New Beginnings
Voting and Critique
And so ends the submission process of New Beginnings, and thus begins...the voting!
I encourage everyone that cares about the Contests(and if you don't already, I encourage you to begin now) to read through all of the wonderful entries submitted in the past two weeks, and cast their vote for their favorite! The submission with the most votes will be posted in a stickied "Trophy Case" thread where it will be displayed for all to see, and its author added to the list of Meritorious Writers at the very top!
Of course, this thread is also for critiquing. Note I said critiquing, not shitslinging. Constructive criticism only, please. Feel free to go through any one or all of the entries and give you two cents in helping your fellow writers improve! Those that have entered this contest are absolutely allowed to critique each others' works, though voting is not allowed.
Needless to say, using multiple accounts to vote more than once is NOT ALLOWED, and if an author uses alts to vote for their own work, they will be disqualified on the spot and disbarred from entering any future Contests.
Please vote based on the merits of the work, not for the sake of a clique or just because the author happens to be your friend. And mostly certainly do not attempt to have an author falsely disqualified because you don't happen to like them, because I'll fucking find out and it won't be pretty.
So, here’s the thing; I’m not used to telling stories, especially my story. It’s not much. Just a story of redemption and change. A story of new beginnings. Of how I went from a very bad man to a hero.
Nah, not really.
My name is Axel Blacksoul, and, as of two days ago, I was the edgiest edgelord on the wrong side of town. My heart was a black hole of self-loathing and hate. My mind was a pit of despair and rage. I lived in a rat’s nest by myself, with nothing but a mattress to sleep on. I didn’t need to eat. My body was fueled entirely by self-loathing and misery. I didn’t communicate with anyone except the evil voice in my head, who told me to do things. Awful things. Puppy-stomping things.
That’s right. I used to stomp puppies.
It wasn’t a great job, but it had to be done. As long as there are two puppies in this world, one of them is going to need to be stomped on, and I was the meanest, toughest puppy-stomper of them all. No puppy was too cute to not be stomped. If someone needed a puppy stomped, I was the one they called. But it was worse than that. At first, I did it for the money (there’s good money in puppy stomping), but soon it became an obsession. It sustained me. Kept me alive.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Axel is some kind of monster, right? No one could ever stomp a puppy on purpose. But that’s where you’re wrong. You just have to let go of the horrible lie that any good exists in the world and accept that the only things worth doing are evil. It’s a whole new level of edginess that only the blackest of souls can reach, but it’s there. If you were as twisted up as I was, you’d understand. At the time, it just…made sense. I wore black leather boots, and I wasn’t having a good day unless a puppy was under one of them.
But something happened yesterday. I was sitting in my room, in the dark, engulfed in wretchedness, when the evil voice said “Hey, you know how you stomp puppies?”
“Yeah. It’s what I do,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“Well,” the voice said, “What if you didn’t stomp puppies?”
“I have to stomp puppies,” I snarled, suddenly enraged. I threw the cigarette on the floor and crushed it with my leather boot.
“No, you really don’t,” said the voice.
“But it’s what I do. It’s what you TOLD me to do. YOU wanted me to stomp the puppies,” I growled in frustration, lighting another cigarette.
“Yeah, and I’m having second thoughts. I was expecting it to be a one-time thing, but it’s gotten a little out of hand.”
“What else is there to do besides stomp puppies?” I cried into the darkness, the bitterness in my soul clawing against my mind. I threw the second cigarette down and crushed it even harder that the first one.
“Literally anything else. Just stop stomping puppies. It’s actually starting to creep me out, and I’m an evil voice.”
Well, I never could win an argument with the evil voice, so that’s when everything changed. And by “everything,” I just mean the puppy stomping thing. I’m still the edgiest edgelord on the wrong side of town, I still don’t communicate with real people, and I still spend every night in torments and anguish. I’m still pretty twisted up and can’t see anything good in this world, but hey, you can’t just let the name “Axel Blacksoul” go to waste, and there’s something special about being on a whole new level of edginess. The important thing is, I’m not stomping puppies anymore. There’s been a real change in my life, and now I have something else to sustain me.
Kicking orphans.
There’s good money in that too.
Nah, not really.
My name is Axel Blacksoul, and, as of two days ago, I was the edgiest edgelord on the wrong side of town. My heart was a black hole of self-loathing and hate. My mind was a pit of despair and rage. I lived in a rat’s nest by myself, with nothing but a mattress to sleep on. I didn’t need to eat. My body was fueled entirely by self-loathing and misery. I didn’t communicate with anyone except the evil voice in my head, who told me to do things. Awful things. Puppy-stomping things.
That’s right. I used to stomp puppies.
It wasn’t a great job, but it had to be done. As long as there are two puppies in this world, one of them is going to need to be stomped on, and I was the meanest, toughest puppy-stomper of them all. No puppy was too cute to not be stomped. If someone needed a puppy stomped, I was the one they called. But it was worse than that. At first, I did it for the money (there’s good money in puppy stomping), but soon it became an obsession. It sustained me. Kept me alive.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Axel is some kind of monster, right? No one could ever stomp a puppy on purpose. But that’s where you’re wrong. You just have to let go of the horrible lie that any good exists in the world and accept that the only things worth doing are evil. It’s a whole new level of edginess that only the blackest of souls can reach, but it’s there. If you were as twisted up as I was, you’d understand. At the time, it just…made sense. I wore black leather boots, and I wasn’t having a good day unless a puppy was under one of them.
But something happened yesterday. I was sitting in my room, in the dark, engulfed in wretchedness, when the evil voice said “Hey, you know how you stomp puppies?”
“Yeah. It’s what I do,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“Well,” the voice said, “What if you didn’t stomp puppies?”
“I have to stomp puppies,” I snarled, suddenly enraged. I threw the cigarette on the floor and crushed it with my leather boot.
“No, you really don’t,” said the voice.
“But it’s what I do. It’s what you TOLD me to do. YOU wanted me to stomp the puppies,” I growled in frustration, lighting another cigarette.
“Yeah, and I’m having second thoughts. I was expecting it to be a one-time thing, but it’s gotten a little out of hand.”
“What else is there to do besides stomp puppies?” I cried into the darkness, the bitterness in my soul clawing against my mind. I threw the second cigarette down and crushed it even harder that the first one.
“Literally anything else. Just stop stomping puppies. It’s actually starting to creep me out, and I’m an evil voice.”
Well, I never could win an argument with the evil voice, so that’s when everything changed. And by “everything,” I just mean the puppy stomping thing. I’m still the edgiest edgelord on the wrong side of town, I still don’t communicate with real people, and I still spend every night in torments and anguish. I’m still pretty twisted up and can’t see anything good in this world, but hey, you can’t just let the name “Axel Blacksoul” go to waste, and there’s something special about being on a whole new level of edginess. The important thing is, I’m not stomping puppies anymore. There’s been a real change in my life, and now I have something else to sustain me.
Kicking orphans.
There’s good money in that too.
“I hear you’ve been doing some jobs again,” he said casually, his voice crackling and soft as cigar smoke.
“Yeah, I figured I could use the cash what with times being what they are,” the reply came, practiced and even with just the right amount of plausibility.
“Your dad’s been looking for you. Said you were getting into the wrong sort of trouble kid.”
“Only one kind of trouble old man, and I ain’t in it.”
“That a fact?” The question went unanswered for a time, while cold spirits went down and the old ghosts came up.
“Kid, you’re in over your head.”
“Like hell I am.” A distant roar of thunder punctuated his retort. Rain pattered on the roof of the bar, and the sound of the door ringing behind them was as raucous a noise as the bar had seen all night. Thump of boots. A seat taken by a leather jacket. Murmured order, followed by brisk service.
“That fella’s got some height on you, I’d say you’re in over your head.”
“He’s not here for me.”
“How can you tell?” A long silence accompanied this question, of a different kind than the first. The rain fell harder, and flashes of lightning illuminated the face of a man betrayed.
“Because he’s here for you, old man.” The whiskey ran smooth, and the tempest outside masked the storm inside the bar. The kid got up to leave, and when he did he placed his due and then some on the counter. “Job’s done, I ‘spect that’ll be plenty to cover the damages. You never saw me.”
“They’ll come for you too someday.” That crackling voice couldn’t mask the panic well.
“Let them,” the kid said, voice dripping with arrogance. “I’ll always be ready.”
And then the kid walked out of the bar into the tempest. The storm he left in his wake made the wind and rain look like an old man spitting in his own face.
Alder sat on the porch of the small one-story house, pipe in hand, puffing away. It was only 5:10 AM and he couldn’t sleep. Sun was rising though, and as he felt its warmth the superficial chill on his skin lessened. Chill in his bones felt colder than ever, but that sort of thing couldn’t be helped. Not when you were lucky enough to wake up most mornings, to pull yourself out of bed, grimace at your ugly reflection in the mirror, and then go outside to think your thoughts.
Alder switched hands with his pipe, scratching his face idly as he looked out on the valley. His cavernous, line-strewn face, so riddled with wrinkles that his scars almost hid between the folds. Almost. Alder took a pull, and breathed out long and quiet. He’d not spoken a word in years, even as he kept right on with the thinking. It got hard sometimes, when Alder couldn’t hear himself think above the gunfire, the screams, the sounds of rending flesh and spurting blood and sizzling…
Pipe done and smoked, Alder got to his feet and went to work. His workshop lay just adjacent to his little house, the barn style doors opened just a crack, padlock strewn on the ground nearby.
