school. The maintenance alone on keeping me functioning and alive is rather expensive. But I know my life's dream, and I know other things I'd like to do. For example, I'd like to write a book. In fact, I have approximately 30,000 words on a single word document waiting to be edited. It didn't happen magically, I had to force myself to do it. I knew what I wanted to write and that I would love it, but I wasn't getting around to it between doctor's appointments, surgery, and trying to do schoolwork to graduate on time. I had to buckle down, and make it happen for myself, and it was hard and long, but I did it. All that's left (cue the many evil cackles from other writers) is editing.
At some point, I'd like to study overseas. Poke around Europe, take a stay in the U.K. for a bit. Not forever, but long enough to live and breathe and experience. I know it'll help me grow as a person, even though I will ultimately return to my forever home. However, I can't afford to leave and study elsewhere. At the same time, deep inside of me, there's this burning conviction to make it happen. The knowledge that, "I don't know how or when, but I WILL make this happen."
I've always believed everything was connected already in a giant spiderweb of invisible ties. That everything, all of life, was tethered together by strings we could not see. That some of those strings were stronger than others (the classic example being family members versus friends versus acquaintances). I wouldn't call this a spiritual experience for me. Ever since I was a child this was, to me, a simple fact. There was no point in arguing the validity because it just was.
I admit, while I found the concept of the Universal Mind Lattice interesting, I have serious reservations. This realization only hit them after ingesting LSD? Now, I know that as a child many people didn't understand my spiderweb idea, but I thought at least maybe more creative types would. Or maybe this isn't an idea people have really considered before. After all, I was a very quiet child, watching and learning and observing. If I had interests in subjects or topics, I went out of my way to learn more about them. I have a connection to animals that none in my family share, as if there is an unspoken understanding between me and other life forms. Last spring, a baby squirrel tried to crawl up my leg (out of nowhere, I might add, since I was off to the side watching it and its mother as they were so cute), and I even got pictures. Later, it let me go and they ran off, but for a few minutes, I stood still and silent as a baby squirrel held my leg and stared up at me. It had sharp claws but didn't puncture my skin, leaving only surface scratches, no blood or pain. That wasn't a spiritual experience for me. It was, as it had always been, proof of the spiderwebs that hold life together.
Living organisms need each other, as plainly as that.
Predators need prey just as badly as prey need predators. That's how healthy ecosystems are maintained. It is a stark, dark fact and most people don't enjoy watching lions eat antelope - I don't like it either! But I can compromise logic with emotion, and I know that this is how it has to be. It isn't like lions torture the antelope - though of predators, house cats might be an exception - but in the wild reality, it's a quick motion, action, then poof! One thread falls away from the spiderweb, another thread is born somewhere else.
Personally, art is art, and I don't think a true calling can be named. This is my opinion, of course, but it seems art is subjective. I love to sketch, I'm reasonably skilled at it, but I can't paint worth a damn. It's not because I'm not good at art, or didn't have good inspiration going in, it's just not one of my skills. Certainly I could improve it, but I will never be at a level as my friend (who is flawlessly gifted at painting without thought or trying), who not only consciously works to improve herself but is naturally talented at it. I might get an idea for an evocative painting, but I couldn't do it myself. I could offer a rough sketch for someone else to paint, but wouldn't author it myself.
Everyone can do art. That sounds silly and weird, and maybe some will see it as demeaning, but stay with me for a moment. If the spiderweb (the universal mind lattice) holds true, there is beauty in a predator stalking their prey - while the predator may use it as a survival skill, an outside observer can see the amazing art that it is. After all, when is the last time you saw a cow stalking grass? And if you did, it would look so absurd and ungainly, wouldn't it? There's writing, paining, drawing, singing, playing instruments, laughing, dancing, sculpture, acting, and in essence, living.
Life it art.
It isn't about a universal mind lattice - it is fact. It exists, and sure you can't see it, but that certainly doesn't make it any less real. I'm sure philosophers would argue with me, I'm sure we could go back and forth all day, but this piece is about what I think, so I'll say it plainly. I think things can be real, even if we can't see them. On the other hand, I'm a biology major who wants to get a master's in zoology, but while I hold beliefs in the power of science, I am also an outsider.
