Tag Archives: action

First Blood

Tragur was excited. On one hand he finally earned the right to witness a first blood but on the other hand the privilege of participation passed him by in favor of a cat in the same litter as he. Tragurs mood soured at the latter. Only a year ago he despaired at not being old enough to witness the early morning ritual. Now the child like enthusiasm of his peers was only mirrored on his face. Inside he was a miasma of envy and jealous ravings.

Tragur was six years of age, full grown by the standards of his tribe and by extension his race. As far as Tragur was concerned he was ready to hunt when he was four. Nevertheless he and his litter comprised of cats of mostly rival prides, they jockeyed endlessly for status and recognition since there grouping at the age of one. The reward for their hard work, besides begrudging recognition from their lord fathers, was standing in the hunts. Standings that despite Tragur hard work, was probably rather low. A fact Tragur was coming to terms with as the hour of first blood approached and the sleek approach of the chosen one hushed the jitters of the crowd.

As tradition would dictate the warrior approached the circle early and bare of any weapons. The crowd would hush to consider their representative, though he was no more than six, his reputation among those who oversaw his progresses within the litter preceded him like thunder before torrential rain. Rumors spoke of his speed, which was undeniable even to his peers and some even regarded him as the best in his litter, though no self-respecting cat would admit that out loud. To his non-handlers he was the black cat of the Azeroth, and with the name came the rivalry of men many years his senior. Envy has never been his stranger; his parents as a hunting pair bring belts from all cross the peninsula, and new lands to the north and across the seas, if rumors be true.  To his friends he was Pant, his birth name, and he kept his friends close, a lesson drilled into him by his father. As Pant he was generous head strong and fair. Never shying from opportunities to lead, and yet never overbearing. Within his inner circle Pant regaled his friends with stories of his parent’s exploits, which more often than not exceeded even the most outrageous rumors surrounding Pride Azeroth. Tragur of course, heard none of things camp fire tales; he sat on an opposite circle of friends, whose defacto leader was one of the many prides that fervently opposed the Azeroths, which is often the way of school litters.

But in this day the litter cheered the son of Azeroth, though some did so with more enthusiasm than others. Tragur, who was more concerned with being skipped the honor, cheered the chosen one with tepid enthusiasm.

“I wonder what manner of beast have they prepared for the Azeroth?” whispered Wafelia, her bright ember eyes and somber expression greeting Tragur as he turned to acknowledge her.

“Probably a river rat.” joked Tragur, which elicited a chuckle from the less serious members of the litter, Wafelia included.

“Those things are dangerous; my mother lost a brother in the amazon hunting a family of them.” At this the group nodded somberly, Carl being Carl killed the joke and as usual from the back of the group, where his wide face and height made his otherwise silent presence unmistakable.

Granted he was right, to the many that lost family and limbs to hunts in the river lands and densely wooded areas found further south, the two ton creature was no laughing matter.

“It’s probably a rabbit, it’s always a rabbit.” Alphonese said sagely. He was close to Pant and cheered him with enthusiasm despite his usual reserve. “But it looks like I’m wrong.”

Whereas before the crowd was merely hushed to a murmur, the silence that wrapped the witnesses of First Blood was such that nothing else but the shuffle of reluctant feet echoed inside the open circle. Slowly but surely the whatever the son of Azeroth was to face moved toward the center, passing men and women that would have normally hissed at its presence if it wasn’t for the sacred nature of the ritual. To Tragur to anticipation was maddening, he had reasoned it was too short to be rabbit yet made too little of a dent in the circle of onlookers to be on four legs. Curiosity was stinging his feet and traveling up and down his legs, prickly his spine for motion on each relay. He bite down the urgency to act the fool and resolved to be the adult, forcing every fidget and inpatient twitch of the tail to a mere slow grit of his sharp teeth.

And then it emerged through the throng of furry bodies, four burly cats in his tow. Two of which held his arms separate and behind his back with leashes held with both hands, and a third holding a rope tied to a contraption that held his mouth shut while pulling the rope forward to the extent that his body bent low as he moved forward at the urging of the fourth cat keeping pace in front of him. When the monster was inside the circle to the satisfaction of his escorts, they let go of the ropes and darted back into the crowd. It was at this moment that Tragur face shifted rapidly, from impatience, to puzzlement, to distaste, and then finally serious concern for the son of Azeroth.

This was the first time Tragur has seen a green devil and it didn’t take long to understand why First Blood was forbidden for the young and untrained. It was this shock and similar shocks to come that awoke Tragur to the seriousness of his new position, as a child to man, from house cat under the safety of his parents Pride to a hunter. What he saw, the green scales, the brown shell that protected its back and looked impossibly heavy, and the beady black eyes that stared at the son of Azeroth and nothing else, was extremely unsettling. It was 5 feet and a few inches and about the size the average cat if only a little shorter. But most importantly to Tragur, the green devil was like a living statue; his scales resembling hard plates of brick baked at odd shapes and made thin enough for the creatures massive muscles to move, if only barely, underneath.  In his mind to slay such a beast unarmed and worst head on was suicidal.

But none of his compatriots shared this view. All cheered with blood-lust as the beginning of First Blood was rapidly ending as the sacrifice to the hunt was safely delivered before the tribe’s representative. The son of Azeroth, bounded up and down in a flurry of swipes, lunges, and kicks. However despite the impressive showing, Pant was not trying to intimidate the green devil as much as he was trying to relieve his own impatience. For the match cannot occur unless the beast, if it is capable of reason, removes all disadvantages, the muzzle and the rope around his hands. For a moment the creature stood observing the young Azeroth, unblinking and to the crowd uncomprehending. Then as slow as one would expect a living statue to move, the green devil removed the muzzle first, gnawed at his rope till it fell apart in a heap to be dragged away by cats delegated for the task. It was then that the casual display of martial skill ended, and the young cat stalked his prey, shuffling his feet deliberately between the different stances one takes before the all-consuming lung.

“He plans to end this in one stroke.” whispered Alphonese, appreciation cracking his otherwise monotone speech.

It was in these seconds that the devil mind sharpened, his body tensed, and his breath held in anticipation of what was to come. His capture hung heavy in his mind, having witnessing his scouting party slaughtered, only 6 days before. In the midst of the battle, the helplessness of being taken completely by surprise feebled his response and shattered his resolve against an enemy that leaped from previously harmless shadows at the dead at night, where his kinds vision was rather excellent. In the days preceding his capture, he naturally wondered why he was kept alive while the rest of his troop was butchered, some hacked to pieces in front of him and packaged. These thoughts filled him with understanding that came with despair, he was to be tortured, and executed once they have gathered the information that they need. No known attacks by the cat race left much in the wake of survivors and few could confirm if they bothered taking live prisoners. Their continued success at wiping out scouts and small caravans must be due to the intelligence they gather from captives like himself. Though that much he couldn’t confirm because his captors kept him in a cage, not a prison cell, which was by and large exposed to the elements and lacking in neighboring cages. Worst his theory was slowly falling apart as the cats didn’t torture him, or ask him pointed questions. They spoke the northern tongue when around him, something he found disconcerting, and fed him regularly with cooked meat, local vegetation, and cups of water.

Much to his surprise this unusual treatment went on for many days. This measure of kindness however didn’t lower his guard, but raised it, though not to the point that he abstained from sleep. Expecting to be slaughtered with little chance to fight back, he was more than comfortable with the thought of never waking up again and felt sleep was a reprieve from an otherwise cruel world where his wife and four daughters will never be seen again. On the fifth day the first and only question to be asked of him was his name. To this the scout responded with his name, rank and nation: Henry Butchwater, 2nd Scout of the Expeditionary Legion, Proud citizen of The Black Water Bay, respectively.

On the sixth day, he was selected for first blood, and he woke up to ropes and a muzzle. In his heart Henry Butchwater resigned to his fate, and handled the indignity with meekness and resignation. It was only once he entered the circle, and realized what the cats had in mind, that his heart stirred with cold furry. He was kept alive for sport. His friends slaughtered for sport. The fuckers make light of a turtle.

So when the young Azeroth, the chosen one, the Lead hunter of his litter, charged the turtle, the crack of life entering Henry’s eyes was mostly unnoticed, as he went for the kill. And how textbook the attack was, perfect execution, managed by painstaking calculations of his speed, height, arch of his swing, the resistance of the soft grass that covered the plains of his homeland, made in a precious moments of calm before the storm… and how it all calm to a halt as the turtle backhanded the blow with ease of a seasoned soldier of his experience and pedigree and carried the assailant off balanced and surprised into the dirt. Having bet the entire ritual on that one strike, he was both surprised and criminally off balance, only the instinctive ability to right himself mid tumble allowed him the grace to see the next attack coming in a hammering knee to the sternum that nearly liquefied his internal organs if it wasn’t for a timely twist of his hips and sudden shift of his weight assist by his tail. Panic however didn’t set into Pant, as he counter attack while falling away from his foe only managing to scratch his shell. Rolling and popping back into stance, Pant contemplated what went wrong. According to his mother these creatures are criminally slow, if not dimwitted. Surely only coincidence of raising its arm out of instinct and enough wherewithal to attack while he was off balance was the only logical explanation.

The turtle was content with not pursuing, for he knew he couldn’t run the cat down. The son of Azeroth paced the creature, his self-confidence and fighting spirit hardly affected by the earlier exchange. A smart hunter always stalks his prey, and his father’s words and the training of his task masters training echoed inside of him as his plan of action took shape.

“No more gimmicks.” whispered Pant in his native tongue, which to Henry was no more than a barely audible sharp hiss.

And that’s when Pant went in again, rushing as before, but as Tragur and many of his peers would note, from a much different stance and footwork. For to the casual observer, Pant was merely doing the same thing again, but to the multitude of trained eyes, Pant was slightly slower and more balanced, so when he attacked he planted his feet before darting to the right while swiping with his left paws. Henry however, while not anticipating the cats actions, instinctively trusted the attack patterns he had learned to defend against from his nation’s footmen; lessons reinforced during campaigns against his neighboring nations like the Red Shells and the Sons of the Sire. With practice and focus he took a back step as the young cat lashed out with right, the blow catching him but not stunning him as he ducked under the left paw while pivoting on the planted foot. As the cat went right he met the out stretched arm of Henry, having intended to end the fight with the left paw in a vicious strike that carried his entire weight, he realized his mistake quickly enough and intended to escape before being yanked to the ground with brutal efficiency. For it only took a second for Henry to catch his quarry, fling him to the ground as he pivoted in the other direction. As the cat bounded for freedom, a cry only matched by newborn kittens in mortal danger escaped his lips as a loud resounding crack was felt more than heard by the entire audience.

It is to be said that having grabbed his opponent, Henry could have pulled the young cat into his muscular embrace and did much worse. And maybe it was because Henry did not take the speed and strength of young Pant for granted that he chose to fling him to the ground. But when Henry planted his foot hard and deep into the cats right leg, there was no doubt that the Black Water Bay soldier took some vindictive pleasure in crippling the son of Azeroth first. And as the son of Azeroth limped away, the pain of his lost leg made every attempt to put some distance between him and the green devil, a near comic effort if not sight, though no one found it funny. A slow and steady hiss started to build in the crowd as the turtle leisurely stalked his prey. It’s meaning foreign to the turtle soldier and too ancient to translate in the northern tongue. But in a second the hisses will be eclipse by a deafening roar from with the crowd, as a black cat with white spots marking her face and underbelly, leaped into the circle with murderous green eyes.