Unsurprising, Alder often drank late into the evening and forgot to lock up. He went in without bothering to close the door, and started to set his work station in order. It didn’t take too long, since he was the only one out here, and there was only so much disorder a single man could cause. He was able to put everything back in its proper place in no time, and then he sighed. Living all by himself way out here was peaceful, but not very energetic. That was fine and good for an old man like Alder, and as he picked out a chunk of butternut he contemplated his own bemusement at that. That a man of his violent past should find this tranquility to suit him so well smacked of an ironic jab.
Alder didn’t ply his craft in the workshop. He hadn’t been apprenticed to a master carpenter as a boy, had never taken any formal classes in woodworking, hadn’t even ever really seen any fine wood pieces for the better part of his life. Alder’s hands worked the butternut, running with the grain of the wood running against the grain of Alder’s being. Or maybe not. It was true he hadn’t been at this so long, but his numerous pieces lining the workshop’s shelves attested to Alder’s persistence in this of all things. He examined them from his stool, remembering the experience of carving each one.
The first piece was more of an object lesson in how far Alder had come, than anything else. A sharp, crooked piece barely resembling the intended product, all the cuts were angry and angular, most against the grain and trying to rip through the wood into the soul of what he had wanted to make at that time.
Many gradually improving pieces later, came the first good piece. A fox, its form distinct, smooth, and competently formed. There were crooked lines one could spot, and imperfections too, but the theme of the piece came together in a unified concept. Alder wasn’t some sort of artistic expert, but he’d say that the sly fox of his was where his competency finally matched his vision. Many pieces came after the fox, each one more or less as he’d set out to create them.
Today Alder felt different. When he ran his hands over the butternut wood, all cleaned and ready to be shaped, the form came to him. Just like that. Alder bowed his head, and began to carve. He opened his eyes from time to time, to ascertain just where exactly a line should end, or to make certain he didn’t cut himself like a damn fool, but for the most part he bowed his head, breathed in and out, and carved. The sounds of the birds in the trees seeped in from outside, and soon enough even with Alder’s eyes closed, an almost divine light shone in and filled his vision with gold rather than darkness. He heard nothing but the songs, smelled nothing but wood sealant, felt nothing but the soft grain under the pads of his fingertips.
A crash from the back of Alder’s workshop rang out.
“Fuck,” A voice cursed quietly, coming from the same area as the sudden noise. Alder’s hand slipped, his focus broken. He opened his eyes and frowned. He’d cut himself by mistake. A few droplets of blood marred the otherwise beautiful figure that Alder’s own hands had carved. He got up abruptly, provoking more startled noises and sounds from the corner of his workshop. Alder went over to one of his worktables and got a rag to soak up the blood. He only lightly dabbed and otherwise let the fabric do its work. Relieved that no stain remained, Alder finally attended to his wound. There were bandages in the cabinet above him. He reached up and looked inside. To his dismay, the first-aid kit was missing. He realized he now probably knew where it resided, but as he turned to go and confront the intruder-
BANG!
The figure that Alder had carved fell to the workshop’s floor, landing on its side. Feet quickly thundered past it, jostling the butternut wood and causing it to roll into an expanding pool of blood. The liquid bled into the wood’s own reddish grain, irreparably staining the figure.
An old man, with a deeply lined face, and a worn expression. A masterpiece of wood carving, mysteriously found and exhibited in many famous art museums. The Elder’s Due, connoisseurs tentatively titled the piece, whose creator hadn’t provided any name for the figure. Conservators tried to remove the stains, but found that the blood ran too deep, and they decided to leave it as it was. Thousands upon thousands of visitors see The Elder’s Due every year.
“Yeah, I figured I could use the cash what with times being what they are,” the reply came, practiced and even with just the right amount of plausibility.
“Your dad’s been looking for you. Said you were getting into the wrong sort of trouble kid.”
“Only one kind of trouble old man, and I ain’t in it.”
“That a fact?” The question went unanswered for a time, while cold spirits went down and the old ghosts came up.
“Kid, you’re in over your head.”
“Like hell I am.” A distant roar of thunder punctuated his retort. Rain pattered on the roof of the bar, and the sound of the door ringing behind them was as raucous a noise as the bar had seen all night. Thump of boots. A seat taken by a leather jacket. Murmured order, followed by brisk service.
“That fella’s got some height on you, I’d say you’re in over your head.”
“He’s not here for me.”
“How can you tell?” A long silence accompanied this question, of a different kind than the first. The rain fell harder, and flashes of lightning illuminated the face of a man betrayed.
“Because he’s here for you, old man.” The whiskey ran smooth, and the tempest outside masked the storm inside the bar. The kid got up to leave, and when he did he placed his due and then some on the counter. “Job’s done, I ‘spect that’ll be plenty to cover the damages. You never saw me.”
“They’ll come for you too someday.” That crackling voice couldn’t mask the panic well.
“Let them,” the kid said, voice dripping with arrogance. “I’ll always be ready.”
And then the kid walked out of the bar into the tempest. The storm he left in his wake made the wind and rain look like an old man spitting in his own face.
Alder sat on the porch of the small one-story house, pipe in hand, puffing away. It was only 5:10 AM and he couldn’t sleep. Sun was rising though, and as he felt its warmth the superficial chill on his skin lessened. Chill in his bones felt colder than ever, but that sort of thing couldn’t be helped. Not when you were lucky enough to wake up most mornings, to pull yourself out of bed, grimace at your ugly reflection in the mirror, and then go outside to think your thoughts.
Alder switched hands with his pipe, scratching his face idly as he looked out on the valley. His cavernous, line-strewn face, so riddled with wrinkles that his scars almost hid between the folds. Almost. Alder took a pull, and breathed out long and quiet. He’d not spoken a word in years, even as he kept right on with the thinking. It got hard sometimes, when Alder couldn’t hear himself think above the gunfire, the screams, the sounds of rending flesh and spurting blood and sizzling…
Pipe done and smoked, Alder got to his feet and went to work. His workshop lay just adjacent to his little house, the barn style doors opened just a crack, padlock strewn on the ground nearby.
Unsurprising, Alder often drank late into the evening and forgot to lock up. He went in without bothering to close the door, and started to set his work station in order. It didn’t take too long, since he was the only one out here, and there was only so much disorder a single man could cause. He was able to put everything back in its proper place in no time, and then he sighed. Living all by himself way out here was peaceful, but not very energetic. That was fine and good for an old man like Alder, and as he picked out a chunk of butternut he contemplated his own bemusement at that. That a man of his violent past should find this tranquility to suit him so well smacked of an ironic jab.
Alder didn’t ply his craft in the workshop. He hadn’t been apprenticed to a master carpenter as a boy, had never taken any formal classes in woodworking, hadn’t even ever really seen any fine wood pieces for the better part of his life. Alder’s hands worked the butternut, running with the grain of the wood running against the grain of Alder’s being. Or maybe not. It was true he hadn’t been at this so long, but his numerous pieces lining the workshop’s shelves attested to Alder’s persistence in this of all things. He examined them from his stool, remembering the experience of carving each one.
The first piece was more of an object lesson in how far Alder had come, than anything else. A sharp, crooked piece barely resembling the intended product, all the cuts were angry and angular, most against the grain and trying to rip through the wood into the soul of what he had wanted to make at that time.
Many gradually improving pieces later, came the first good piece. A fox, its form distinct, smooth, and competently formed. There were crooked lines one could spot, and imperfections too, but the theme of the piece came together in a unified concept. Alder wasn’t some sort of artistic expert, but he’d say that the sly fox of his was where his competency finally matched his vision. Many pieces came after the fox, each one more or less as he’d set out to create them.
Today Alder felt different. When he ran his hands over the butternut wood, all cleaned and ready to be shaped, the form came to him. Just like that. Alder bowed his head, and began to carve. He opened his eyes from time to time, to ascertain just where exactly a line should end, or to make certain he didn’t cut himself like a damn fool, but for the most part he bowed his head, breathed in and out, and carved. The sounds of the birds in the trees seeped in from outside, and soon enough even with Alder’s eyes closed, an almost divine light shone in and filled his vision with gold rather than darkness. He heard nothing but the songs, smelled nothing but wood sealant, felt nothing but the soft grain under the pads of his fingertips.
A crash from the back of Alder’s workshop rang out.
“Fuck,” A voice cursed quietly, coming from the same area as the sudden noise. Alder’s hand slipped, his focus broken. He opened his eyes and frowned. He’d cut himself by mistake. A few droplets of blood marred the otherwise beautiful figure that Alder’s own hands had carved. He got up abruptly, provoking more startled noises and sounds from the corner of his workshop. Alder went over to one of his worktables and got a rag to soak up the blood. He only lightly dabbed and otherwise let the fabric do its work. Relieved that no stain remained, Alder finally attended to his wound. There were bandages in the cabinet above him. He reached up and looked inside. To his dismay, the first-aid kit was missing. He realized he now probably knew where it resided, but as he turned to go and confront the intruder-
BANG!
The figure that Alder had carved fell to the workshop’s floor, landing on its side. Feet quickly thundered past it, jostling the butternut wood and causing it to roll into an expanding pool of blood. The liquid bled into the wood’s own reddish grain, irreparably staining the figure.
An old man, with a deeply lined face, and a worn expression. A masterpiece of wood carving, mysteriously found and exhibited in many famous art museums. The Elder’s Due, connoisseurs tentatively titled the piece, whose creator hadn’t provided any name for the figure. Conservators tried to remove the stains, but found that the blood ran too deep, and they decided to leave it as it was. Thousands upon thousands of visitors see The Elder’s Due every year.