Ever been around a bunch of scientists - or just annoyingly smart people - and known you didn't belong? I feel that way a lot. I can talk the talk with them, but I don't follow the common ideology. I don't think we can explain everything, and I don't think we were meant to either. For example: love. Okay, yes, there is a measurement to chemical reactions that occur when "in love", but I don't think that's all it is. Love is an idea, a concept, it is intangible in essence because it cannot be quantified - does a mother love her child or husband more? Or are the chemical reactions exactly the same? Does she then love them equally? But who would she choose if she could only have one of them? I am the first to admit that not understanding things upsets me. I take 15 minutes to shower, and 15 minutes to get ready to go out. I cannot understand how it is physically possible that one of my friends takes two hours to get ready, even after witnessing it. It upsets me because I have no idea how in the world it's happening, but I digress...
Life is connected by invisible threads, tying us together in a sticky, cohesive sphere sometimes called "Earth". To me, this is why I understand that we cannot understand everything. I will never fully understand love, faith, souls, or how people can treat one another so cruelly, or how people can treat one another with such compassion and forgiveness. But I don't think I'm meant to full understand it. And that's okay with me.
I would keep waxing my personal philosophy and start tying in how these threads go farther than that, off into infinity, but...
That's a story for another day.
Those Moments
Friday, April 24, 2015
There's a moment. A singular, infallible moment of crystalline clearness, where you are at one with the universe and its truths are your truths, and all of the miserable, human existence makes sense...
...and then, the moment is gone.
--
Toby stood on the edge of the precipice, the tallest one on this stretch of coast. He watched the ocean, mesmerized by the waves pounding themselves mercilessly against the cliff side. Sea spray jetted upward, and the angry ocean water roared and crashed and thundered. He stretched his arms out wide and thought about throwing himself off, over the edge. Not that he wanted to die, but he wanted to become one with the beautiful, monstrous sea. He wanted to feel the force of the waves, feel the salt on his skin, be swept up and away by a current.
"Not today, not today," The seagulls seemed to cry out in their keening voices. They wheeled about in the sky, drifting further out to sea before inevitably returning toward land.
No, not today, Toby thought to himself, dropping his arms. He breathed in deep, savoring the cold salt taste of the ocean, then turned and walked away. The ocean calmed him, but he was always forced to return to his true reality. His truck was parked mere feet from his position on the cliff, and he hopped inside, going through the motions to set him on course for home: strapped himself in, put it in reverse, peeled away from the edge, threw it back into drive, and then it was an hour of smooth black asphalt road until he reached the trailer park.
It was dark by the time he returned home, the glowing lights from the various homes were the only illumination besides the moon. They didn't have streetlamps at the park - after all, it wasn't like they had a Home Owners' Association. Turning off his truck, the ugly steel exterior of the trailer seemed so glaringly poor. A slam drew his attention away and he looked up, watched as his mom raced down towards him. There were angry red marks on her face, bruises and welts blossoming. Tears ruined her trashy makeup, leaving smudges on her face, not that Toby cared.
Somehow, his mom always ended up with the same type of guy. The kind of guy who was just like his father. Though his father was six feet under now, Toby had seen it all as a kid. The violence and fighting and screaming. The way his father beat his mom, occasionally half to death. Now, she seemed to only bring back fat men who smelled sour, with beady eyes, and a perpetual beer in their hand. In a year, Toby would be eighteen, and free to leave this shitty life and the shitty men in it. But for now, he had to protect his mom the best he could, so as she ran towards him, he stepped out of the truck and lifted the baseball bat out of the bed.
His mom reached him, hugging him tightly. He clutched one arm around her, shielding her in a sense, and held the baseball bat loose and easy with his free hand.
Paul huffed out the door, bellowing, "Maureen!" before he stopped short. Paul was a man who would never have a prime due to all the drugs and alcohol. Toby, however, was young and fit, with muscles he knew how to use. The sight of the baseball bat in Toby's hand caused the big man to pause and reconsider his options. Toby's thoughts raced, Come on, come on, take your best shot, give me a reason to hurt you.
"Toby," Paul greeted, nodding his head and causing the flab around his jaw to jiggle. Toby's mother continued to sob, and Toby said nothing, simply stared at Paul. "Look, I don't know what your mother's been saying, but I didn't do nothing."
"Idiot," Toby grunted.
"'Scuse me?"
"You didn't do nothing? That means you did not do nothing - it means you did something."
"Christ, kid! So I'm not so good at grammar, cut me some slack. You know what I mean."
"Yeah."
The silence was tense, strained. All around the park, flimsy, cheap curtains had been pulled away from plastic windows in order to better see the action. There was a charge in the air, something that made every second mean more than it already did.
"I'm goin' for the night," Paul rumbled, heading towards his crappy little car with the worthless motor. Toby simply watched, the disdain in his eyes obvious. Once Paul and his car were out of sight, Toby turned his attention back to his mother.