Time for a second froze as everyone knew who she was but few were willing to cross her, even for the sake of the ritual. But few is not all, as a taskmaster caught her leg with a whip as she was in midair. The resulting break in momentum crashing her in the plain grass, her murderous eyes now burning even brighter with a feral rage as she clawed desperately toward the turtle advancing toward her son. However the sound of her rage and the subsequent crash as her peers desperately stopped her, did get Henry’s attention. And Henry as he turned to see the new attacker, he bellowed in rage. For this wasn’t just any cat, but the cat who murdered his friends and brought him to the hell. So with speed not thought possible he bounded on the Lady of Azeroth, and nearly was on top of her if she wasn’t dragged back into the safety of the circle. Though for whose good, no one will found out as all the previous escort cats rushed the turtle, netting him before knocking him off balance with long poles made of harden wood. As Henry bellowed and cursed, the crowded dispersed; first blood was a failure and the hunt will not be blessed for this day and many days to come.

*******

When Tragur walked home, like so many other cats, he moved with a shuffling gate that betrayed in his downcast spirit. Whatever feelings he had toward the son of Azeroth, no cat deserves to be a cripple. Yet beyond that was another feeling, the question of whether he or god forbid one of his friends would have ended up the same or worse? It was a terrible thought, an angery thought, and Tragur shuffled through the front door yet again betrayed by his conflicting feelings.

Now Tragur home was not the largest, or the smallest in the Tribe. He was the third son of three litters, and his family wasn’t short on food or pelts to batter with. In this way, his family had the luxury of expanding on their humble home, which was originally one lonely shack facing the east river. In time however their manor grew to the size of eight shacks, as was the cat way to expand their homes by building a second home adjacent to the last. Tragur was fortunate enough to live in a home with four litter-rooms and lodge room two huts long, where cooking fires burned meat brought from the six meat lockers his parents kept stocked, as his siblings watched mouths drooling from the sweet aroma.

Of course such memories were far from his mind as he rubbed his feet against the patch of dry grass, maintained at the front door, before giving way to a rich network of white furs that still smelled of treated prey.  He wanted to cry out for his mother, but decided against it, not wishing to interrupt his father in the middle of his pleasure time with his mother. Judging it best not to announce his presence and at the same time avoid any doorways that crossed too close to the master bedroom, a lesson he learned the hard way on two occasions which encompassed two of his three near death experiences. So after taking great pains not to make too much noise, and alternatively not too little, Tragur finally entered his lodge room only to find his father waiting for him, with one bored eye watching him enter while his fingers worked away at the imperfections in a wood carving of some type of lizard.

“So how was your first First Blood.” His Lord Father said with a sigh. Having spent the morning indoors and working on his favorite hobby, he was only half interested in his sons account of the ritual. But to Tragur his father’s question nearly made him gush uncontrollably with words describing the fight in its bloody detail, the despair of the morning events nearly leaping from his lips. But instead with a calming breath, Tragur leveled his voice its most monotone, choosing even the northern tongue for the maximum dryness.

“The Black of Azeroth is no more.”

“That bitch died?” Tragur’s father nearly jumped out of his seat in excitement, “Wait your talking the Runt of Azeroth, the one half the town been raving about.”

“Be more respectful dear, the boys a cripple.” chimed Tragur’s Mother sharply.

“How do you guys know?” Tragur spoke with astonishment

“How could I not?” retorted his Father, “Practically everyone who walked by here was talking about how that turtle cracked that boys bones. Sad story he’ll tell his cross eyed children one day over the morning fire.”

“Garris!” Tragur’s Mother cracked.

“What!” her husband replayed “Everyone knows those Azeroths are brother to sister. “

“Baseless rumors” his wife countered.

“Baseless my ass. And now the son a crippled? Boy tell me, which one of your sisters will want the runt now”?

Tragur let the question roll over his head, his usual revulsion at the thought, numbed by today’s events.

“Exactly. The only hope he has for a life partner is one of his sisters… and needless to say what the resulting offspring will be like.”

“Still Garris, must you profane the Azeroths on a day like this?” sighed Tragur’s Mother.

“Jiilian everyone is saying it.”

“You don’t have to join them.”

“Why weren’t you at First Blood” Tragur interrupted, having learned early in his life to change subjects before his father and mother started their endless bickering.

“No real hunter needs it.” His father replied, not the least interested in the conversation.

“Isn’t that an affront to the gods?”

At this his father sighed.

“No son. An affront to the gods is an empty meat locker. Starving children. A Pride Lords unable to protect their family –“

“A husband unwilling to give his wife a fourth litter” Garris wife interrupted.

“A woman who won’t shut the hell up.”

“What’s that dear?”

“Nothing” Tragur’s Father sighed, “Nothing….Those things are affronts to the gods. Souring the meat of good prey and carving it up in front of the entire tribe proves nothing but some Pack Leaders vanity.”

Tragur took in his dad’s words and turned to his mother,

“You feel the same way mom?”

“Tragur, I’m 29 years old and the mother of three litters, I sleep as much as your father does.” At this his father hissed something in the native tongue even Tragur didn’t understand, though going by the daggers emitting from his mother’s face, Tragur committed not repeating the hiss within earshot of his queen mother to memory.

“Though Tragur I can’t say I’m not entirely un-thrilled that you wasn’t participating personally. Especially after what happened to that Azeroth boy. I know you worked hard for the privilege but still, I’m glad your home and safe. “ At this his mother crossed the room to give him a hug and a nuzzling, and being too emotionally drained to feel embarrassed he finally let his mother’s act of tenderness warm him, something he hasn’t allowed in quite some time since declaring himself a man in his heart.

“Tragur, you realize what this means right?” His father shouted over his mother embrace. Tragur mind, having finally begun to bring the pieces together, starting to think again with his usual Tragur like thought processes.

“No dad.” Which was the honest truth beyond his mental exhaustion.

“Just as well… Tragur a Azeroth has been made a cripple in combat and the beast that crippled him will be made to go free tomorrow.” His father gave Tragur a minute to soak in the words before continuing, “Please tell me the implications.”

Being the third son of three litters, his lord father, while not overly friendly, has never been unbearably antagonistic either. Nevertheless he has learned over the years that his father regarded him as a son because his mother convince him to do so and that his best chance of reaching adulthood, as he rightly reason, was staying out of his father’s way. Because of this approach to his father, and his father’s seemingly disinterest in him, he had very very few opportunities to genuinely disappoint him.

But as Tragur will come to learn, being an adult and more importantly a hunter will bring his every action and inaction into razor focus. A lesson his mother knew her son have to learn as she went back to her own carvings, a hobby Tragur’s mother shared with her husband, though her wood miniatures had very little resemblance to anything on earth.

“Son,” his fathered sighed, “I’m too tired to beat the runt out of you. However, since this directly affects you, I’m going to give you this freebie, lash free. “

At this Tragur gulped, his mind finally awakening completely from its stupor and today’s events cast under the measured eyes of a cat’s intellect. At first Tragur’s thought drifted toward the standings. His most importantly, but than his mind flicked that aside for a more terrible thought, for while on one hand the importance his own positioned was nearly all consuming it was battered by another image, the image his father was alluding to despite not being there to witness it. In his mind Tragur replayed the son of Azeroth’s last moments as a hunter, but not in its grizzly detail, but as a casual observer. And in this frame of thought came one image that brought chills to his spine. First was the roar, then the razor claws, sharp fangs, the blur of a muscular body, night black fur with a white underbelly streaking into the demonic circle, only to be stopped, though barely by the crap of the whip.

“The law of first blood present a problem that the bitch of Azeroth cannot avoid.” His father began.

“But if the Azeroths control half the tribe as you say…” replied Tragur, half in thought, half in horror.

“The superstitious fools won’t let her. Not that way.”

“No father…” the horror dawning on Tragur as he spoke, “she can’t make us.”

“Your father is right,” Tragur mother started somberly, “she can. Unless the Lord of Azeroth stops this madness.”

“He is no Lord.” His father grunted.

“Despite the unsavory rumors surrounding him, he is still a Lord to Caitlyn’s Lady.” To this Tragur and his Father raised an eyebrow. For calling the Lady of Azeroth by her first name implies a friendship at odds with the disposition of Pride Greyfish. Though this is merely a coincidence; before Juillian became the life partner of Garris, her school litter housed many great names, one of which was to be the Lady of Azeroth.

With a sigh, Tragur dad continued, “That’s maybe so, but few husbands deny the wishes of grieving mothers. The Silverstreak of Azeroth may not be inclined to avenge his whelp but the same can’t be said for the Black. If the cuddled runt had only fallen during a hunt, she would be free to charge into a pack of green devils as many times as she likes, saves the tribe from her madness all the same. But this…”

“This is war father,” Tragur said soberly.

Leave a comment

Filed under Tragur

Tension

Tension. When you stand at the precipice of safety and danger, debating, begging for the ropes that pull you either way to slack in one direction. Only I felt and heard this conflict, only I knew how easy it would be to choose one or the other, the ease of betrayal or the comfort of obedience; each making their arguments like lawyers before a judge.

In the universe the only constant is fear, the feeling of being unsafe. Power is paranoia; my clenched fist knows that’s truth.

****

Tabatha stood motionless before the holo-screen, which served as doorways to the vastness of space. Her destination was still some hours away but some tick in her brain, her training, told her she should make her decision now. And she did; her face was drained of emotion, the green of her eyes lost their luster, and her features grew taut and starved as if from exposure and starvation. She was still beautiful, but the beauty repelled more than drew. To anyone observing her now, she looked like a silent statue that read “to be left alone” in bold print, and knowing this Tabatha spirit drew dimer.

Withdrawn from her person was a data sheet of the mission ahead. Tabatha often reviewed these things over and over once they have been assigned, her current check and the last one before deployment was a running list of her current situation; recon delivered by the tireless efforts of the Mimics deployed months and sometimes years in advance. She scrolled down for the black list and found a disturbing amount of names: government mostly, ranging from low to mid-level players of interest that the Mimic’s have taken care of themselves. It was unsettling, she decided with a shiver. The nature of so many assassinations were clear, the thought of her arrival preceding the warping in of Earth Prime warships and the Primers that came with them, made the old fears she buried moments before rise up like bile. Acrid taste went hand in hand with the panic rising inside of her. She forced the feelings down, both in body and mind and let her mind hope for other conclusions despite the bad taste that lingered.

And then another thought came to her…was she the only FIST being deployed? The thought made her anxious despite her resolve to push away the fear, the last thing she wanted was some tense standoff between another FIST agent. In those encounters only a split second is allowed to identify yourself before the paranoia of the job moves the trigger faster than either could take back.