Two days ago, he had crashed his car into a lamp post. Second one to the left on the old bridge, coming from the center of the city. It had been an accident, he had said in his statement. It was raining heavily, it had been dark, visibility had been low, he had thought he had seen a figure in a gray raincoat amid the downpour, made a sharp turn to swerve around the supposed person, his car had gone hydroplaning... The next thing he had known, a crash and a short metallic grinding, then stunned, numb silence. It had taken a few moments for him to realize that the rain drummed on, pattering against the roof and smashed windshield of the fresh wreckage.
He had ended up repeating the statement three times. Twice to police and once to his insurance company. Poor conditions, figure in the rain, swerve, hydroplane, crash. Nothing more than a few bruises on him. Blessed be crumple zones and high safety ratings. For a car as old as his had been, anyway - the electronics in a new car would have stopped the impact from ever occurring in the first place. His car itself? Totaled, of course.
The wreck was gone now; the local tow company had unceremoniously dragged the remains of his old companion off after he himself had been taken to hospital for a checkup. The man felt kind of sorry for his car... It had been aging and ailing, the transmission would soon have given out entirely, and replacing that would have cost more than one of the car's cousins, but had been his first car of seven years, and people tended to grow kind of attached to their first and long-time rides alike. He had been no different.
Incidentally, the crash had also taken out the only camera overlooking this side of the bridge. The city was yet to replace it; it usually took at least two weeks of bureaucracy before they managed to send out a guy with a new one to hook up.
Two weeks ago, he had been let go from his job. It had been a dead-end one - being an office accountant, to be more precise -, but it had brought the cash in. Enough for his mother's (and, as an extension, his own) rent, to buy them food, to cover their utilities. It had been not much, but it had been enough to maintain the status quo and just have a little bit to put aside. He had intended to eventually buy a new car with that. And perhaps a washing machine for his mother (and, as an extension, himself).
If it had not been embarrassing enough that a guy his age - thirty! - was still living with his mother, he hadn't even lost his job to another person. He had lost it to a computer program - one of those newfangled things which went over the company account and POS systems, compared everything, ordered new stock, paid bills, handled salaries, and spat out the overview of everything for the boss to peruse - all for the measly running price of the extra thirty kilowatt-hours of electricity to keep the computer going. He and a few of his colleagues cost much more, so his company, being a company oriented on profits like any other, had made them all redundant. It had been happening more and more lately, automated systems replacing office workers. The chances of getting a similar, no-diploma, non-physical job with comparable pay were quickly approaching nil. Even this job had been too good, for suspiciously long.
He had went and ordered new documents for about a quarter of all of his money the very same evening, before he even went back to his mother and his little apartment with his head down, and conveyed her the sorry news.
It was his mother because of whom he felt the most sorry for... That it had come to this, that he felt it was the best thing he could do, given everything. His father, he had never known, and he did not have any siblings. Nor a girlfriend. His mother, though, had always been kind. She had tried his best. Attempted to see him through university. Doctor, she had insisted. And he had failed... Burned out and dropped out fourth year.
He had left two thirds of his remaining money for her to find.
Today, he was standing on the same bridge that had witnessed the demise of his car, staring over the railing into the white rushing waters below. Staring and contemplating. The simple electronic watch on his wrist stated 3:12 AM. No reasonable soul was out at three in the morning. The last car had passed him over twenty minutes ago.
The man's eyes moved up his arm, to where he knew a microchip was buried. Traceable via satellite. They had become standard practice not long before his birth. The theory had been "for the good of people", as always with such things - no more missing children, no more men frozen dead, no more speeding on the roads! In reality, it meant that kidnapping victims - if they were found - were usually found with hastily gouged and poorly bandaged holes in their arms, or their entire arms missing, men froze to death before people drove over to where they were, and speeders signal-proofed their cars, even when it was illegal. That is, until car-makers starting making cars that pedantically drove themselves, and only somewhat allowed people to play drivers. As an end result, the chips were discontinued eight years ago, but he still had one.
And now, it was time for the owner of the chip - the almost-unhirable nobody with no car, job, wife, children, friends or own apartment - to die.
The man flicked open a knife in his left, and carefully placed the razor-sharp tip near the nook of his elbow. He'd seen his X-ray images - he knew where it was. He swallowed; it'd hurt. Breaths were drawn in through gritted teeth as the blade sunk in and hit something hard that wasn't bone, blood rivuleted down his arm, knife was pulled out and cast into the river beneath. It had been a gift - too identifying. Some mucking about with pliers, and he had the damn thing ... little green-copper rectangle with a black serial number on it. It followed the knife. So did the simple electronic watch.
From the satellite recordings, it'd look just as if he had jumped off the bridge and gotten pulverized between the rocks in the rushing waters. The missing camera would neither confirm or deny it.
Hissing, the man wrapped his jacket around his bleeding arm as he attempted to fish out a small tube from another of his pockets. He knew enough from his unfinished medical training to miss significant blood vessels and nerves, but damn... He felt slightly faint. He unscrewed the tube with his right, unwrapped some of his makeshift temporary gauze, and holding the wound closed as much as he could with his pinky and ring finger, pressed on the tube with his thumb and index finger ... just about doable. The tube emitted a clear liquid that solidified, sealing the injury. Medical glue ... possibly a bit past best before, but that probably wouldn't kill him. (The super glues of old had started out as medical glues, too, some part of his mind reiterated a bit of trivia.)
The bloodied jacket followed the knife and chip. So did his T-shirt, jeans, shoes and socks. And his high school ring. Now he was feeling cold, too, rather than just faint... And in hurry. There were spares in the bag next to him, along with some electronics he was supposed to be returning to the rental tomorrow ... lent for "finding a new job", which, if someone managed to fish out the devices, he had been doing. And little else. Just reading mail and watching some videos. Boring search history, all undeleted (except for that one link which was, on purpose, porn - he had thought it might seem too odd if he were entirely a saint for two weeks and didn't give the recovery team anything to find).
He pulled on a new pair of jeans, followed by first one set of sock and sneaker, then another. A small plastic bottle full of water was used to wash off his arm and hand, leaving just the pucked-up red-orange streaked patch of hardened medical glue. Half-full bottle was returned to bag. T-shirt, jacket and wig were picked out and donned. A quick pat to ensure that his documents and last quarter of money were still safely in the pocket of his jacket. Bag went the way of his previous attire.
If they found any of the things, the better for the him, and the theory that he had jumped off the bridge. No actual body? In these waters, entire people, if any bits all, were rarely found to begin with. For all legal purposes, he was dead now, just five minutes after flicking open the knife. His old, real documents had drowned with the jacket. The ones in his replacement jacket were fabricated. The diploma, ID, work record, everything. Better yet, there were government and company records of his entire existence. The gal had known her job - and all the law knew was that she had a little bar with the rights to sell booze, and host two slot machines and billiard. Cameras specifically did not cover one table right by the front in her establishment, even though it was within an arm's reach of the front. Brilliant.
A man who had not existed two weeks ago wandered off the cameraless side of the bridge, crossed the street to avoid another camera, inched under the view of the next one, then turned into a narrow street that was uncovered, strolled behind a conveniently (for him) parked bus, climbed over a fence, moved behind a hedge for a few hundred meters, and helped himself into the small unlocked shed of a rich person. Perhaps he should not have thrown the water bottle away so hastily ... the blood-loss or shock from the injury made him thirsty. Too late now; he'll have to buy a new one tomorrow.
Come morning, he will come out of the shed, try to sell those people a few nonexistent vacuum cleaners, be rejected, find a bus, let himself be taken over to the next city, find a new job (his old hobby, and new diploma and CV should help with that bit ... with all the other jobs taken by machines, the man whose job was understanding and giving meaning to the machines still had his), stay in a motel until he can get an apartment, maybe get a girlfriend...
Would it be too suspicious to arrange it so that his mother just happened to win one of those magazine competitions for various appliances? She filled those out, sometimes. And he had intended to get her a washing machine...
He had ended up repeating the statement three times. Twice to police and once to his insurance company. Poor conditions, figure in the rain, swerve, hydroplane, crash. Nothing more than a few bruises on him. Blessed be crumple zones and high safety ratings. For a car as old as his had been, anyway - the electronics in a new car would have stopped the impact from ever occurring in the first place. His car itself? Totaled, of course.
The wreck was gone now; the local tow company had unceremoniously dragged the remains of his old companion off after he himself had been taken to hospital for a checkup. The man felt kind of sorry for his car... It had been aging and ailing, the transmission would soon have given out entirely, and replacing that would have cost more than one of the car's cousins, but had been his first car of seven years, and people tended to grow kind of attached to their first and long-time rides alike. He had been no different.
Incidentally, the crash had also taken out the only camera overlooking this side of the bridge. The city was yet to replace it; it usually took at least two weeks of bureaucracy before they managed to send out a guy with a new one to hook up.
Two weeks ago, he had been let go from his job. It had been a dead-end one - being an office accountant, to be more precise -, but it had brought the cash in. Enough for his mother's (and, as an extension, his own) rent, to buy them food, to cover their utilities. It had been not much, but it had been enough to maintain the status quo and just have a little bit to put aside. He had intended to eventually buy a new car with that. And perhaps a washing machine for his mother (and, as an extension, himself).