In the course of his conversation with Paul, she had pulled away, now stood with her back facing him. Her arms hung limply at her sides, while her hands balled into fists.
"Mom?"
The slap rang through the entire park, and curtains were abruptly released as residents scurried away from their windows, shocked at what they had seen. The slap had caused Toby's head to snap to the side, and the red mark burned brightly in the dim light.
"Don't ever, ever, again insult someone that way," His mother's voice was deceptively soft, hiding treachery, rage, and deceit. Toby, dumbfounded, simply nodded. For some reason, he was still surprised each time his mother lashed out at him. he should have known it was coming. His mother hated his intelligence, his brain, and his level-head. She hated that people called him bright. She didn't hate Toby, she just hated his mind.
"Alright, Mom," Toby whispered. His mother turned again, walking swiftly back to the trailer, and slammed the door behind her.
Toby stood for five minutes in the night, listening to the silence. He gently placed the baseball bat back in the bed of the truck, and slipped into the driver's seat. With careful ease, he pulled out of the trailer park, and headed back to the ocean.
...and then, the moment is gone.
--
Toby stood on the edge of the precipice, the tallest one on this stretch of coast. He watched the ocean, mesmerized by the waves pounding themselves mercilessly against the cliff side. Sea spray jetted upward, and the angry ocean water roared and crashed and thundered. He stretched his arms out wide and thought about throwing himself off, over the edge. Not that he wanted to die, but he wanted to become one with the beautiful, monstrous sea. He wanted to feel the force of the waves, feel the salt on his skin, be swept up and away by a current.
"Not today, not today," The seagulls seemed to cry out in their keening voices. They wheeled about in the sky, drifting further out to sea before inevitably returning toward land.
No, not today, Toby thought to himself, dropping his arms. He breathed in deep, savoring the cold salt taste of the ocean, then turned and walked away. The ocean calmed him, but he was always forced to return to his true reality. His truck was parked mere feet from his position on the cliff, and he hopped inside, going through the motions to set him on course for home: strapped himself in, put it in reverse, peeled away from the edge, threw it back into drive, and then it was an hour of smooth black asphalt road until he reached the trailer park.
It was dark by the time he returned home, the glowing lights from the various homes were the only illumination besides the moon. They didn't have streetlamps at the park - after all, it wasn't like they had a Home Owners' Association. Turning off his truck, the ugly steel exterior of the trailer seemed so glaringly poor. A slam drew his attention away and he looked up, watched as his mom raced down towards him. There were angry red marks on her face, bruises and welts blossoming. Tears ruined her trashy makeup, leaving smudges on her face, not that Toby cared.
Somehow, his mom always ended up with the same type of guy. The kind of guy who was just like his father. Though his father was six feet under now, Toby had seen it all as a kid. The violence and fighting and screaming. The way his father beat his mom, occasionally half to death. Now, she seemed to only bring back fat men who smelled sour, with beady eyes, and a perpetual beer in their hand. In a year, Toby would be eighteen, and free to leave this shitty life and the shitty men in it. But for now, he had to protect his mom the best he could, so as she ran towards him, he stepped out of the truck and lifted the baseball bat out of the bed.
His mom reached him, hugging him tightly. He clutched one arm around her, shielding her in a sense, and held the baseball bat loose and easy with his free hand.
Paul huffed out the door, bellowing, "Maureen!" before he stopped short. Paul was a man who would never have a prime due to all the drugs and alcohol. Toby, however, was young and fit, with muscles he knew how to use. The sight of the baseball bat in Toby's hand caused the big man to pause and reconsider his options. Toby's thoughts raced, Come on, come on, take your best shot, give me a reason to hurt you.
"Toby," Paul greeted, nodding his head and causing the flab around his jaw to jiggle. Toby's mother continued to sob, and Toby said nothing, simply stared at Paul. "Look, I don't know what your mother's been saying, but I didn't do nothing."
"Idiot," Toby grunted.
"'Scuse me?"
"You didn't do nothing? That means you did not do nothing - it means you did something."
"Christ, kid! So I'm not so good at grammar, cut me some slack. You know what I mean."
"Yeah."
The silence was tense, strained. All around the park, flimsy, cheap curtains had been pulled away from plastic windows in order to better see the action. There was a charge in the air, something that made every second mean more than it already did.
"I'm goin' for the night," Paul rumbled, heading towards his crappy little car with the worthless motor. Toby simply watched, the disdain in his eyes obvious. Once Paul and his car were out of sight, Toby turned his attention back to his mother.
In the course of his conversation with Paul, she had pulled away, now stood with her back facing him. Her arms hung limply at her sides, while her hands balled into fists.