Swiftly she closed the data sheet and her concerns shut with the end of holo-light. Mechanically, more possessed than with genuine purpose, she walked down the merchant ship corridors noting the holo-screens that substituted for genuine glass windows found in less practical ships designed for mere tourism than the rigors of interstellar travel and commerce. Though the boundary between luxury and purpose ended there for the PAN-PAC EXPRESS, built for a business oriented clientele, it was a luxury ship of massive bulk facilitating spacious rooms and exotic cargo. It was the meeting place of industry captains both of the legal and illegal type with genuine goods to delivery or luxury to export. And with the amount of wealth inside this merchant ship, hopefully enough clot to bypass border security. It was also under the express jurisdiction of the Earth Prime Unifying Government, and at any given time its civilian passengers could find themselves bumping elbows with various off duty military personal, some of whom were more dangerous than others.

Tabatha was off duty, for as long as she was outside of Ellen Minor solar system.  Now that she wasn’t…well she couldn’t think about that too much. In fact not thinking was her best strategy, as she felt her mental powers flare up as the subconscious triggers in her mind started to click in pace. This sensation was always a moment of terror for Tabatha, knowing the nature of her powers and what the constant buzzing must mean. She could in fact, for a moment of unguarded silence, hear herself think and in those precious moments before her mind drowned out the noise for more pressing concerns, she wondered post-humorously what it would be like to reach into her own head and silence the constant chimes of neurons receiving and firing…if she could, on purpose, commit suicide with her own power. She shuddered at the thought, the possibility, at the mere fact that her own mind produced such a morbid idea. Self-preservation kicked in and her enhanced hearing faded, taking the morbid curiosity with it and set her on a path of continual motion. Toward her room, she understood as she moved with mechanical purpose toward her destination. Toward the last island of safety before—

“Hey babes!”

It was Henry. Though the old Tabatha of five minutes ago would have long detected and responded to his presence, a “Henry!”  Exclaimed with all the mirth of a burgeoning couple who spent months together… the new Tabatha merely acknowledged his presence with a glass eyed stare that looked not at him but through him, a vision that didn’t stop until she saw the locked container inside her private suit. With practice and affection Henry wrapped his arms around her slender waist, bringing her body close to his in one practiced swoop that was effortless and nibble. With excitement in his eyes he spoke rapidly and with a certain jolly expected of a less serious man. However true to training his noise and warmth but of footnotes of irrelevant white noise, even without the full application of her power she barely knew he was there, only seeing his mouth moving and feeling his hands pressing and swirling about her back going higher or lower as he spoke in rapid succession. Even her own facial features were beyond her consideration as Henry occasional concerns looks, periods that punctuated his excitement, were assuaged by her by her reflective control of her facial muscles, allowing her to appear listening when not really there. By her estimation Henry would have chatted her up for days, discussing plans and past pleasures and present intention with undiluted gusto. Only with a sudden snap back to the reality, by Tabatha herself, would this conversation close and that’s what she did as her eyes snapped back from her imagined x-ray vision to the reality of Henry’s brown eyes.

“I have to go.” She spoke with flatness Henry never knew in the 3 months of space travel together.

“I know you do, that’s why I’m saying-“

“The package will be delivered in the next 16 hours.”

And with that she walked out of his grasp like sand through an open palm, his eyes and expression fixated on where she just stood, his mind uncomprehending, conflicting and ultimately restricting to the inner silence that will glue him to that same spot for the next 30 minutes. Reflecting she could have simple let her old self, the safety induced dream of a woman who wanted Henry for warmth and simple pleasures like a meaningless conversations and drinks not consumed alone, break it off with Henry. To explain to him that their time together was nice but unfairly short and the real reason she is here was due. Henry would have understood, Tabatha reasoned, he would have protested and declared his love, but understanding and the heart-break that followed would have donned on him naturally.

“If only he saw me five minutes earlier…” Tabatha reasoned but she knew there was no case in that. She wasn’t safe and thus she wasn’t the woman Henry fell in love with. Even her features have changed, all so subtly, to reflect the loss of careless youth and imagination. She could have never given him the closure he’d wanted, or needed, but worsen her own temptation?

Nights with Henry were blissful. He was both a gentle soul and a ravaging wolf, capable of losing himself and her into passions only long periods of enclosed spaces could produce. To Tabatha he was the complete pie of normalcy that she devoured eagerly and without pause. Only the data sheet reminded her of her looming mission in the days since Henry gamed for her attention, and even that ominous report of some distant hell on the other side of the Milky Way wouldn’t sour her enjoyment of this man. But to Henry… it is not right to blame him for his feelings. To love a telepathy of latent ability is to court vibrations so subtly your mind barely knows it’s been moved. A gentle push in the right direction, pleasure increased to a level only replicated by practice and knowledge of your partner’s body. But in Tabatha, those vibrations are large currents of visible emotions, pushing and pulling in a constant ebb and flow of pleasure and senses never understood but felt all the same. For Tabatha it was merely an assumption that to climax was to experience an ecstasy found in few legal drugs. But to Henry such bliss was the start of a connection that couldn’t be replicated by any other woman in the galaxy. His love for Tabatha and the feelings, the new dimension, conjured by her touch and intimacy, will undoubtfully ruin any chance of him being satisfied by anyone else.

“He knew what I was. It’s not my fault I have to go.” And with those thought, Tabatha’s last regard for Henry was felt.

***

Why she felt her room was safer than the entirety of the PAN PAC EXPRESS, she had no rational idea. Her luxury airliner was usually fitted with a Class 2 Steel Frame, and a civilian crew of gunners that manned the smallest pair of pee-shooters a space ferrying vessel can have before being classified as a potential warship and being restricted from getting inside Ellen Minors solar system. Out here the only thing that could bother the EXPRESS was the pirates that often circled the solar system of systems like these. Whether they’ll see that type of action didn’t get Tabatha sweating, for one the PAN was had a class 2 hull, sturdy enough for any pirate raid short of using real military hardware, which was unlikely but if it did happen the Express would have a fighting chance. Second the government of Earth Prime tends to cover its basis. Pirates are often warned beforehand that some ships have cargo they don’t want or threaten outright, which works just as well for the less organized broods.

Though how Earth Prime negotiated today’s smooth traveling she’ll never know or care; to her safety was inside that special container, four feet wide, seven feet tall, and all bad intentions. Henry knowing who she was never bothered to ask what was inside the locked container made of metals that could survive this ship exploding in the dead of space or survive re-entry. The same type of metalwork used for Prime drop pods. Not entirely indestructible but close enough. For a moment she touched the cool metal that seemed to absorb and reflect heat at the same time. Sliding one finger down the crevice between sliding doors, and noting her quickening heartbeat as she came closer and closer to the numerical lock. In a second, something mechanical inside of her took over and with blank expression she keyed in her combination in rapid succession. Which a click and a slink, the doors slid open and clicked outward, allowing cool refrigerated air to sleep into the room lazily, coiling around Tabatha’s feet and chilling her breath. She smiled. A weary wiry smile but a smile nevertheless. Inside the container were the tools of her trade; four black disks, a utility belt, and a rifle that was taller than she was. With a nod of approval she made three steps away from the container and to her bed. There she stripped, her clothes neatly piled on her bed as she ignored the rooms chill on her bare skin. Totally naked she went before the container again, picking at the four disks and placing them on her body; one for each shoulder, one on her chest just below collarbone, and finally one for the small of her back. With a thought the black disks unraveled in a typhoon of black thread, in mere moments Tabatha’s body was covered in the nano-fibers of her cat suit. She steadied her breath and prepared herself for the body horror that’ll come next. And on the third shallow repetition she forced her eyes not to blink as her contact lenses bubbled into place over her iris. The process burned and confused her eyes; a white blindness overtook her senses as the nerves in her eyes relayed the wrongness of liquid boiling at the surface. For Tabatha it was two seconds of mild discomfort, practice had driven away any real sense of fear, where the temporary loss of a single sense would have given rise to hysteria is less seasoned minds.

Luckily that was only the least of her changes. The psy-engines inside of a frontal lobe churned widely as the incisions made behind her ear widened without drawing blood. Machinery pressed outward against exposed gap, unfolding and stretching along the back of her ear, settling and piercing her skin to establish a foothold that no amount of jostling could disgorge. Short of removing her skull, the dual-core pys-processors will remain steadfast against her skin jutting out slightly into the back of her head like flatten antenna associate with vintage 20th century radios. To Tabatha this too was merely a disquieting sensation whose effects were long numbed with practice. That changed with a click.

Somewhere along the ships many corridors, efficiency-lights will burst spilling their milky contents into the stainless steel below. Somewhere along the ships many back up engines, a third and force generator will come to life and whine a death rattle as the sudden surge of electricity meets the pull back of the grid. Somewhere along the ship, someone who is psy-sensitive will scream as an aneurysm comes suddenly against their unguarded and defenseless mind. Hallucinations will haunt those directly touching any electronics; some will claim to see visions of angels others will see less nice things… The ship itself will shudder like as if given a cold shower, and many will race to the gunner decks in anticipation of an attack that will never come.

And at the epicenter will stand Tabatha, cloaked in power! Surging from her being like a volcano. Only the special shielding encasing her reserved room prevented the totality of her strength from bearing down on the PAN PAC EXPRESS, the very fact of her existence threatening to do what only dreadnought class warships can do with passing easy.  It was the months of pent of power and the enormity of her talent that caused the storm.

“I’m ready,” Tabatha grimaced, her mind slowly drawing in control over her higher processes. With strength, talent, and focus will she survive the coming storm. This she knew. Tabatha walked toward her chair, pulling it to the center of the room. She turned to give her special cabinet, holding her gun and other supplies in hidden recesses lamp shaded by shadows, another look. She reached for her knife, a long blunt instrument of clear purpose, full of weight and size lacking in delicate features or ominous jags along the edge. Only the handle and grip was given a finesse, as a side arm only one hand or her mouth if necessarily needed extra accommodations. Tabatha placed it on the chair, grabbing a utility belt to strap to her hips before snapping the knife into place along her side. Satisfied with the familiar weight to her right side, she reached for her signature weapon, the P105-2nd Generation HellDROP Rifle. Two generations behind and still unwilling to trade up, this weapon has been her friend, lover, and protective mother for the better part of 11 years.

“I need sleep.” And Tabatha did, the FIST way; sitting slightly crouched over the bulk of her weapon, cradling her HD rifle against her lap with the trigger being fingered idly, her mind splitting into two halves, one alert to stimuli and danger constantly searching probing for hostility, while the other force the physical sleep the body needed. She was wide-eyed and rocking slightly in a rhythm really slow drawn out breathing. Anything to enter her room would have been shot unceremoniously and the crew sensed the sudden shift in the atmosphere like fog only the mind can perceive. No one will bother her, or wish to bother her; the required security clearance just to sweep the floor ensured that. Being this close to Ellen Prime, the importance of delivering the cargo pressed heavy on their minds. Tabatha will sleep undisturbed, even peacefully… as far as a FIST could, for about 16 hours.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Pink Bomber

I still remember the argument me and Sammy had before I left for this job. I asked him a simple question, I expected a heartwarming response, and instead he got snide.

“What keeps you human?” I asked earnestly we were only 10 feet apart but I consciously took a step forward so when I leaned into him it would be more intimate and natural. Before he says anything profound he kisses me on the forehead as if I was the daughter he always wanted but never had. He was always big and tall and old spice musty, comfortable and what I needed considering what I was about to do, so I looked forward to him showing a moment of tenderness. But his impassive eyes told a different story. I backed away from him; I wasn’t his anything right now. The one thing about Sammy that irritates me this much is that he doesn’t mind telling the truth. He just considers the truth too adult for me to hear. As if I was really just a child to him. So when his lips starting moving I already started to get anger.