If it had not been embarrassing enough that a guy his age - thirty! - was still living with his mother, he hadn't even lost his job to another person. He had lost it to a computer program - one of those newfangled things which went over the company account and POS systems, compared everything, ordered new stock, paid bills, handled salaries, and spat out the overview of everything for the boss to peruse - all for the measly running price of the extra thirty kilowatt-hours of electricity to keep the computer going. He and a few of his colleagues cost much more, so his company, being a company oriented on profits like any other, had made them all redundant. It had been happening more and more lately, automated systems replacing office workers. The chances of getting a similar, no-diploma, non-physical job with comparable pay were quickly approaching nil. Even this job had been too good, for suspiciously long.
He had went and ordered new documents for about a quarter of all of his money the very same evening, before he even went back to his mother and his little apartment with his head down, and conveyed her the sorry news.
It was his mother because of whom he felt the most sorry for... That it had come to this, that he felt it was the best thing he could do, given everything. His father, he had never known, and he did not have any siblings. Nor a girlfriend. His mother, though, had always been kind. She had tried his best. Attempted to see him through university. Doctor, she had insisted. And he had failed... Burned out and dropped out fourth year.
He had left two thirds of his remaining money for her to find.
Today, he was standing on the same bridge that had witnessed the demise of his car, staring over the railing into the white rushing waters below. Staring and contemplating. The simple electronic watch on his wrist stated 3:12 AM. No reasonable soul was out at three in the morning. The last car had passed him over twenty minutes ago.
The man's eyes moved up his arm, to where he knew a microchip was buried. Traceable via satellite. They had become standard practice not long before his birth. The theory had been "for the good of people", as always with such things - no more missing children, no more men frozen dead, no more speeding on the roads! In reality, it meant that kidnapping victims - if they were found - were usually found with hastily gouged and poorly bandaged holes in their arms, or their entire arms missing, men froze to death before people drove over to where they were, and speeders signal-proofed their cars, even when it was illegal. That is, until car-makers starting making cars that pedantically drove themselves, and only somewhat allowed people to play drivers. As an end result, the chips were discontinued eight years ago, but he still had one.
And now, it was time for the owner of the chip - the almost-unhirable nobody with no car, job, wife, children, friends or own apartment - to die.
The man flicked open a knife in his left, and carefully placed the razor-sharp tip near the nook of his elbow. He'd seen his X-ray images - he knew where it was. He swallowed; it'd hurt. Breaths were drawn in through gritted teeth as the blade sunk in and hit something hard that wasn't bone, blood rivuleted down his arm, knife was pulled out and cast into the river beneath. It had been a gift - too identifying. Some mucking about with pliers, and he had the damn thing ... little green-copper rectangle with a black serial number on it. It followed the knife. So did the simple electronic watch.
From the satellite recordings, it'd look just as if he had jumped off the bridge and gotten pulverized between the rocks in the rushing waters. The missing camera would neither confirm or deny it.
Hissing, the man wrapped his jacket around his bleeding arm as he attempted to fish out a small tube from another of his pockets. He knew enough from his unfinished medical training to miss significant blood vessels and nerves, but damn... He felt slightly faint. He unscrewed the tube with his right, unwrapped some of his makeshift temporary gauze, and holding the wound closed as much as he could with his pinky and ring finger, pressed on the tube with his thumb and index finger ... just about doable. The tube emitted a clear liquid that solidified, sealing the injury. Medical glue ... possibly a bit past best before, but that probably wouldn't kill him. (The super glues of old had started out as medical glues, too, some part of his mind reiterated a bit of trivia.)
The bloodied jacket followed the knife and chip. So did his T-shirt, jeans, shoes and socks. And his high school ring. Now he was feeling cold, too, rather than just faint... And in hurry. There were spares in the bag next to him, along with some electronics he was supposed to be returning to the rental tomorrow ... lent for "finding a new job", which, if someone managed to fish out the devices, he had been doing. And little else. Just reading mail and watching some videos. Boring search history, all undeleted (except for that one link which was, on purpose, porn - he had thought it might seem too odd if he were entirely a saint for two weeks and didn't give the recovery team anything to find).
He pulled on a new pair of jeans, followed by first one set of sock and sneaker, then another. A small plastic bottle full of water was used to wash off his arm and hand, leaving just the pucked-up red-orange streaked patch of hardened medical glue. Half-full bottle was returned to bag. T-shirt, jacket and wig were picked out and donned. A quick pat to ensure that his documents and last quarter of money were still safely in the pocket of his jacket. Bag went the way of his previous attire.
If they found any of the things, the better for the him, and the theory that he had jumped off the bridge. No actual body? In these waters, entire people, if any bits all, were rarely found to begin with. For all legal purposes, he was dead now, just five minutes after flicking open the knife. His old, real documents had drowned with the jacket. The ones in his replacement jacket were fabricated. The diploma, ID, work record, everything. Better yet, there were government and company records of his entire existence. The gal had known her job - and all the law knew was that she had a little bar with the rights to sell booze, and host two slot machines and billiard. Cameras specifically did not cover one table right by the front in her establishment, even though it was within an arm's reach of the front. Brilliant.
A man who had not existed two weeks ago wandered off the cameraless side of the bridge, crossed the street to avoid another camera, inched under the view of the next one, then turned into a narrow street that was uncovered, strolled behind a conveniently (for him) parked bus, climbed over a fence, moved behind a hedge for a few hundred meters, and helped himself into the small unlocked shed of a rich person. Perhaps he should not have thrown the water bottle away so hastily ... the blood-loss or shock from the injury made him thirsty. Too late now; he'll have to buy a new one tomorrow.
Come morning, he will come out of the shed, try to sell those people a few nonexistent vacuum cleaners, be rejected, find a bus, let himself be taken over to the next city, find a new job (his old hobby, and new diploma and CV should help with that bit ... with all the other jobs taken by machines, the man whose job was understanding and giving meaning to the machines still had his), stay in a motel until he can get an apartment, maybe get a girlfriend...
Would it be too suspicious to arrange it so that his mother just happened to win one of those magazine competitions for various appliances? She filled those out, sometimes. And he had intended to get her a washing machine...
Etching Ellis's Stone
Life was like flowers laid beside a gravestone. The surface level smile you put on daily, embellishing bleakness that eventually withers without support and dies. Amidst a sunrise shining like a heavenly glow, through the yew trees where a young man kneeled in dirt for the hundredth time, but never to pray. Picking up another assortment of no longer pink carnations, meticulously dusting off the stone slab with a whisk broom, revealing the etchings, “Rachel Wright. Precious Daughter, 1962-1966” in-between both her parent’s graves ending the following year.
“I suppose Wright’s were always accustomed to the wrong side of fortune...” The young man lamented. Standing up, rubbing the dirt off on his shabby slacks. Stepping in a slow careful circular motion, scanning the surrounding amassed gravestones, eyes glued to the recently trimmed grass and his dyed green work boots. His exhaled breath, like smoke from yesterday’s final cigarette. Pulling some nicotine gum from his upper-left shirt pocket and popping it into his mouth. A sour cinnamon flavor assaulted his tongue, face twisting into a grimace and letting out a quick gagging sound, restraining himself from spitting it out.
“I’m just getting a peppermint flavor next time...” He muttered aloud, fully zipping up his windbreaker, walking off to reexamine hours of his continuous work.
Noticing one of the Sunday regular’s, a widow that’s lived decades longer, wearing a Renaissance widow dress, approaching a weeping angel statue, collapsing to the ground and letting out anguished cries, beneath a rainbow off in the distance towards the city. He smiled seeing their similarities, her tears like a ceaseless rain, reminiscing their moments together. Until leaving beautiful colors behind, showing those who believe watch over them, that they mattered. Continuing his casual walk, until reaching a tall catholic cross gravestone all by its lonesome. Completely dateless and nameless, with only etchings carved by himself. “Someone Remembered.”
“Her husband was a lucky man, but so am I. I might have ignored my parents until it was too late, but Father, you truly raised me out of my delinquency...I may never have the same strong belief in god, but you helped me reclaim faith in people. Ones we lost-shouldn’t be forgotten. I suppose-in that sense, there is a life after death...” He choked on his last words, clenching his fists tight, letting his own drops of memories fall from his eyes. “Despite forgetting your name before we met, having no family or friends, you still have someone to remember you. And I’ll keep my promise to respect and maintain, the place where all the lonely rest. Because nobody wants to be completely forgotten.” His last few sentences quoting the surrogate father buried beneath. Feeling a swift breeze coming from the southeast, reaching down and picking up a stray golden leaf tumbling by his feet, turning it around by its stem. Hearing distinct buzzing, glancing in the direction of a bumblebee landing on the leaf he held, leaving as quickly as the following breeze carried the leaf away once he released it from his grasp...
* * *
Underneath the pale moonlight partially shrouded by clouds, the stink coming from his muffler was nearly suffocating, pulling into the driveway and checked the displaying time on the radio, softly playing some classic rock. Turning off and exiting his car with a quick clunk, he returned to his job fifteen minutes early, before his midnight shift. He patted the car’s hood, pulling out a large flashlight.
“You belong here just as much as I do.” He sarcastically thought, switching on the light to illuminate the ground below. Smelling the scent of wet grass, only hearing the sounds of his footsteps hitting gravel approaching the graveyard. He stopped and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes, hanging his head low, staring at them within his trembling fingers.
“I wonder what will be etched in my stone? Ellis Wright-was he important enough for anyone to remember?” Sighing at his rhetorical question.