"Mom?"
The slap rang through the entire park, and curtains were abruptly released as residents scurried away from their windows, shocked at what they had seen. The slap had caused Toby's head to snap to the side, and the red mark burned brightly in the dim light.
"Don't ever, ever, again insult someone that way," His mother's voice was deceptively soft, hiding treachery, rage, and deceit. Toby, dumbfounded, simply nodded. For some reason, he was still surprised each time his mother lashed out at him. he should have known it was coming. His mother hated his intelligence, his brain, and his level-head. She hated that people called him bright. She didn't hate Toby, she just hated his mind.
"Alright, Mom," Toby whispered. His mother turned again, walking swiftly back to the trailer, and slammed the door behind her.
Toby stood for five minutes in the night, listening to the silence. He gently placed the baseball bat back in the bed of the truck, and slipped into the driver's seat. With careful ease, he pulled out of the trailer park, and headed back to the ocean.
King of the Rats: An Introduction
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Watch enough movies and you think fantasy worlds are full of horse-equivalents and pseudo-dragons, when in fact the most common denominator creature-wise are rats. It doesn't matter where you are, or where you hope to be, because one thing will remain constant; the presence of those pesky varmints termed "rats". Big or small, fat or skinny, they will appear in every world, in all manner of shape and form.
As a worldwalker, Pallas was used to the unshakable feeling of being watched. In the unseen cracks between world, in the slips of darkness and rifts between each universe, the rats lurked. They slithered through the places no others could reach, they dominated the worlds of death and depravity. The only other creatures to rival the rats were cats, but when a lone cat found themselves in one of those little pocket, they were besieged by a mass of furry bodies, screeching, claws and teeth. Plenty of cat-skeletons lay discarded on the paths Pallas walked.
His original world wasn't overly pleasant, and not the one he would have picked given a choice. But it was his home nonetheless. Though he preferred other worlds and their far more charming systems, he belonged to this one. Certainly he could visit those more fantastical places, but he could not stay indefinitely.
The world he belonged to was one where rats were dirty vermin, often populating the sewers. They elicited all manner of shrieking when venturing into the open where people could see them. They were small creatures, not viewed all that highly. Pallas found all of that...
Droll.
In other worlds, rats were large, violent creatures, commanding whole swaths of swampland or serving as the bogeymen of the night. On his earth, they were... Unimportant. Inconsequential.
It was just so boring.
Because he was a worldwalker, Pallas was a vital asset to his country's intelligence organization. They had him patrol the paths between worlds, searching for signs of incoming incursion. Sometimes they asked him to reach deeper, to find the things unseen that had happened and had yet to be. It was all very dull to Pallas, as he had been walking worlds his entire life. He wanted, for once, to be the one given a gun and told to go after a bad guy. Instead he sat at a desk until someone wanted him for a task.
Unimportant. Inconsequential.
Often, Pallas felt it was just him.
Him and the rats.
As a worldwalker, Pallas was used to the unshakable feeling of being watched. In the unseen cracks between world, in the slips of darkness and rifts between each universe, the rats lurked. They slithered through the places no others could reach, they dominated the worlds of death and depravity. The only other creatures to rival the rats were cats, but when a lone cat found themselves in one of those little pocket, they were besieged by a mass of furry bodies, screeching, claws and teeth. Plenty of cat-skeletons lay discarded on the paths Pallas walked.
His original world wasn't overly pleasant, and not the one he would have picked given a choice. But it was his home nonetheless. Though he preferred other worlds and their far more charming systems, he belonged to this one. Certainly he could visit those more fantastical places, but he could not stay indefinitely.
The world he belonged to was one where rats were dirty vermin, often populating the sewers. They elicited all manner of shrieking when venturing into the open where people could see them. They were small creatures, not viewed all that highly. Pallas found all of that...
Droll.
In other worlds, rats were large, violent creatures, commanding whole swaths of swampland or serving as the bogeymen of the night. On his earth, they were... Unimportant. Inconsequential.
It was just so boring.
Because he was a worldwalker, Pallas was a vital asset to his country's intelligence organization. They had him patrol the paths between worlds, searching for signs of incoming incursion. Sometimes they asked him to reach deeper, to find the things unseen that had happened and had yet to be. It was all very dull to Pallas, as he had been walking worlds his entire life. He wanted, for once, to be the one given a gun and told to go after a bad guy. Instead he sat at a desk until someone wanted him for a task.
Unimportant. Inconsequential.
Often, Pallas felt it was just him.
Him and the rats.
A Magical Menagerie Masquerade (Part 2-end)
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)