“Nothing.” He says as dryly as possible. No room for argument he was saying without saying.

Stunned but not deterred, I started to speak but Sammy was already speaking over me before I could get a coherent sentence in.

“Sure we may look the same, but just watching the nature channel will tell you that having your nose and eyes in the same place don’t mean you belong to the same species. Do you know that we can’t even give blood transfusions to regular humans? One rumor slash speculation is that our blood is radioactive and will cause cancer in significant amounts. Fact is normal people can’t turn cars into soda cans or have tap dancing lessons in people’s heads. ”

“But we have the same feelings as they do!” I protest with significant use of flailing arms to show how annoyed I am at his matter of fact tone.

“Yeah so do dogs, cats, mice, etc, etc.” I started to say something in exasperated protest, but he raised his hand to cut me off, let me finish he was communicating while sighing to apologize for the sarcasm in his tone earlier. He didn’t mean to be like that it just came out that way.

“I know you want to say something about love. Dogs love too Tabatha, by the standard definition of love espoused and acknowledged by most people, a dogs devotion is just the same as love. “

I fumed, even now remembering it I’m fuming! No argument with Sammy Tabatha, he just beats you over the head with his “facts” until your blue in the face and ready to clock him. He even makes things worse by giving me total access to his brain while he picks me apart. He is literally just churning the logic wheel, no emotion in it at all, maybe a vague sense of regret like I’m being told there is no Santa Clause. Well I wasn’t going to be out think by you Sammy.

“So we’re better than normal people?” I say in an, “I can play your game too!” kind of tone.  Now I just wanted him to admit I was right.

“Physically superior sure… but so was the dinosaurs. If you’re simply valuing the people around you based on their ability to stand up to you than you’ve missed the point of the past thousand or so years of civilianization.” He paused to examine my souring face and genuine concerned hanged in his expression.

“Look Tabatha” Sammy continues, “You’re never going to read about dinosaur art or literature because the dinos never made any. We’re the same, not saying that we will disappear or anything like that, just saying that I honestly don’t mind driving in cars that move slower than I do or watching bad movies, or doing all the little vain things that people do because if it was up to me…none of this would exist. When in Rome do as the roman’s and we say that because it doesn’t matter if you’re not a roman. Hell that phrase was made specifically for us! We live in this world as ourselves, nothing more. “

I sigh, no arguing with Sammy, never did have an argument with him. I only get mad at him and he never responds to my anger. Which is usually the best response.

Anyway I think of him because the job I’m on was previously his. Should have been his but he ran into a BPP agent a month ago. It was an ambush of sorts; they tracked him down by his bad habits, cigars and strip joints. Sammy blames it on making too much noise; he picks out telekinetic like himself to fight and leaves a big mess behind. But even if you leave the scene of the crime in a timely fashion, BPP has ways to follow the bread crumbs if you leave enough of them. On that note he stopped me from carrying an automatic, just wanted an Uzi really, and a couple of grenades because he felt the noise level will put me on their radar. Out of respect I only took 1 grenade. I feel nervous about fighting someone who can juggle minivans with only two knives, four glock 21’s with my signature pink handle. The hello kitty guns jokes Sammy. I wasn’t even sure I carried enough ammunition; practice fights with Sammy can easily burn through 30 rounds. But I rather not carry more than I have to. I wasn’t a small army. Ok technically I was, but that was due to other factors.

Ok focus on earning your keep Tabatha. This is for Sammy; that fight with that BPP agent was a fight he of course won but barely. He was too badly hurt and needed too much time to recover. An inconvenience for the boss and an opportunity to get even for anyone Sammy belittled. Three people in the first week of his recover felt brave enough to play “practical jokes” on Sammy. I killed two, Sammy killed one, cleaning up the blood for weeks type of kill. Nursing Sammy back to health was myself appointed job till the boss requested that I take on his responsibilities.  I refused of course, but Sammy convinced me to oblige. “We may be the only psychics officially on the payroll, but he has at least three running a protection detail just for him and the occasional internal affairs man.” I took Sammy’s word for it.

The boredom ended with the appearance of a crisp business suit heading down the parking garage. The parking garage was a three level facility, the last level being underground. The suit was my target, I had no doubt about that, he fit the profile, 6’2 caucasian male, black hair and brown eyes. Smooth features and wore a natural tan. Handsome by contemporary standards; looks like he held a good job, nice car, big house.  He had a casual appearance despite the double breasted suit, ivory black shoes, white shirt with sandy grey tie.  A guy like him had one of two jobs, security or management. I didn’t read that deep into the profile, all I wanted was a picture, a time and a place. I didn’t even know his name, which makes this even more awkward because it sounds like a one night stand. Not my thing and the pretty boy Harvard look ain’t my type, though he does look like quite the athlete. Maybe there is some mileage to him…

Oh hell I got a good shot from here maybe I can take him out now? Not likely, he’ll just catch the bullet…

Oh well time to move. Pretending that the parking garage is a jungle makes the sneaking go easier, two hundred paces away and maintaining that distance all-important. Now if the cars are the trees what would the support pillars be? Oak trees….. God he is moving awfully slow, is he by his car yet?  Ok why is he stopping isn’t his car parked a much further down? Maybe he parked in a different space this time? Wait that doesn’t make sense, there’s assigned parking isn’t there?

I almost out of habit call Sammy’s name out loud when I notice my target talking to himself, like I am but out loud. Crazy much? I couldn’t hear him of course considering the distance and the fact that he seemed to be whispering. Most not be important. Then he turns to face me and with a great jerk of his right arm rips the door of a nearby Lexus Sedan out of its hinges and hurling towards me.

Now a normal person at this time would be too deep in panic to dodge the door, or too concerned with “how he found me?” to react in time. I’m not sure this is unique to telepaths but I personally find anything moving slower than the speed of light moving in slow motion. A feature that only comes to play when I’m in immediate danger, like now, the only bad part is that you’re looking at your death happen in slow motion because normally your body is usually unable to keep up with the speed of whatever is coming at you even though you see it move as slow as snail. However I was special; like a mouse I dashed from behind my cover, a lesson I learned from Sammy who strongly discouraged hiding behind anything once a telekinetic knows your there. I was right the instant my feet cleared the headlights the Volkswagen I was using as cover was nearly split in half.

I regained my balance with ease, hours of cardio, and dash into the swirl of violent intentions that is Mr. Property Damage. Adrenaline on full pump, glocks in both hands, I fire haphazardly at Mr. Property Damage, managing center of mass shots each click. He plants his feat, strains his eyes (maybe he does see the bullets moving in slow mo as well?), and plucks the rounds out of air.  I stop firing for a second, and leap for cover behind a Masada, the glass shatters above as the car nearly tips over in the Mr. Property Damages rage.

I enter his mind at this juncture; my persona, the representative of my mind in his body, an avatar if you will, crosses the distance between us in instant. Entering Mr. Property Damage mind, or anyone’s for that matter, is similar to walking into someone’s front lawn, unremarkably easy. Unnoticeable until you look ahead and see the house. When someone tells you your mind is filled with empty space they are right. Your mind is only a piece of property, the “house” is where all the good stuff is housed and is only the byproduct of our subconscious attempting to compartmentalize an otherwise formless system. The trick is breaking into the house, which in most cases wasn’t a house per say but merely door representing the boundary between the formlessness of the peripheral corners of your mind and the haphazard attempt at organization most people call their brain. And I’m not kidding, most people’s minds are merely front doors that aren’t even locked and most of the time halfway open.

Mr. Property Damages mind however was simple a dome, smooth on all sides and two stories tall. I wanted to be taken aback by this; I usually see steel doors or vaults when it comes to the mind of a telekinetic. This was overly simple. It reminded me of a walnut and at this I smiled.

Than the smile faded, while I was busy being confused, Mr. Property Damage flipped the Masada over. Using more luck than skill, I laid flat and slid underneath the rolling car. Thanking father timing, rolled forward only to be picked up and slammed up against the now turned over vehicle that was just sent sailing over me.  The pain shoots up and down my lower back in a conga line of misery; I raged and slammed my fist against the dome protecting Mr. Property Damage’s mind. He cringed at the sudden loss of focus and his psy hold dropped.  Free I charged at him, the need for a less direct approach never occurring to me, I drew two new pistols and let muscle memory empty rounds. As if catching an air current, he floats back into the air while erecting a multi layered psy wall that stops the bullets cold. No problem, I use my persona’s fist as sledge hammer and swing madly at his mind’s defenses, yet only managing to crack one layer in futility.

No way!

Amateur hour at its finest, I dodge his raw surge of psy by rolling just under it, taking note not to notice the crater that it left behind. I’m using the wrong kind of brute force, I should be in already! I was taught better, I should have broken his defense in seconds not 2 minutes and counting. I relied too much on the element of surprise. Panic mode is over, this is a straight up brawl, and I let my persona assume the form of the first demon of the personal hell I’m going to make out of Mr. Property Damage’s mind. Four horns curled like elephant tusk, four arms with claws big enough to rend spines from men backs. It stood at 20 stories of purple and green demon. The illusion wasn’t finished, to him the sky darkened and the ground opened up to the underworld. He resisted of course, his mind worked feverishly to repair the damage, but that’s the fun part about being a telepath, once I’m in I’m always in, the best you can do as a none-telepath was hold on to your little corner of reality.

I bucked my head and my horns ripped open the roof. I climbed into the dome, my weight being too great for the structure; it was really just an onion, each layer gave way to more layers. I work feverishly with all six limps, clawing and kicking and pulling and more clawing. His focus was wild now; he punched at the air and sent psy waves into menacing parked cars and support beams. Still dangerous, he aimed for my general direction and when he didn’t hit the explosions he left behind sent glass and rocks everywhere. He was still airborne the parking garage proved surprisingly spacious as he assumed a half crouch as he glided. Mr. Property Damage stopped blocking my bullets, instead he focused on increasing our distance and dodging my gunfire. I wanted him down on the ground, and in my anxiousness he caught me by surprise and rocked me off my feat without me realizing what hit me. I hit the ground with a bounce, realizing that both glocks were empty I discarded one, while unclipping and reloading the second with the free arm in mid bounce. When landed I rolled to my feet to face him, but I was wrong about where he was.

Wait what?  I should know where he is, I’m in his head for god’s sake! The demon was finished with the dome, but found a very conventional iron door underneath. She roared and slammed head first into the thick steel of Mr. Property Damage’s final layer of peripheral defense before I was in. At that moment, as the demon took the door of its hinges, Mr. Property Damage sent a sports car barreling through the air in a free falling tumble. I jumped to my left side, and found it was a mistake, a second car slammed into my mid section knocking the air out of me as I rolled up high into the air nearly hitting the ceiling and crashed hard on flying windshield. I was beyond pain at this moment, I felt the thud of my body hitting three more previously parked vehicles or maybe it was the same vehicle and I hit the ground with a thud followed by a wet roll. I wanted to get up but everything hurt at the same time, I could only stop myself from screaming in pain.