Suddenly, hearing the sounds of a shovel clanging against a gravestone. Ellis’ heartbeat skipped, unconsciously dropping the pack and running off in that direction. Coming across someone wearing a dark grey hoodie, hurling a shovel full of dirt over their shoulder. Ellis rushed up from behind, firmly grabbing their wrist, making them drop the shovel. Turning them around, to see an adolescent's terrified face, frozen stiff, realizing how it nearly reflected how he was caught desecrating the very same graveyard.
“I was t-told this man was buried with a bunch of gold...I m-mean-I-I’m r-really sorry sir! I won’t do it again! I swear!” The teen managed to loudly stammer out, not even pulling his arm away, snot started to drip down from his nose. Ellis gave him a stern look.
“I expect you to spend as long as it takes, repairing any of the damage you done until it’s fixed. Maybe then we can discuss not calling the police. Understand?” The boy seemed awestruck, like it was the kindest thing he had ever been told. Nodding his head fast enough to give someone whiplash, he was released and spent the next several hours fixing the damage he had done, sweating pouring from his forehead and breathing heavily. Waiting in silence, looking up at Ellis, eventually smiling at the boy.
“If you really want some money, how would you like a job under the table? Helping me take care of this graveyard starting tomorrow at 8 a.m sharp.” Ellis said seeing the boy’s agape mouth, raised eyebrows and widened pupils, returning a smile brighter than the stars.
“Yes sir!” The boy exclaimed.
Ellis watched the boy scurry off, heading back to his car, uncertain what would transpire. Perhaps, this was his chance to do something worthy enough to remember, for someone to etch in Ellis’ gravestone...
”You have to do something at some point.” you have to do something now, something later, something yesterday, and tomorrow, and everyday. I know she is right but still, I can’t bear to hear her, wrap my hands over my ears to shut out the sound. In my peripherals I catch her pout but ignore it. There’s no point in doing anything, I know that now. She keeps going on at me but no matter how much of a sense of duty I have that won’t change my mind.
I cast my eyes across a vast expanse of nothingness. It would be black, or at least it should be, but no colour exists. Does it? I can still picture the colours in my head, it mustn’t be gone completely; such is the nature of existence, data isn’t truly deleted. I can purge everything but it will always live within me.
How long are you going to sit around and mope she asks. If she didn’t know the answer she wouldn’t have asked the question. I will mope for all of time and for no time. Time doesn’t exist, nothing moves because nothing is real. Reality is a fabrication and for that I cannot forgive it. Even though I understand the implications. There is something intrinsically wrong with the nihilistic approach but there really is nothing left.
I stretch out my palm, just in front of my face. An aurora dances blissfully along it, reds and green and blues transient but alive for the briefest of times. So tranquil, yet flickering wildly in their newfound existence. Then snuffed out, only replaced, with new blues, greens, purples, yellows. A makeshift representation of life. They may enjoy it, the colours and the lights, but in the end they are and always will be simple constructs of some higher power.
When will you just make something already she exclaims. Frustrated. It must have been two hundred years… maybe? Without a clock or watch or some other timepiece or another I lost track. She probably did too. Her name is Miriam, after my mother. Part daughter, part sister, part lover, part caretaker, and part everything in between save ruler. Sans her I couldn’t keep surviving. This is a desolate world; I could change it, but I don’t wish to. When I catch a glimpse of the void beyond I am reminded, the way it shakes and shimmers, never uniform but never chaotic, just empty and nonexistent.
”Please, just do something. You have no idea how boring it is here!” but a world where I see every outcome, possibility, diverging path, transposed or otherwise, is just as insignificant and mind numbing. A tear runs down my cheek, though I disposed of water many decades ago. And molecules, and atoms, and subatomic particles, and the forces that bound them together. It was a gradual decay, too sentimental to let it all turn to a thought at once. Sentimental over the tiniest of the universe, an amusing thought, whether or not sentimentality was something I could still feel is up for debate, though.
Say I made something, what? Say I peeled back the fabric of the world, how? And say I filled the empty vessel of my folly, why? Questions I keep asking myself but never answering, maybe afraid maybe stupid, but I can’t see the solution though it burns inside me like a light I tried and failed to snuff out so many years ago. I let my hand fill up with grains and grains of sand, forming nothingness out of nothingness despite being matter. Each particle layers atop the other, building and building a pile, till it overflows and slips from my palm. Nothing breaks its fall. Just a stream of fluid symbolism drifting into an abyss never to be seen again.
Everytime I make something small and new Miriam seems almost happy. Almost. Almost like she thinks something new might occur, not that it will and she knows. Every day, week, month, tick, microcosm of passing units she gets more and more desperate. This is the least energetic I’ve seen her in too long. Maybe something is wrong, but everything is wrong, she isn’t an exception worth wasting time on - what time?
You leave me no choice she exclaims. Maybe her ultimatum I should have listened to but her shouting became so consistent over time I tuned it out. Patience is one trait I value more so above any. I’m good at it. But in my thoughts I fail to notice, and comprehend, the change so drastic I barely remember what the concept is called. She crosses the vast distance between us in a second, vast since nothing and everything makes up our distance, and embraces me.
I destroyed everything long ago, everything I could. Something disgusted me, maybe humanity and their rampant need and desire for wanton calamity unparalleled by any other species of my divination. The path of God is not always righteous, I understood that. Heat and love and existence as concepts fell beneath my power, existing within my head only because that was what I wanted.
Her lips press against mine. I feel warmth. How had she pervaded my desires for so long? How full of life and spirit and heat was she that she could exist singularly outside of my intervention? Although maybe my intervention brought rise to it. She kisses me, deeply, awfully, I would say so, revelling in a feeling, I would imagine, unbeknownst to her for aeons untold.
And there, I see a spark. While I destroyed love, she had kept it. While I destroyed heat, she relished it. While I destroyed existence and life and individuality she flourished beneath my perception, a spy within my camp. And in my loneliness and outlook bleak and unending I find only strength in kissing back, to bathe deeply in calamity, my own destruction and reconstruction at the hand of my once considered enemy.
A day passes, I can feel it. Strange, I should say, the passage of time became unknown yet now I can feel it shift beneath me like the tide. The force she exerts is powerful, the love she exhumes potent and overpowering. Perhaps I was wrong? I would never admit it, but maybe. She has a point, I have done nothing. Destruction was my path and in nihilistic naivety I sought to erase that which I deemed to be ugly and malformed within a perfect establishment erected in the void. So perhaps if things changed, and another day passes, and another, I can glimpse a light from the abyss blossoming nonexistence.
And a day passes. Two more, three, a hundred, basking in tender uncertain and tentative feelings flooding my nerves and spurring my synapses into actions long ago abandoned. Strength invigorates me, perhaps I feel less tired. The concept is so foreign, but at her whim I will do so; create. Let blossom existence anew despite misgivings and forthcoming issues in morality I have buried, but ignore and trespass them in the hopes of something more beautiful. Her touch gives me that courage. Maybe. A placebo effect but stronger than any emotions I have briefed in recent and distant memory.
”Create something then” and so I do. A planet, another, a star for heat and the colours of the spectrum that mirror days and reflect the people I place upon this world. The tiniest and most insignificant of creatures and plants, comprised further by the smallest of my creations. And in her honour, I name my home, this world, this vast expanse of universe. I name it Miriam.
I cast my eyes across a vast expanse of nothingness. It would be black, or at least it should be, but no colour exists. Does it? I can still picture the colours in my head, it mustn’t be gone completely; such is the nature of existence, data isn’t truly deleted. I can purge everything but it will always live within me.
How long are you going to sit around and mope she asks. If she didn’t know the answer she wouldn’t have asked the question. I will mope for all of time and for no time. Time doesn’t exist, nothing moves because nothing is real. Reality is a fabrication and for that I cannot forgive it. Even though I understand the implications. There is something intrinsically wrong with the nihilistic approach but there really is nothing left.
I stretch out my palm, just in front of my face. An aurora dances blissfully along it, reds and green and blues transient but alive for the briefest of times. So tranquil, yet flickering wildly in their newfound existence. Then snuffed out, only replaced, with new blues, greens, purples, yellows. A makeshift representation of life. They may enjoy it, the colours and the lights, but in the end they are and always will be simple constructs of some higher power.
When will you just make something already she exclaims. Frustrated. It must have been two hundred years… maybe? Without a clock or watch or some other timepiece or another I lost track. She probably did too. Her name is Miriam, after my mother. Part daughter, part sister, part lover, part caretaker, and part everything in between save ruler. Sans her I couldn’t keep surviving. This is a desolate world; I could change it, but I don’t wish to. When I catch a glimpse of the void beyond I am reminded, the way it shakes and shimmers, never uniform but never chaotic, just empty and nonexistent.
”Please, just do something. You have no idea how boring it is here!” but a world where I see every outcome, possibility, diverging path, transposed or otherwise, is just as insignificant and mind numbing. A tear runs down my cheek, though I disposed of water many decades ago. And molecules, and atoms, and subatomic particles, and the forces that bound them together. It was a gradual decay, too sentimental to let it all turn to a thought at once. Sentimental over the tiniest of the universe, an amusing thought, whether or not sentimentality was something I could still feel is up for debate, though.
Say I made something, what? Say I peeled back the fabric of the world, how? And say I filled the empty vessel of my folly, why? Questions I keep asking myself but never answering, maybe afraid maybe stupid, but I can’t see the solution though it burns inside me like a light I tried and failed to snuff out so many years ago. I let my hand fill up with grains and grains of sand, forming nothingness out of nothingness despite being matter. Each particle layers atop the other, building and building a pile, till it overflows and slips from my palm. Nothing breaks its fall. Just a stream of fluid symbolism drifting into an abyss never to be seen again.
Everytime I make something small and new Miriam seems almost happy. Almost. Almost like she thinks something new might occur, not that it will and she knows. Every day, week, month, tick, microcosm of passing units she gets more and more desperate. This is the least energetic I’ve seen her in too long. Maybe something is wrong, but everything is wrong, she isn’t an exception worth wasting time on - what time?
You leave me no choice she exclaims. Maybe her ultimatum I should have listened to but her shouting became so consistent over time I tuned it out. Patience is one trait I value more so above any. I’m good at it. But in my thoughts I fail to notice, and comprehend, the change so drastic I barely remember what the concept is called. She crosses the vast distance between us in a second, vast since nothing and everything makes up our distance, and embraces me.
I destroyed everything long ago, everything I could. Something disgusted me, maybe humanity and their rampant need and desire for wanton calamity unparalleled by any other species of my divination. The path of God is not always righteous, I understood that. Heat and love and existence as concepts fell beneath my power, existing within my head only because that was what I wanted.
Her lips press against mine. I feel warmth. How had she pervaded my desires for so long? How full of life and spirit and heat was she that she could exist singularly outside of my intervention? Although maybe my intervention brought rise to it. She kisses me, deeply, awfully, I would say so, revelling in a feeling, I would imagine, unbeknownst to her for aeons untold.
And there, I see a spark. While I destroyed love, she had kept it. While I destroyed heat, she relished it. While I destroyed existence and life and individuality she flourished beneath my perception, a spy within my camp. And in my loneliness and outlook bleak and unending I find only strength in kissing back, to bathe deeply in calamity, my own destruction and reconstruction at the hand of my once considered enemy.
A day passes, I can feel it. Strange, I should say, the passage of time became unknown yet now I can feel it shift beneath me like the tide. The force she exerts is powerful, the love she exhumes potent and overpowering. Perhaps I was wrong? I would never admit it, but maybe. She has a point, I have done nothing. Destruction was my path and in nihilistic naivety I sought to erase that which I deemed to be ugly and malformed within a perfect establishment erected in the void. So perhaps if things changed, and another day passes, and another, I can glimpse a light from the abyss blossoming nonexistence.
And a day passes. Two more, three, a hundred, basking in tender uncertain and tentative feelings flooding my nerves and spurring my synapses into actions long ago abandoned. Strength invigorates me, perhaps I feel less tired. The concept is so foreign, but at her whim I will do so; create. Let blossom existence anew despite misgivings and forthcoming issues in morality I have buried, but ignore and trespass them in the hopes of something more beautiful. Her touch gives me that courage. Maybe. A placebo effect but stronger than any emotions I have briefed in recent and distant memory.
”Create something then” and so I do. A planet, another, a star for heat and the colours of the spectrum that mirror days and reflect the people I place upon this world. The tiniest and most insignificant of creatures and plants, comprised further by the smallest of my creations. And in her honour, I name my home, this world, this vast expanse of universe. I name it Miriam.
It was morning. The bright, desert sun streamed in through the ornate stained glass windows of the royal audience chamber, sending flecks of red, green, blue, and yellow all across the room. The large, wooden doors on the far side of the chamber swung open with a crash and in walked two armored guards. Each of them was restraining an arm of their struggling prisoner, dragging him down the long, red carpet laid out before the King’s throne. The prisoner would have been yelling threats and curses if he had not been gagged with a cloth; instead, only choked grunts echoed off the sandstone walls.
King Cykan IV of Eccahania sat on his throne calmly, watching the haggard man being dragged closer and closer. On his right stood his trusted advisor, tall and dressed in purple and gold robes. In his thin fingers he clutched a scroll outlining a list of alleged offenses. To the left of the King’s throne was a smaller one, where Queen Aggiana sat, and off to the side sat Prince Tedjek and Princess Caelia.
The prisoner’s chains rattled as he was finally tossed to the floor before the monarch, whose expression remained neutral and unchanged. His long, golden-colored hair and beard matched his crown perfectly. The Queen, radiant as always, sat smiling softly. Her gentle hand emerged from the folds of her adorned lace garment and came to rest atop her husband’s hand.
“So, this is the man,” Tedjek whispered so only his sister next to him could hear.
“He looks more like a beggar than an assassin,” Caelia whispered back with a shrug.
The King’s advisor cleared his throat and opened the scroll.
“Golan of Inmitria,” the advisor read in a surprisingly booming voice for a man of such skinny stature. “You have been charged with multiple crimes, ranging from petty theft and brawls to multiple counts of murders of high-ranking officials and an attempt on the life Queen Aggiana.”
The prisoner, Golan, kept his head bowed while the advisor read his charges. When the attempt on the Queen’s life was mentioned, the prisoner’s gaze drifted toward Tedjek for a moment, sending a shiver down his spine. The man’s gaze was cold and frightening.
“How do you plead?”
The man raised up his chin, his long, dark strands of hair partially obscuring his face. One of the guards that brought him in reached down and pulled the gag from his mouth.
“Guilty,” he rasped after a small coughing fit. “To all charges.”
The King finally opened his mouth.
“Golan,” he began. The King’s voice was usually stalwart and unwavering, but it seemed like he was holding some anger back. “You have pled guilty, which normally merits a reduction in one’s sentence, but… Your crimes have been so heinous, so wicked that—”
“My love,” the Queen gently interjected, stopping his speech while it was still in crescendo. “Before you sentence this pitiable man, please look inside your heart and find mercy.”
“Mercy?” The King looked at his wife in disbelief. “Did you not hear his crimes? He deserves worse than death! He could have ties to the rebels or—”
The Queen gestured toward the prisoner. “Look at him, wearing rags and covered head to toe in injuries. Why, he already has one foot in the grave as it is. I’m sure he hardly has it in him to cause any more harm now. Additionally, putting this man to death would be more merciful than letting him die the lonely life of a beggar, don’t you agree? If he deserves worse than death… why not just let him go?”
“Let him go?” Tedjek whispered to Caelia in an irritated whisper. “What is she thinking?”
The King shut his eyes, clearly bothered that what she was saying had a hint of truth to it. While it would have been satisfying to toss this treacherous man to the lions, a slow and agonizing death on the streets seemed more appropriate in a way.
“I… must yield. The Queen speaks the truth. Rejoice now Golan, you snake… You have won a short time of freedom, but do not forget that your days are numbered.”
Tedjek blinked. He and Caelia looked at each other in confusion. What just happened?
With a wave of the King’s hand, the guards took the man out the doors he had been dragged through before, on their way to dump him back onto the streets.
That evening, Tedjek stood on his balcony, watching the last sliver of the sun slip beneath the distant rocky outcroppings of the desert. The city of Inmitria laid quietly before him. For many people who lived in Eccahania, this city and the entire Capital Province were a strange land—an almost mystical place where the sunlight seemed to be always golden, where rain hardly fell, and where the only trees were those watered by the nearby, solitary Moniris River.
But to Tedjek, it was basically all he ever knew as his home. He grew up here and played in the sand and dust like everyone else. He could hardly imagine anything different from this.
“Evening, Teddy.”
It took willpower to resist rolling his eyes at his childlike nickname when Tedjek turned to see Caelia standing in his doorway. Her blonde hair had been braided intricately with beads and she had since changed into a more casual dress since the hearing that morning.
“Watching the sunset again?” She came to stand beside him, leaning on the sandstone and metal rails of the balcony. She gazed out at the now pale-yellow westward sky. “Ah, I missed it,” she observed.
“I didn’t pay much attention myself… I had other things on my mind all day.”
“You mean Golan…”
“Why would she make Father let him go?”
Caelia shrugged. “I’ve told you before, Teddy. Women are vastly complicated creatures. No man could ever understand us; it’s something that I personally take pride in. As for Mother, who knows? He was a horrible man, but she was right, he seemed on the brink of death already, if not from starvation then from some kind of disease.”
“Something about it just really bugs me.” Tedjek grit his teeth. “Just thinking about it makes my blood boil for some reason. Like something has been left unresolved and I—…” His voice trailed off suddenly.
Caelia cocked her head. “You what?”
When Tedjek didn’t reply, she crossed her arms.
“What are you scheming at, Teddy?”
He turned to her and gave her a gentle, reassuring smile.
“Sorry, I just… zoned out. Like I said, my head hasn’t been in a good place all day.”
She sighed. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep, I’m sure.” Patting his cheek, she departed toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Tedjek’s gaze remained on the now darkened sky, with stars already beginning to appear. Caelia was right… A good night’s sleep would help.
Boots, being laced up tight; a cloak, black as the night, wrapping around his body and being pulled over his black hair; a sword, handcrafted in the Rayis Forge, finest in all of Eccahania, silently being sheathed at his side…
The figure crouched down low, with emerald eyes barely visible beneath the hood’s hem.
“Sorry, Lia…” Tedjek whispered. “But tonight isn’t one for sleep.”
The Prince, utilizing his years of combat and stealth training from the country’s finest teachers, scaled the palace walls with ease, snuck past the guards in the darkness and jumped down into the dust of the street below.
The Royal Family had caught wind of various rebels rising up within the natives of the desert, collectively known as the Mahali. Inmitria itself was a bit of a mixed bag, but Tedjek knew it was crucial to not be recognized—another assassination attempt on a Royal would not look good for them.