So I moved my head slowly and saw Mr. Property Damage grinning and breathing heavy. He held his hand over me and I knew what that meant, the remaining hairs on my body stood on end because of amassing whirlpool of psy just above me. My little she demon was so far from me now, but I felt it raging on by my direction. Even in this state I was multitasking her assault on his mind, but it was only a battle that I was losing as his defenses and sense of reason held against the little daemon working too far away from her master. Given more wherewithal I would have thousands of little programmed horrors working on every nook and cranny of his mind, forcing him to experience a thousand deaths and warping his perception to the point of insanity. I’d messed up big but I knew theyweren’t enough tears left in my tattered body to cry for failures sake.

No! I need to focus even harder. I reached my right arm for the grenade I kept in my left pocket; I thanked Sammy for suggesting I wear bagging clothing. Still intact surprisingly, I forced my right arm to move further than the pain would allow. Like a puppets arms it merely flung the grenade at Mr. Property Damage, the pain of my right arm being dislocated was so intense that I nearly passed out. But I gritted my teeth; that wasn’t my real focus, no my rampaging demon had one more sin to commit before Mr. Property Damage mind pushes it back into his outer defenses.

I don’t know why but the Catholics never considered being a liar a deadly sin but it is the sin that kills the easiest. The mind is ready to accept all manners of lies, especially the ones the owner wants to believe are true. So when I felt Mr. Property Damage’s enthusiasm, the heavy bass sound of a victory vibrating from every corner of his soul, I rode his high right up to his ear and whispered with the voice a thousand gum drops, “Don’t worry she is already dead.” Of course that wasn’t going to convince him not to smash me flat like a pancake, but it would paint a big enough illusion that my flailing right arm tossing the hand grenade would go unnoticed. However the grenade itself had to be accounted for and I poured all my effort into blocking its flight from Mr. Property Damage’s sight completely. When it finally came to stop at his feet, by than all five of his senses knew something was there, I made him think that it was merely a small slab of loose concrete, which considering the state of the parking garage that lie wasn’t all too unbelievable.

But it wasn’t a perfect lie and I was out of luck if he noticed. But he didn’t! He raised his hand up like a roman senator deciding on the life or death of a disgraced gladiator and then the grenade exploded. At that moment, before even the sound of the explosion could reach Mr. Property Damage’s ears, I caught my second wind and resolved to show him real telepathy. So I pulled his conscious, grabbing the presumption of himself and dragging him out of his own reality.

Suddenly he was in a free fall toward the destination of my choosing, but he resisted never the less, going up stream with all his might kicking and swearing all the way down. It took time to fully create the reality I wanted him to experience but when I was done he found himself in an endless field of pink sunflowers. In Mr. Property Damage’s mind all that could be seen was rolling hills of blue, pink and subtle green. The confusion on his face was priceless. So I gave him something familiar, my demon appeared before him bellowing a challenge. Mr. Property Damage cursed and shouted back “This is MY HEAD!” and charged at me sword in hand. Figured he’d use a gun, oh well, he slashed at the demon as it popped in a shower of rose pedals like a piñata. His confusion was hilarious, he looked around wide eyed attempting to match an unforeseen threat but saw nothing but pink and blue.

I laughed as he kept whirling around to meet a shadow that wasn’t there; he heard my laughter and fumed with anger. Than the ground began to sink and concern returned on his face and he watched as some parts sank faster than others as if the whole landmass was on top of a sinkhole. The sunflowers soon started to burst as pockets of nothingness replaced patches of the  ground. The haze of pink petals floating up into the sky was almost magical until it started to catch fire. And the panic in his face was also priceless; the impossible heat that radiated from each pedal burned boils his flesh and cooked his hair. He took to the air pushing past the fire and the smoke, coughing and crying despite knowing this was all just a bad dream.

As he flew higher he started to feel the air pushing him back down, he looked down, the pink and green disappeared, in its place was a black hole that sucked in all matter. He panicked and tried to fly faster, harder, but the downward spiral of the wind was proving too strong. Than his faced grew white as he realized that at the far ends of the black hole there were rows and after rows of teeth. The demon has grown impossible large, the black hole was merely his mouth. Mr. Property Damage tried even harder he pressed against his fate and for a moment his momentum was greater than the gravity that was pulling him back down. “Free!” was the only thought that echoed throughout his consciousness and for a moment he was, but then I stuck my tongue out like a frog and wrapped it around his mid section instantly crushing ribs and liquefying organs. I retracted my tongue just as fast stuck it out; amazingly he still managed to put up a fight, changing his form three times one of which pierced my tongue. I applauded his effort by closing my mouth shut, leaving him in the dark where his screams were swallowed by the nothingness around him.

He screamed again, an abbreviated cough in comparison to the one his persona made, no this was shear instinctive reaction to nerves being abused beyond comprehension. He was rocked off his feat by the explosion his body disappearing in the flash. I heard the crunch of a wield shield, I saw Mr. Property Damages body crumbled against a generic looking black Sedan. I sigh, he put up a psy field at the very last second but it wasn’t enough for him to take that unscathed. He looked as though he got on the bad side of a bear and was only left in one piece because the bear eventually got bored. I couldn’t be sure that killed him, telekinetics have amazing recuperative abilities, but I couldn’t even get up to finish the job. Then I saw a pink and smiled. I rolled right slowly and gingerly, reached with my left hand for my pink handled glock 21. Not as good of a shot with my left hand, but it’ll have to do. I puppet my arm and fingers to move, too shaky but can’t really do anything about that. Slowly I steady my aim, Mr. Property Damage head is slouched over clearly unconsciousness may or may not be breathing though but it doesn’t matter at this point. Have to make this shot count, not sure my wrist can handle the recoil for a second chance.

Steady…

Steady…

Shoot! Oh god! The kick hurts more than I thought it would and the noise is awfully loud! I black out. No choice everything hurts too much at once.

Leave a comment

Filed under Psychics

Just a Ling

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did he get here?” one voice rises shrill above the others.

“Maybe a cop?”

“What type of cop you know doesn’t have a badge?” retorts Percy, the grogginess slowly wearing off.

“No ID either.” another feminine voice, softer than the last one, replies.

“Look he must have followed me, I don’t know how or why.” Alex waves his hand up in his defense.

“Nothing human should be able to get through the spell. Even if they did the fence should have…”

“He, I mean she could help us right? I mean its safe for him, I mean her, to stretch her legs isn’t it?”

They all look at the man probably named Joey. Alex nods and John agrees. One of the girls takes an unconscious step back and in the direction of my stuff. All my stuff, even my phone still hooked to the double whammy. It’s a shack used for “fuck all if I knew” and only the sections obviously needed was somewhat cleaned to “don’t dirty my pumps” conditions. The occult books I was looking for? All here, laid out in piles spread around the various dust and hay free zones of the barn. Arcane symbols are written haphazardly on 8’11 pieces of paper, but most look too old and faded to be “hot” and none are spread out in any particular order or pattern, just the scribbling of children playing at Harry Potter. And in the middle of it all stood the cage. While the shack was well lite by modern light fixtures (very wise of them), the cage itself was a black tinted window masking the figure(s) moving inside. To understand how strange that was you’d have to imagine a typical zoo cage made to generously hold back a lion and then fathom why a grey sheet would be billowing inside, conveniently muting all attempts to illuminate the contents.

Joey was the one who opened the door, showing all the practice of a zookeeper working open the exit to a tigers cage. The tiger was not his friend, but he showed no fear of the tiger. Though his grasp of the door remained firm ready to close and lock it at a moments notice. The cage wasn’t just a few jail bars and a padlock, it had inscriptions running square to each corner, only stopping at the door itself, where a rune of vague, probably made up origin was sketched in most likely goat or cows blood. It glowed hot as the door was open gingerly. Joey backed up to give whatever it was plenty of space, though no one gasped everyone’s hair stood on end, even mine, though granted I was tied up like a dried pig.

It sniffed the air a few times before turning in my direction. Whatever It was, it did a good enough job of repairing its host body;  the only sign of a struggle was the orange-colored hair, the color of dried blood on blond. Otherwise you wouldn’t think said young girl was being posses by an alien entity beyond our concept of space-time. Though possessed is an odd word; it implies that there is someone home when the daemon gets bored and leaves, a cute Hollywood trope with no basis in reality. Fact is currently IT is wearing that poor girls meat suit with about as much practice as a dog walking on two legs (and doing a worse job than an actual dog because it’s probably accustomed to having more legs than four). For all intent and purposes, the poor girls last moments were spent locked in the back of a car, stripped naked, wrapped in chains and thrown into a bear cage for the amusement of the bear. Now the bear is wearing human skin like an expensive fur coat, and is sniffing me up and down looking for fear in my eyes.

“So who is he?”

“Out of your league” It hisses, he gives a moment to give the woman who asked the question a longing glare before turning his attention back to me.

“Yessss” it chimes, running a finger down my chest before his finger sizzles against the iron chains. The iron isn’t the problem, but the paper talisman wrapped around the locks and hanging from the chain links are. He notices me staring at it and nods the answer to my question, I groan.

“A precaution for me, but I can only imagine what it does to you.”

“Not much.” I chuckle, “mild headache really.” Also no low-level telepathy or access to magical items like wards or cursed items.

“You know him!?” resounds Alex

“Simple creatures, you don’t even know your champion?” It laughs, while keeping an unnatural level of alertness on me. As far it was concerned I was a shark in a fish bowl.

“King of Atlantis” It begins, “I wonder, have you sired an heir yet?”

The prospect of me dying today finally hits home and the only thing I could do was fake a steely eyed resolve. Damn this.

“Aww, I guess not.” It turns and walks toward the cage. Stops and address the confused rabble of white picket fence necromancers, “I’d suggest you kill him before he causes any more problems for us.”

And with that It climbs in and Joey locks the cage. I can see IT’s eyes staring at me now, mucus green circles spinning rapidly around her dead iris and beyond, the slither of worms moving in dead waters. He wanted to kill me himself but was afraid of the repercussions, the geass they have him under is strong. And it saved my life. Something I wish to take full advantage of.

“Hey, hey don’t tell me your believing…that thing do you?”

“How do you know she’s not human.” John points out.

I smile. “Well it wouldn’t pass the typical college frat girl test with that deep gurgled voice box she’s working with. I mean come on, I grew up in the 80’s, I’ve watched my share of scary movies! But let’s be serious do I look like the “King of Atlantis”? Do I sound like I drink vodka with SpongeBobSquarePants? I got a knife and a smart phone, and some jewelry I was hoping to pawn. I came by to rip you guys off and suddenly I’m out cold. Now I wake up in a strange shack and tied up, weird talismans hanging everywhere, and naked chick you got locked in a cage. I didn’t mean to interrupt your bachelor party, but I’d gladly get back on my way.”

“No.” says the woman who must be Katherine. She is calm and to the point, unlike Jill who is a bit more than nervous and hugging herself since her earlier outburst. Without any of my usual talents for building up persuasive arguments they’ll get me for being either suspicious or being at the wrong place at the wrong time. There is another way to get me out of here…

I”Look, I’m going to be frank with you.” not the best idea, but you know what they say about the truth, “She-IT’s right.  But I’m going to tell you something; this situation, this nightmare you’ve invited into your lives for 18 years can not be controlled. And don’t tell me you have it under control because I can see it laughing at all of you. How many people have you sacrificed to it? How many young women will never see their mothers again because of your actions. Boys that will never be fathers. For what?”

The room grows silent.

“Answer me!” no one speaks up. “Tell me that you have this under control! You don’t. And you know whats sick? Its waiting. Buying time until it knows it can stay in this world without you. Until it knows its safe to kill you all.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” John marches forward, anger in his eyes.

I match his glare and smile, “I see it now. Six years after that incident, your lives all suck, some with no girl, others with no job. There is only the guilt that maybe your responsible for all those unexplained deaths, maybe those douche-bags never really deserved to have what you thought was coming to ’em. And you feel like a scumbags, all of you do, and nothing you do can change that because realization of the truth only you know and only you can believe is eating you alive.” Than an epiphany hits like a brick, “So you come back to the barn where the magic happens…. my god, there is a piece of IT in you?” the group’s faces doesn’t deny it, ” A little bit of charisma, less guilt? The perfect family? The perfect job? A nice apartment with all the panties traffic your dick can manage? Is that’s what your soul is worth?”

Actually for most people the answer is yes, it is. But I doubt that they were stupid enough to make that exchange, no, they chose a different route, young boys and girls picked off from the street and late nights at the local bars. It’s not a coincidence that John has an alibi between the hours of 12-4,  and worst comes to worst his unwitting family can vouch for him being home despite sometimes not being home till 9 am in the morning. All this in exchange for a bit of knowledge here and a bit of juice there. But..

“But your deal wasn’t worth it for IT wasn’t it? It broke free six years ago, despite all the assurances that the sporadic flow of fresh bodies is of no fault of your own. You scramble to put it back to in the closest when  its true form can black out the state of Missouri. And yet you feed it prime stake as if it’ll be satisfied! Ha!”

I turn my full attention to the thing in the cage. “You’re nothing but a mid level Ling with dreams of grandeur  If you was a real daemon you would devoured them from  the inside the moment they took your offer, but you’re not even capable of holding a human body for longer than two hours, so you wait and bide your time until you learn to be a proper greater horror.” Even now with my eyes adjusting to the weird lighting of the cage I see IT’s form mutating; stretching the lips, elongating the fingers,breaking her skin out into hideous boils that ooze with blood and mucus like slime, while shifting her facial features to match the realignment of bones to a fit a newer more alien model…

“And you chuckle heads are just yucking it up as you put the lives of countless thousands in danger! If you had any idea where that thing came from you would have tried and failed to destroy it years ago instead of trying to appease it believing your two-bit parlor tricks will hold it back forever.”

Come to think of it, there is a reason why cops and soldiers above the level of rent-a-cop or merc-for-hire, train intensively in hostage situations. The simple basis being that sometimes you are the hostage and you’ll have to talk your way out of being gang-banged by the local psychopaths. Sometimes you must do this while speaking broken-unamerican, sometimes its better that you don’t call your current caretakers on their bullshit. Joey proves how much not being a snide douche keeps you alive longer,

“You talk too much.”

My knife is fresh from the table and in his right hand in pre-stabbing form when Alex and Jill rush to head him off.

“We don’t kill!” demands Alex

No, you just sic your pet daemon on people, big difference stupid git!

“Get off me he needs to GO!”

Alex lands hard on his hip while Jill, who is basically 5’1 and maybe a buck’one if you count the slippers, is sent flying before the rather fit Joey who could have been a 5’9 college quarterback in the heyday of his frat years (doubting he saw the inside of one). Neither John or Katherine moves to stop him when suddenly–

“JILL!!!” Kathrine was screaming for her friend’s name while the rest looked slacked jaw and petrified in fear and piss, Joey dropped my knife, Alex couldn’t peel his eyes away, and John…John had no expression at all.

You see Jill, a wisp of a thing, was neither tall or needing a gym membership, even her long hair was purposely cut business short to improve her streamline dry dolphin look, if the dolphin was a vegan; so when she went flying, she quite literally flew, and where she landed and thunk’d her little head, was no less convenient than the very cage, containing the very daemon they put so much effort into home trained.

Not funny how time stops when you have no way of changing the outcome. Fuck all the way of the warrior bullshit; a real fight is a blur  of indiscriminate motion only parsed though the magic filter of muscle memory and self-preservation. It’s only when death is looking at you straight in the face and there isn’t a god damn thing you can do about it, that you see the world at whatever frames per second is considered slow. When IT forced her hands through the bars– the sizzle and pop of the talismans all desperately trying to burn away the human meat coat but never beyond the level of third degree burns– you can see the momentary gasp of fear in Jill’s eyes as the window of escape closed before she understood it was open to begin with, the hands claps around her head and squeezed for dear life, nearly ripping her head from her shoulders as she thrashed against the otherworldly grip. But it wasn’t the physical touch that was loathsome, but the sudden invasion of one being of the immaterium into another being of immaterium (the human soul) that caused the panic that was almost primal to behold.

It was in this painful seconds of absolute horror that ages the soul and forces young men’s hearts to turn white before the twilight of their age, that the spectacle completed itself before a dumbfounded audience; powerless in body, mind and soul against the thing that eats goats and children. It was in completion that the cage in which the daemon lied for two decades, finally showed a natural hue, revealing the liters of dried blood and bits of unprocessed flesh of vague origins. Where the former host of ITs black intentions lay silent like a dried husk, the new host of horror laid slack like an adolescent child sleeping in a school bus.

And John just stood there, like a bloody stole pigeon.

“John!!”

My words barely moved him out of his stupor.

“John get me down!”

His eyes trail upward, sees me and hesitates to even stutter a no.

“Get me down or die with the rest of them.”

And like clockwork It moves. Why IT jumped on Alex McCoy as the first order of business, could be rationalized as the pure expression of a deep-seated grudge or the sheer coincidence of being the closest warm body to a soul eating monster, historians can decide, but as far I was concerned “it was better him than me” when it found Alex first.  Alex whispered “Jill” as he cried, tears flowing for a friend he just lost, the realization not quite hitting him but the gravity weighing all the same. It was the same for all of them, seeing Jill tightening her fingers around Alex’s shoulders, her green eyes reflecting a slight sickish hue. Only Alex could see what I knew was there; the hollowness beyond her facade, the IT that was barely contained, withering in places that shouldn’t move.  And when doom visited him, I mean finally dawned on him the nature of the creature he helped summon 18 years ago, he screamed. Not for help. Or for pain. But a torture keen to only the most basic senses in the human brain that still remains after years of surviving the hell of post-Jurassic. The sound of every cell wishing to do one thing, one basic thing and being denied the chance long before the understanding of the need. So he defecated himself, and twisted and thrashed and tried to escape the tiny grip of the hungry alien for all of one second-

“Crrrrrck”

Most children have tried, unsuccessful, to pull the head off a pez dispenser by yanking at it from the chin. But that method, with proper amount of superhuman  strength, is indeed sound. First the head is yanked back hard, the neck elongates before flesh and muscle cords snap at the seams. The sickening crack of bone is heard, as the spine is being snapped at the base, followed by a slosh of blood gushing forth like a shaken soda bottle.  When the child is done she merely toss the head against the nearest wall like a wet wash cloth before letting out a howl of ecstasy. Pure hunger  takes over as she unhinges a human jaw much like a snakes, and dives into the blood stump.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, and it rips an arm off from its socket to get a better grip of the mid section. Working its teeth and snapping jaws against and through tough muscles and cracking bones. Where it comes from there is no elegance is feeding on souls, no high pitch sucking noises or firm laying on hands. No Shang Tsung declaring your soul is mine. Just keep chewing and ripping at flesh until the belly is satisfied. This can be considered primordial, ritualistic, or just plain evil, pick your adjective, either way no person looking at this thing rip and spit out gobs of flesh and organs, face nose deep in blood, the clicks of its teeth mashing up fat and gristle…returns sane. And there was no escape. Even though John was the first to try.

“JOHN!” damn these chains,” You can’t run from it, it knows where you live, that you have kids, and even how your going to defend them. You have a piece of it inside you John! How do you think this will end!? I’m the only one here that can stop it, the only one here that its afraid of!”

Coincidence would have it he had the keys on his person (and that was a good measure of luck right there) and freed me promptly, being the only hope and all. I put a hand on his shoulder to show thanks.

“Took you long enough.” before sliding my palm under his chin and snapping his neck in savage disgust.

I only heard the shack doors slap close as Joey and Katherine ran out screaming. If I was in a generic action flick I’d menacingly call out “it’s just you and me” while pointlessly circling the room. I bite down the cliché’ and focus on the task at hand; my dagger, my three wards, and two curse items are call to me by me via the soft magic of displacement theory. Taking an item and re-materializing it to a very specific location is only intrinsically hard if you not particularly careful about details of the item or where exactly in space-time its going. You have to call by value not reference, and it takes much practice to do the former because the human brain likes to do some things by the latter . Otherwise I would be summoning a new copy of all my essentials from an alternate reality…and I’m too much of a fan of the original article thank you.

The daemon formerly known as Jill looked up at me the way a cat does when you interrupt it enjoying a fish stick, backed away slowly as I approached, looked around the shack as I advanced before giving the ceiling a quick eye.

“Rumor has it that your only half-Atlantian.”

“Whats your point?”

It chuckles, “Maybe we can end this game, I go my way you go yours. The real monsters are the human’s your letting escape.

Their engines barely make a sound but the slamming of their car doors grabs my attention for a second, a second enough for It to escape. Not on foot mind you but through Jill’s mouth, as the daemon drags its being into the shadows, leaving his meat suit to drop carelessly on the floor.

“Fuck.”

I scramble for the fleeing necromancers, their tail lights blaring as they speed into the open road.

“NOT FUCKING TEXAS!”

In my rage I channel a more serious form of magic, the art of probability, with the help of two cursed items, both red rubies that aren’t set to expire and anytime soon, one of which is holding the soul of a former meth dealer. Probability is relatively difficult because you’re never quite sure how far you need to manipulate the matrices to achieve the desired effect, and considering the effect only when casting can be rather lethal…to you, so its best to be prudent before letting the magic run wild (because there is no call backs once you hit the negative). Probability can be pushed up or down per set margins or given a sum to work out the difference, for me I just wanted their cars to break down, a sum based cast basically, which was the easier of the two options. The latter of which would be the untimely death of two healthy 30 somethings, speeding away in opposite directions in the middle of nowhere.

Quick thinking on my party determines which is most likely to end badly.

Joey’s car breaks first, a sports car running at triple digits, barely a speck in the horizon, the hood bursts into blue flames and acrid smoke, he hard swerves as the engine dies and his breaks fail. His crash is a series of hard skids, followed by a hard stop somewhere in horizon.

Katherine’s Chevy on the other hand caused a sharp pain in my chest before its front wheels snapped cleaned from its axle, slamming the front bumper hard against the open road. One of my dear rubies burned out and I traded the difference with one less month of old age, not a fair trade really and its going to take a minute for my breathing to regulate itself. But I’m calm enough for whats going to happen next as I step out into the middle of the road, Katherine’s car well in my sites. As expected she stumbles out from her unexpected crash, haven’t not bothered to wear a seat belt she is far more dazed and confused than she otherwise would be. Which means the following would be relatively painless, as my knife breaks past her spine and finds her heart before reappearing in my hand in a blur.