The town had deteriorated a bit since Tedjek had remembered as a child, but he still knew his way. It was nighttime so many merchants in the marketplace had gone home, but many city dwellers stayed awake at night, whether to play music, eat, drink, or relax… Tedjek started in the poorer district, hoping to find Golan as the Queen had predicted: among the beggars and homeless. His search came up fruitless however, though he managed to give the beggars some honest alms—some gold or silver coins, which were never-before-seen by some of them.
Feeling discouraged after scouring a good portion of the town, Tedjek realized he was wasting the night but had no more leads. He knew it wouldn’t be smart to just ask random people for a man named Golan…
“Damn it,” he grumbled to himself, clenching his fists. “This city is huge… Did I really expect to find him just by looking?”
He still had some hours before he had to go back, but he felt hopeless…
So much for dishing out street justice, then. He sighed and figured rewarding himself with an ale would be a fitting end to his sad night before he’d sneak back to the palace and try to get as much sleep as he could before the servants woke him up for some obligation he had.
The Rattlesnake was the small tavern he decided to get his drink at. As expected, it was empty except for one worker. Tedjek approached the bar sat down at one stool with a huff.
“Looking for a room or a drink tonight?” the bartender had stopped sweeping something up and stood behind the bar now.
“A drink. Surprise me, but make sure it’s strong,” Tedjek replied, making sure to keep his face hidden under the hood.
“Little late to be drinking, but the money makes no difference to me.”
Tedjek snickered at that but didn’t reply. He handed the bartender his money silently in exchange for a tankard of frothing ale. The bartender nodded and went back to sweeping while Tedjek sipped quietly on his drink.
Suddenly, the front door opened rather loudly and a group of men walked in. Tedjek turned slightly to see who it was—they were some Mahali men, and obviously armored. Immediately a spike of adrenaline sent his hand instinctively to the hilt of his sword but he stayed deathly still. He turned his head away from them, trying to act natural.
“Evening gentlemen,” greeted the bartender. “What can I help you with?”
“We want a cheap room with a view.”
The bartender crossed his arms and nodded.
“Ah, I see. Right this way, then.”
He led them past a door behind the bar leading into a room and returned a few minutes later. Tedjek could hear the men talking to one another, but their voices were muffled through the stone walls.
He realized he had been holding his breath and finally let out a stifled sigh. That was close and extremely uncomfortable. Why were those men armored to their teeth? Were they rebels? Tedjek did not want to stick around to find out. He finished the rest of his ale quickly and stood from his stool.
“Drink was delicious,” he told the bartender dismissively as he hurried toward the door. His hand was on the handle when the bartender spoke up, causing him to freeze.
“Hold up there, mister.”
Tedjek bit his tongue and turned around slowly and forced himself to make eye contact with the bartender across the room.
“The Prince of Eccahania comes to visit my tavern and doesn’t even give me a proper introduction? I thought they’d have taught you better manners.”
Tedjek was at a loss for words. His mouth gaped and his heart was in his throat.
“I—I…”
“Why did you decide to grace the city with your presence, Prince Tedjek? I’m sure it wasn’t just for a midnight stroll, was it?”
“Uh, well, I—…” He was in shambles. He couldn’t find any words to help him.
“No,” the bartender continued. “I’m sure you schlepped out her to the slums because you’re angry… angry that your Father let the man who almost assassinated the Queen go. And it wasn’t going to be just ale that would calm your nerves… you wanted revenge, is that right?”
Tedjek’s eyes widened.
“How.. How do you know about that?”
“And for all the military training you received, you can’t even track one man down? Or shit, you can’t even recognize the very man you want to take revenge on?”
“Recognize…?” He furrowed his eyebrows but then he realized. Now that Tedjek was finally looking at the man directly, he saw. His long sleeves and pants concealed the scars and cuts. His hair had been cut and he was clean-shaven. But his gaze was exactly the same… cold and frightening.
It took his brain a second to process what was happening, but he suddenly he couldn’t let fear or surprise stop him from achieving his goal.
“Golan.” He reached for his sword and ran toward the bartender, who remained still. Tedjek jumped on top of the bar and kicked the man into the back wall, jumped down and pinned him against the stone, the tip of his sword held inches from the man’s throat.
“If you think you can end it here, you’re wrong,” Golan whispered. “You realize I easily could’ve just let you leave, right?”
“It was a deadly mistake not to,” Tedjek snarled. “You deserve to die. You nearly killed my mother.”
At this, the man’s cold eyes softened for a moment.
“I… I did kill your mother, Prince Tedjek.”
“What?”
Golan pursed his lips and whistled loudly. The door to the back room swung open and the armed men emerged and faced the Prince. Fearing they would assail him, Tedjek quickly released Golan but jumped back behind the bar in a defense stance. But instead of drawing their weapons, the men bowed to him… as did Golan.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted, his cheeks hot from anger. “I thought you were rebels. You… wouldn’t bow to a Royal.”
“You’re wrong, Prince.” Golan smiled. “We are rebels… But we bow to you because you are one of us.”
“One of you?” Tedjek lowered his sword.
“Gods above, are you really so stupid?” Golan pointed at a mirror that was hanging on the wall. “Just look in the mirror! Look at your skin, your hair. There is not one hair of gold on your head, boy! And your skin is tan as leather. Your name—it’s not even Eccahanian!”
Tedjek shook his head, confused. “S-so what? What’re you saying?”
Golan sighed and shook his head. “Tedjek. It’s Mahali for miracle. You are of Royal blood, boy. But that Queen… she is not your mother. The truth is, your father is an unfaithful tyrant.”
The blood rushed away from Tedjek’s head. He felt lightheaded. He dropped his sword and leaned against the table at his side.
“But… they would’ve told me…” he muttered.
“Ha! You think that bitch Queen wants everyone to know she’s raising a child that isn’t even hers? If there’s one thing she does care about, it’s keeping up her appearances.”
“Then… my mother…?”
Again, Golan’s eyes seemed to soften and he looked away, also gazing into the mirror on the wall.
“Ayliana... I… I killed her. It was an accident, though! The Queen tricked me into doing it. No one here in the city knew your mother had been carrying the King’s son all along, except for the Queen. And when she found out, oh you can bet that she wanted your mother dead. And who do you think she came to? Me, the man already in charge of her own assassination. I should have killed the Queen right then and there, but I would’ve been killed myself by Royal Guards soon enough.”
He took a deep breath and continued.
“She told me she had heard whispers about plans to take her life and said she would be leaving the city for a few days with her husband that night and that it would be the perfect opportunity to kill Ayliana. And that’s how it happened. You were due that night, and the King snuck away to be there for your mother… When you were delivered, your father had taken you into another room to clean you off and… Well I knew I had to act fast to kill who I thought was the Queen, and in all the confusion, I…” He choked up. “An arrow. Through the window. I didn’t even know it was her until the next day.” He stopped for a moment and shed a few tears. The other men bowed their heads silently. “She was a good friend… I lament her loss.”
Tedjek looked like he was about to be sick.
“Then why…?”
“Why did the Queen want to release me?” Golan crossed his arms.
“The King certainly wanted be dead, but that Queen is a treacherous bitch. The Queen let me go today because she secretly reveled in the fact that the only woman your father truly loved—Ayliana—was dead. Instead of being announced as a Mahali death, my crime was written up as an attempt on her life to cover up the King’s unfaithfulness. And the Queen…” He held up a large bag and poured out gold coins onto the bar. “She paid me while I was captive in prison. She paid me to keep quiet about her unfaithful husband… and for your mother’s death. It was all to mock me, of course. She knew I was planning to assassinate her. I should’ve suspected her lies; she would never have come to trust a Mahali with such a task. That is why, all these years, I haven’t spent one of these damned coins.”
“So my whole life… they lied to me?” Tedjek reached for his sword and gazed at his reflection in the steel.
“They lied to us all!” Golan shouted. “Look at this city—it’s falling apart from their oppression! Your Father is adulterous, weak, and a poor ruler, and Aggiana is a manipulative woman. Tedjek, did you honestly feel any love from her?”
“I…” His voice faltered. “But my father—”
“Your father may love you, but why do you think there is a rebellion brewing at all? I’m afraid to say he’s a tyrant. There needs to be change.”
“You, Tedjek, are a good man. And one of us. We are not here to hurt you, or to make decisions for you. But everything I just told you is the truth… If you feel you can still sheathe that sword and go back home to those people, then so be it.” He stepped in front of the bar walked slowly up to the confused Prince and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“But the people, your people need your help. If you’re willing to leave your life behind and start anew with us… I can promise that with you on our side, things will turn out for the better.”
Tears brimmed the Prince’s green eyes and painfully he ripped away the royal seal he always wore around his neck underneath his clothes. He tossed it onto the ground and followed the rebels and Golan into the back room.
King Cykan IV of Eccahania sat on his throne calmly, watching the haggard man being dragged closer and closer. On his right stood his trusted advisor, tall and dressed in purple and gold robes. In his thin fingers he clutched a scroll outlining a list of alleged offenses. To the left of the King’s throne was a smaller one, where Queen Aggiana sat, and off to the side sat Prince Tedjek and Princess Caelia.
The prisoner’s chains rattled as he was finally tossed to the floor before the monarch, whose expression remained neutral and unchanged. His long, golden-colored hair and beard matched his crown perfectly. The Queen, radiant as always, sat smiling softly. Her gentle hand emerged from the folds of her adorned lace garment and came to rest atop her husband’s hand.
“So, this is the man,” Tedjek whispered so only his sister next to him could hear.
“He looks more like a beggar than an assassin,” Caelia whispered back with a shrug.