“One down.”

Displacement was only used in the return trip; actually placing a foreign object into a human body or any solid construct violates Pauli exclusion principle, which basically states that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. Granted it is a rather simple and effective way to murder someone, its best not used when you actually want the object back. For all intent and purposes all natural laws can be violated, however not all natural laws should be violated, which is the fundamental difference between a good necromancer, a bad necromancer, and a dead necromancer.

And I clearly intend to be a good one as I find Joey’s car hugging a welcome to sign. I see smoke, I see blood, I open car door, but no Joestar. I kneel to touch the blackening ichor, rubbing its warmth against my index and middle finger and following the trail into the tall grass. I smile and turn around, catching the brunt of a tire iron with my forearm. The pain is numbing but bearable. Joey however is breathing heavy and ragged, half weak, half exhausted from the crash. He’s nursing a few chest injuries and a dire need for aspirin. When I grab and pull down his only weapon, he nearly yanks it from my grip with a surprise amount of upper body strength.

End this fast.

So I stab him quarter to center but not deep; he checks my elbow and shoves his forehead into my face. I go down flat as he climbs on top, bringing the iron down as he holds my knife hand by the wrist. Two good shots is all he needs for me to nearly lose consciousness, only a gasp of air separates me from a shatter skull, as everything goes into a mumbled blur of sky, gray and red. Even in a situation like this nothing slows down, everything moves at the same time with no concept of before or after, especially decisions; I reach for a nearby rock, grasping it in my left hand, before hearing the thunk of it disappearing from my clutches and reappearing somewhere inside Joey’s skull. With a gasp his eyes fell back and his mouth hanged open, blood drooling out his eyes and nose from the aneurysm, before he started convulsing in seizures. Pushing him aside, I watched him thrash and gargle non-words before finally deciding what to do with his entrails.

And Yes this will be edited

                                                                 

1 Comment

Filed under The Boy King

Chapter 5

“Primed and ready!”

The first bug dies in a burst of napalm.

“Not enough”

Is there hope? No room for gambling, since the odds are already less than zero. No, as long as I’m not downwind I can keep the odds at zero … of course I’m covered in swarmling blood, feces, and other material … so it probably makes no difference. But who cares.

So a bug approaches low from the corner of my eye. I lunge at him; first smashing it under the forward momentum of my goliath armor before rolling to my feet in an instant to burst down, one bug, three bugs, twelve bugs in time to turn around and roast two dozen more. Not enough; the explosions attract more bugs, the corpses attract more bugs, I attract more bugs. How long ‘til I’m swarmed?

Am I in hell? The demons don’t care. Brother, sister, living, dead? Eat, attack, lung, gorge, buffet their stomachs until their wings are forced to unfold. It makes no difference: one blind sides the other, and buries its face into the loser’s underbelly, chewing and ripping its way inside. The loser fights back, smashing his assailant’s head three times with its claw and cracking its armored back, but it makes no difference. Natural selection in full display and we evolved from this? The ones I cut with the sword become food to his brother; the ones I burn with the torch are feasted on by his sister. I’m chest high in death and goo, as the wanderers and the curious come at me by the hundreds and soon thousands.

No escape. I duck under the leap of a swarmling, cutting it in half as I twist away from his raining organs. I recognize one heart in the mix – funny what you notice in crisis situations – before I bash the nozzle of my II into the gaping mouth of a fast-approaching swarmling. My timing’s unreal! As it tugs at the metal, I shove the barrel deeper into its mouth and swing the creature into his brothers, who take no notice of him as he is quickly trampled under the weight of the armored sea. The swarmling I just cut in half gets beset on by his brothers as it struggles to regain some sort of balance. And the battle moves as I move, forward and away, but never far enough.

The fight goes until the ground is soppy with the lickerish they call blood. It sizzles and pops with each release of napalm. Swarmling blood at boiling point releases gasses that rapidly expand the swarmling’s body until the pressure becomes unbearable for the rigid insect body. This process is aided by the four hearts that pump blood into the swarmling’s seven foot body at extraordinary speeds, a necessity to keep all of the organs and extra organs filled with nutrients and the keep the muscles oxygenated.

One bug rears up on four legs, allowing his other four to act as claws capable of punching dents into the pride and joy of human war engineering. I could already see the complaint form I would file as I dodge the first swing with a step back, twist around to let the swarmling behind me lunge at my attacker, and then watch them tackle and fight each other as they suddenly found better things to eat. I lit the dueling pair on fire as one finally got the advantage over the other after a 0.512 second life-and-death duel that saw the loss of 3 limbs, the snapping of one mandible, and multiple puncture wounds that must have caused the failure of four to five important organs.

“Endless.” I cut down three swarmlings in a frenzy of haphazard swordsmanship.

“Axe-Hand,” the name of a Samson I’ve gotten to know since my 10 years of being assigned to the 122nd mixed infantry, “Why do you insist on taking melee weapons when range combat is safer and more effective?”

He looks at me and shrugs, “Well, when your tech boys invent a gun that doesn’t run out of ammo, I’ll leave my axe at home.”

I rip a female swarmling from her head to egg-sack; some eggs are large enough to hatch, pop, and spill out into the ground, some crack on impact, while others bounce. I take a moment to step on one, taking note of how hard they become when exposed to fresh air. The Sword of David, or SoW, sizzles with the blood of the slain. I drip sweat despite the suit’s best efforts to keep me cool. My vision takes a lapse as my conscious slips for a precious moment. I feel the sudden weight of a swarmling, I shrug it off, another swarmling, I knock it aside, I stumble forward feeling dehydrated for the first time in my life.

Too much! The smell alone; of the living, the dead, and the burning, is too much! Oh mercy, if anything was to kill me right now it would have to be whatever manages to seep through the air filter. The smells are poignant even to my soul. Of all the creatures on God’s green earth, the cockroach, despite its order in the food chain, is the one insect that elicit the most hatred. And now I see why as I smash one with a back hand swipe of my sword hand. It stumbles without a head, but turns toward me despite having no eyes to see, and claws with every limb. I shove the sword inside its mid-section and let the blade rip out its side, effectively folding the creature’s carcass upon itself. I take another backhanded swipe as something approaches from behind, it’s cleaved in two with no effort, I choke on bile as its inwards spill mere inches from face.

But carnage doesn’t stop and neither will I. With a turn I let a cartridge of napalm go before doing an odd one-handed reload procedure that required me to hook the II between my shoulder-blade and elbow, swipe a fresh cartridge, and jam it in when I let the Industrial Incinerator fall. How I manage to do that while on the run I have no idea, but I burst down a group of swarmlings before they approach within 50 yards of me and twist sideways to torch a flanking party without missing a beat.

I dive and roll to send a few bugs sailing over me, experience with humanoids must have taught them to aim for the chest. Or to be more exact, “experience” is more like the genetic memory of the ones that survived long enough to breed. I wonder what this experience will teach them. It’s probably not the fear of fire. I press and swing the flamethrower into mob, blood and liquefied guts shortly follow. I take a step and meet a swarmling, I cut it down, avoiding its claws as it twitches, and nearly step into the fury of another bug before I incinerate it out of frustration. “Too many!” and I’m exhausting my supply of napalm. I could have insisted on getting some smokers or mountain poppers, but I only managed a SoW because they forgot to remove it from the scabbard.

“Think!” I look around, forcing my eyes to see past the smoke and my own tears to see the chaos unfolding before me. I see a vision of hell; of chaos and death eating death, raping death, and spilling forth more death. I won’t sleep after this; if I survive, I simply won’t sleep. Who thinks of rest in this vision of hell? When life is obscenity that causes the eyes to bleed? But here stands the reaper man armed with lance and fire, surrounded by smoke and abominations, baked in the blood of the profane things. The smell dries and drips down the naval cavity, allowing me to taste hell.

“Enough!” As my adrenaline levels spike, letting the heart explode while everything becomes a blur of red and orange, black and yellow, screeches and roars, both human and demonic. Hell burns and I step through the carnage into the bosom of more beast. Why don’t the demons flee before the reaper man? The question taunts a response from hell’s denizens; they collapse on me from all sides, mandible click and chip at steel, both arms are trapped before the tide that sweeps away forty tons of war machine.

But who am I if not the reaper man? They meet fire, if only for a second, before the cartridge ejects; but I’m not defenseless. One meets my elbow as I pull out the fresh catch of napalm while another meets the back of my right hand. They attack from all sides and there is no end to this sea of black in site. The swarm is focusing on me now; the dozens is now hundreds and soon thousands.

“Come try to eat me demons!” because it’s reassuring to shout at things that don’t speak English. They come at me in one push, but I’m ready this time and lunge into them like 40 tons of inedible space hull approved steel. Their bodies of flesh and fat shatter under my weight; the armor that evolved to handle the hardest blows any living creature is capable of producing splinters like dried wood.

I drive my SoW into a swarmling before it can rear itself up to my height, disarming myself for a second to reach for another cartridge. I twist with my hips to avoid one lunge before shattering the exoskeleton of another attacking swarmling with my right knee, snapping three mandibles off the face and driving the fourth into what’s left of its compound eye.

I catch a shallow breath before driving my elbow into the mid-section of another bug, knocking it off-balance, as I pull the cartridge out of my ammo pouch, only to hammer the same fist into the face of a diving swarmling, sending it sprawling.

I even bash my head into swarmling just as it rears up to claw at me, forcing its body to cave inward due to the pressure, while I complete my reload. I dive to ground, rolling past and under swarmlings as they dive for me, before resting at the spot where I left my sword. I clenching it with my left hand; I spray the fire of man into the crowd, scorching the blood soaked ground along the way.

“Primed and ready!” The SoW rips through three swarmlings in one swift horizontal slash that parts mid-sections, heads, and legs from body. I twist and high-step to avoid being weighed down by the bugs. I wade through them with fire, and check my six with blade in hand. The barely living that I leave behind crawl desperately to their next meal before being eaten by healthy and hungry; the cannibalism won’t stop! Even I’m just another swarmling to them. Baking in their stench for god knows how long now … some have probably tried to mate with me …

Then that thought goes away with one thrust of my SoW. The bug is skewered from the side, I lift and toss him as he screeches, his brood devours him before he meets the ground. I have to keep moving, but hell seems to have no exit. The nest is stupidly large, the mounds seem to go on and on for miles. God help me, I’m going to die here.

I let out a jet stream of napalm, making sure to cover a wide area, as the bugs come dangerously close to surrounding me before letting go of the trigger at the worst possible second. Before I can raise a hand, a swarmling comes and nearly tears my overworked helmet from head with a quick swipe of his front claws. I only manage to twist my head in time to avoid his blade embedding itself into my visor. The crack impairs my vision for a second as I stumble in wake of the hit. I flail the II frantically to ward off the approaching swarm while my sword hand zims and zips through empty air. I get my bearings in a breath before a swarmling latches itself onto my back. I twist and turn violently in the hopes of shaking it off, but its legs are wrapped tightly around me in full embrace.

In rage I break three legs to no effect. It pecks and rams its head against my helmet in a vain attempt to find an opening. But that’s not entirely true there is a self release button around the back of the neck…

And that’s when I took a running leap into the air twisting myself mid-air in order to land squarely on my back. Smashed beneath my goliath armor lays the one swarmling that made me piss my pants. I roll and push myself up to my feet, thanking whatever divine providence saw fit to allow me to get up unmolested, before coming face-to-face with a swarmling’s moving mouth parts. Two pairs of mandibles click to my helmet as it attempts to pull me down.

“Oh look, we’re kissing!” I land an uppercut with my sword hand that ruptured it so fast into the air that it forgets to take its lips with it. With callouse efficieny swing through four and burn down several dozen in a long screeching ark of fierier death in my rage.

“Not any closer …” then I notice a ridge not so far away from where I’m currently standing and compel myself forward two meters in an outburst of joy.

“How did I miss that little detail when I looked over the Swarms’ nest? Was I heading for it the entire time? Does it matter?”

“Say goodbye to the reaper.” Then I notice a mound’s worth of swarmlings moving in unison; ignoring their imperative to eat each other in the face of a meal that smells like mother of all meals – me.

3 Comments

Filed under Story of a David

Chapter 1

“Murderer,” they mutter. Some whisper as if saying the word too loud will spread some airborne disease. Maybe it will; in the countless centuries or maybe even millennia since the ARK ships floated in the dead womb of space, we Patriarchs– or whatever form of government that established order before– never had to proceed over a murder. Even to my own ears – the accused, the guilty – the word seems so … alien… yes, alien would be right word to describe it. The act by itself; the 40 millimeter bolter round to the chest, leaving a hole you can stick your hand through and a mess that is still being cleaned up to two weeks later ….that felt all too familiar. Primal even, which makes this mummers farce of a trial even more annoying, but a trial they must have. A swift execution maybe? Was that what I was walking all too swiftly to? Is that what all my brothers, sisters, and fellow Patriarchs came to see?

I turn the corner. The curious eyes end as I walk into the central command cathedral. The new eyes are hard and stern and belonging to the Wise Men. Though all Patriarchs have a say in our government, it is the Wise Men who set the topics that we vote on if the matter requires one. Increasingly, more matters seem too small to bother the larger body of Patriarchs; details that haven’t been missed by most Patriarchs, but haven’t caused much protest– yet.

“We should close the whole department.”

“To what end?”

“Are you mad? We are in the middle of war.”

“The end of a war; the Samsons are efficient enough to suffer the burden of this conflict without spoiling the minds of Patriarchs with this bloody business.”

“The Samsons will win us the war, sure. But soldiers need commanders.”

“Bugger the Samsons, we can settle this decisively from the comfort of our seats.”

“And we ruin the only inhabitable planet in the Milky Way?”

Arthur Dreadfoot’s last words ended the debate before it truly began. I heard these arguments before – the longer versions – but in the end Noah has always been the necessary evil that holds our war for Earth together. But to what end? Awe, I’m afraid I won’t be here long enough to find out though as the room stands at attention when the oldest of the Wise Men take their seats. A smile crosses my face as I watch our forerunners take their rightful seats of honor amongst us. Seats made during the lesser generations, before Patriarchs numbers swelled. The True Men, or Adams, are the first to enter the cryo and are the ones that remembered when our ARKs hobbled along space, maintained by the unlearned masses too stupid to read and write let alone maintain the very systems that allow us to breathe. It is a wonder how we managed to stay alive in the countless centuries before a true Patriarch system was maintained.

Being tried by such men is too much of honor. I bend the knee out of respect and disgrace, my sin feels less natural and I less smug.

“Patriarch David Matchworth, 92nd Noah Commander of the 122nd Samson mix infantry, you stand accused of the brutal slaying of Patriarch Kevin Steward of the Library of Earth Natural Archive and History, using standard-issue Goliath Slayer …” kicked like a bitch without plate armor to absorb the shock, “… death by gunshot wound through the chest. Do you plead guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Can you speak of the motive, if any, for this senseless crime?”

“For the good of all things holy, decent, and human”

“Elaborate.”

I take note of the speaker. She doesn’t look past the age of 40, but those eyes, those eyes told a different tale. A thousand years? Maybe two? Inhumanly old and sure, not hard, not cold, or even judgmental; just sure that I am wrong and she is right– not opinion, but straight fact. I hated those eyes, but understood the logic behind them. Too old; I am 217 years old, six cryo’s and one of them a long cryo at least by the standard of someone my age and rank. Are her eyes my fate as well?

“He wished to communicate with the godless demons below.” I nearly croak. I forced my voice to come out sure and true; the first lesson I learned 205 years ago when I was learning the basis of Newtonian physics– no one believes a shaking, stuttering voice and I have taken that lesson to heart; even now where most men will break into tears under the eyes of the Wise Men or in the presence of an Adam.

“A Patriarch attempting to communicate with the savages on the surface!? Are we to believe this madness? Should we give you a medal for your bravery?”

She mocks me.

“If you had knowledge of Patriarch Kevin Steward’s intentions to travel to the surface with such a foolish idea, why didn’t you simply report to us?”

He accuses me.

“He was stealing a shuttle.”

I silence them for a moment, though not a long one.

“Then arrest him. Surely a man of your prowess can subdue an untrained man in single combat?”

“My martial prowess doesn’t grant me superhuman facilities, especially without armor. It was a split-second decision to kill him before he closed the door, as the place you found Patriarch Kevin’s body should attest to.”

“Who goes patrolling the ARKs hangar with a loaded Goliath Slayer? Did you recently become a David?”

“I was coming from the target range when I saw Patriarch Kevin moving toward the hanger bay, so I followed him until I could ascertain his purpose.”

“So you stalked him with a loaded weapon until you found a good place to dispose of him with minimal witnesses.”

“I confessed to the murder.”

“A whole day after you committed the crime.”

“I was in shock,” a lie, “our people haven’t killed our own since …”

“Enough. If you knew of Patriarch Kevin’s intentions you should have told us first, obviously you knew his plans beforehand or else you wouldn’t have followed him. You also felt he was serious enough to actually commit the folly or his trip near the hanger bay wouldn’t have raised alarms. So why didn’t you make the obvious choice, if that was the real reason to have killed Patriarch Kevin in cold blood?”

The truth is, Kevin wasn’t alone in this fool hardy plan, but he was the one who voiced his opinion to me, believing that laughing together 200 years ago was going to earn sympathy for his cause. He wanted me to come with him. Even when I pointed the gun inches from his chest, he still argued for his “humane” approach to this conflict. Conquest was a bloody business, we all knew that, but with the Samsons, well, we didn’t have to know firsthand how bloody it can be. Maybe if we did, we wouldn’t be so quick to exterminate all of the works of the Scientist with such zeal. Kevin argued a point that anyone in Noah knew already, but only mattered when we judged the difficulty of a campaign. We all knew that they were intelligent, as he often pointed out. Sentient species occupy the surface of our motherland, not mindless beasts that should provoke no more sympathy than a cow being maimed for beef. The ‘gifts’ the Scientist left behind to inherent the Earth are but distorted versions of what used to be humble animals we learned about in Earth biological history. But Kevin … he believed that these creatures were redeemable. The bugs, no, he agreed they must die, but what crawled with two legs instead of six could be reasoned with.

So what did I do when my friend of 200 years past decided that he must steal a shuttle and travel to the surface to “come in peace,” taking with him whatever experimental devices he could smuggle to help translate the clicks and growls considered a language by the savages below? What did I do when he waved away the danger of presenting our technology to the aliens? When he waved away the idea of presenting this plan to the Wise Men so they can give him an armed escort and contingency plan, in case something inevitably goes wrong – “when you get careless,” I remember pointing out. Oh yes, I could have brought him before the Wise Men and they would have laughed and hollered about the foolishness of this “mission.” They may even convince Kevin to concede his point, no doubt, letting him go to his own quarters, thinking all is well, dropping their guard, my guard.

And that wasn’t going to happen. It was treason, against the state, against humanity, against all god-fearing creatures still alive in this cold dead universe. They may say and rightly that the study of the martial, of war and its history, has awakened some deep primal desire for blood mayhem that encompassed much of our early history as humans young in this universe. That the Davids were irredeemable men too filled with blood-lust to rejoin a humanity that survived the emptiness of space for millennia without spilling a drop of blood. Noah will probably be broken down and its memory left only to archives, and that may be for the ultimate good of mankind.

Once the war is over.

But when there is a war, a war that demands the sacrifice of faceless soldiers who are bred for battle and nothing else, then why should we Patriarchs risk the balance between victory and defeat by endangering our one advantage against the demons endless numbers? What right did Kevin have to risk undoing the work of countless men never to have children or live past the age of 30? Rights even the masses that waste space on the ARK ships are afforded, even though all they do for the betterment of mankind is empty their bowels in the designated holes and pop more screaming mouths to feed.

“I’ll take your silence as proof of your guilt. That you committed your crime in cold blood with no just cause.”

I keep my silence; truly what else is there to say? The fools would have never tried Kevin for treason, even if one of the Adams was among their number!

“It is by our right, for the betterment of mankind and the future of humanity, to punish you in proportion to your crimes.”

“However,” a different voice takes over, a grey hair sitting above ageless black eyes. A face that was once dark brown is now a shallow brown leaning to a type of grey because of all the years in artificial lighting. He almost looks his age, if the human lifespan elongated unnaturally over a period of a thousand plus years could even be remotely represented in the long grim face of this man.

“The normal precedent for your crime would not satisfy this court. Life internment would just waste the valuable time of a Patriarch, and no doubt a man of your cunning could easily gull a commoner into slacking his guard just enough to allow your escape, if a commoner could be trusted with such an important task. Some Wise Men suggest we use a Samson for your guard … that is unwise. There is also a matter of what cell would we waste to keep you? Hmm, truly there is a dark corner somewhere on this ship unsuitable for even a commoner to live in. But I ask of you here, my fellow Wise Men, should we debase ourselves to subjecting a Patriarch to inhumane conditions?”

I watch the heads shake in silence, some more bitter about agreeing with the grey Adam than others.

“Nevertheless, there is a precedent to be set here; if imprisonment is not practical, should we partake in your sin Patriarch David Matchworth? Murder one of our own? Find a humane way to end your sin? By our hand I think not. I say nay, we leave your fate to the sword, as you lived by. For killing a man, a Patriarch, not in war, or defense, but in cold blood, with gun in one hand and sword in your heart, this council banishes you to the surface,  to spend the rest of your days amongst the godless and abominations. We grant you the rank of David, a rank of honor given to Patriarchs that wish to face the enemy with pistol and lance in hand. You will meet the surface as a David in Goliath armor, armed with the holy flames of napalm with two tanks to sustain your wrath. Understand that this is a mercy, afforded to you by a merciful court that heard your arguments and pleas and judged righteously. When you die by the hands of creatures as abominable as your sin, do know that even your death is an honor, for you to die as a David, and that your soul is cleansed, as you slay the demons of mankind with flame and steel. “

“Any last word before the court, Patriarch David Matchworth?”

“Oh joy.”

11 Comments

Filed under Story of a David