The King’s advisor cleared his throat and opened the scroll.
“Golan of Inmitria,” the advisor read in a surprisingly booming voice for a man of such skinny stature. “You have been charged with multiple crimes, ranging from petty theft and brawls to multiple counts of murders of high-ranking officials and an attempt on the life Queen Aggiana.”
The prisoner, Golan, kept his head bowed while the advisor read his charges. When the attempt on the Queen’s life was mentioned, the prisoner’s gaze drifted toward Tedjek for a moment, sending a shiver down his spine. The man’s gaze was cold and frightening.
“How do you plead?”
The man raised up his chin, his long, dark strands of hair partially obscuring his face. One of the guards that brought him in reached down and pulled the gag from his mouth.
“Guilty,” he rasped after a small coughing fit. “To all charges.”
The King finally opened his mouth.
“Golan,” he began. The King’s voice was usually stalwart and unwavering, but it seemed like he was holding some anger back. “You have pled guilty, which normally merits a reduction in one’s sentence, but… Your crimes have been so heinous, so wicked that—”
“My love,” the Queen gently interjected, stopping his speech while it was still in crescendo. “Before you sentence this pitiable man, please look inside your heart and find mercy.”
“Mercy?” The King looked at his wife in disbelief. “Did you not hear his crimes? He deserves worse than death! He could have ties to the rebels or—”
The Queen gestured toward the prisoner. “Look at him, wearing rags and covered head to toe in injuries. Why, he already has one foot in the grave as it is. I’m sure he hardly has it in him to cause any more harm now. Additionally, putting this man to death would be more merciful than letting him die the lonely life of a beggar, don’t you agree? If he deserves worse than death… why not just let him go?”
“Let him go?” Tedjek whispered to Caelia in an irritated whisper. “What is she thinking?”
The King shut his eyes, clearly bothered that what she was saying had a hint of truth to it. While it would have been satisfying to toss this treacherous man to the lions, a slow and agonizing death on the streets seemed more appropriate in a way.
“I… must yield. The Queen speaks the truth. Rejoice now Golan, you snake… You have won a short time of freedom, but do not forget that your days are numbered.”
Tedjek blinked. He and Caelia looked at each other in confusion. What just happened?
With a wave of the King’s hand, the guards took the man out the doors he had been dragged through before, on their way to dump him back onto the streets.
That evening, Tedjek stood on his balcony, watching the last sliver of the sun slip beneath the distant rocky outcroppings of the desert. The city of Inmitria laid quietly before him. For many people who lived in Eccahania, this city and the entire Capital Province were a strange land—an almost mystical place where the sunlight seemed to be always golden, where rain hardly fell, and where the only trees were those watered by the nearby, solitary Moniris River.
But to Tedjek, it was basically all he ever knew as his home. He grew up here and played in the sand and dust like everyone else. He could hardly imagine anything different from this.
“Evening, Teddy.”
It took willpower to resist rolling his eyes at his childlike nickname when Tedjek turned to see Caelia standing in his doorway. Her blonde hair had been braided intricately with beads and she had since changed into a more casual dress since the hearing that morning.
“Watching the sunset again?” She came to stand beside him, leaning on the sandstone and metal rails of the balcony. She gazed out at the now pale-yellow westward sky. “Ah, I missed it,” she observed.
“I didn’t pay much attention myself… I had other things on my mind all day.”
“You mean Golan…”
“Why would she make Father let him go?”
Caelia shrugged. “I’ve told you before, Teddy. Women are vastly complicated creatures. No man could ever understand us; it’s something that I personally take pride in. As for Mother, who knows? He was a horrible man, but she was right, he seemed on the brink of death already, if not from starvation then from some kind of disease.”
“Something about it just really bugs me.” Tedjek grit his teeth. “Just thinking about it makes my blood boil for some reason. Like something has been left unresolved and I—…” His voice trailed off suddenly.
Caelia cocked her head. “You what?”
When Tedjek didn’t reply, she crossed her arms.
“What are you scheming at, Teddy?”
He turned to her and gave her a gentle, reassuring smile.
“Sorry, I just… zoned out. Like I said, my head hasn’t been in a good place all day.”
She sighed. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep, I’m sure.” Patting his cheek, she departed toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Tedjek’s gaze remained on the now darkened sky, with stars already beginning to appear. Caelia was right… A good night’s sleep would help.
Boots, being laced up tight; a cloak, black as the night, wrapping around his body and being pulled over his black hair; a sword, handcrafted in the Rayis Forge, finest in all of Eccahania, silently being sheathed at his side…
The figure crouched down low, with emerald eyes barely visible beneath the hood’s hem.
“Sorry, Lia…” Tedjek whispered. “But tonight isn’t one for sleep.”
The Prince, utilizing his years of combat and stealth training from the country’s finest teachers, scaled the palace walls with ease, snuck past the guards in the darkness and jumped down into the dust of the street below.
The Royal Family had caught wind of various rebels rising up within the natives of the desert, collectively known as the Mahali. Inmitria itself was a bit of a mixed bag, but Tedjek knew it was crucial to not be recognized—another assassination attempt on a Royal would not look good for them.
The town had deteriorated a bit since Tedjek had remembered as a child, but he still knew his way. It was nighttime so many merchants in the marketplace had gone home, but many city dwellers stayed awake at night, whether to play music, eat, drink, or relax… Tedjek started in the poorer district, hoping to find Golan as the Queen had predicted: among the beggars and homeless. His search came up fruitless however, though he managed to give the beggars some honest alms—some gold or silver coins, which were never-before-seen by some of them.
Feeling discouraged after scouring a good portion of the town, Tedjek realized he was wasting the night but had no more leads. He knew it wouldn’t be smart to just ask random people for a man named Golan…
“Damn it,” he grumbled to himself, clenching his fists. “This city is huge… Did I really expect to find him just by looking?”
He still had some hours before he had to go back, but he felt hopeless…
So much for dishing out street justice, then. He sighed and figured rewarding himself with an ale would be a fitting end to his sad night before he’d sneak back to the palace and try to get as much sleep as he could before the servants woke him up for some obligation he had.
The Rattlesnake was the small tavern he decided to get his drink at. As expected, it was empty except for one worker. Tedjek approached the bar sat down at one stool with a huff.
“Looking for a room or a drink tonight?” the bartender had stopped sweeping something up and stood behind the bar now.
“A drink. Surprise me, but make sure it’s strong,” Tedjek replied, making sure to keep his face hidden under the hood.
“Little late to be drinking, but the money makes no difference to me.”
Tedjek snickered at that but didn’t reply. He handed the bartender his money silently in exchange for a tankard of frothing ale. The bartender nodded and went back to sweeping while Tedjek sipped quietly on his drink.
Suddenly, the front door opened rather loudly and a group of men walked in. Tedjek turned slightly to see who it was—they were some Mahali men, and obviously armored. Immediately a spike of adrenaline sent his hand instinctively to the hilt of his sword but he stayed deathly still. He turned his head away from them, trying to act natural.
“Evening gentlemen,” greeted the bartender. “What can I help you with?”
“We want a cheap room with a view.”
The bartender crossed his arms and nodded.
“Ah, I see. Right this way, then.”
He led them past a door behind the bar leading into a room and returned a few minutes later. Tedjek could hear the men talking to one another, but their voices were muffled through the stone walls.
He realized he had been holding his breath and finally let out a stifled sigh. That was close and extremely uncomfortable. Why were those men armored to their teeth? Were they rebels? Tedjek did not want to stick around to find out. He finished the rest of his ale quickly and stood from his stool.
“Drink was delicious,” he told the bartender dismissively as he hurried toward the door. His hand was on the handle when the bartender spoke up, causing him to freeze.
“Hold up there, mister.”
Tedjek bit his tongue and turned around slowly and forced himself to make eye contact with the bartender across the room.
“The Prince of Eccahania comes to visit my tavern and doesn’t even give me a proper introduction? I thought they’d have taught you better manners.”
Tedjek was at a loss for words. His mouth gaped and his heart was in his throat.
“I—I…”
“Why did you decide to grace the city with your presence, Prince Tedjek? I’m sure it wasn’t just for a midnight stroll, was it?”
“Uh, well, I—…” He was in shambles. He couldn’t find any words to help him.
“No,” the bartender continued. “I’m sure you schlepped out her to the slums because you’re angry… angry that your Father let the man who almost assassinated the Queen go. And it wasn’t going to be just ale that would calm your nerves… you wanted revenge, is that right?”
Tedjek’s eyes widened.
“How.. How do you know about that?”
“And for all the military training you received, you can’t even track one man down? Or shit, you can’t even recognize the very man you want to take revenge on?”
“Recognize…?” He furrowed his eyebrows but then he realized. Now that Tedjek was finally looking at the man directly, he saw. His long sleeves and pants concealed the scars and cuts. His hair had been cut and he was clean-shaven. But his gaze was exactly the same… cold and frightening.
It took his brain a second to process what was happening, but he suddenly he couldn’t let fear or surprise stop him from achieving his goal.
“Golan.” He reached for his sword and ran toward the bartender, who remained still. Tedjek jumped on top of the bar and kicked the man into the back wall, jumped down and pinned him against the stone, the tip of his sword held inches from the man’s throat.
“If you think you can end it here, you’re wrong,” Golan whispered. “You realize I easily could’ve just let you leave, right?”
“It was a deadly mistake not to,” Tedjek snarled. “You deserve to die. You nearly killed my mother.”
At this, the man’s cold eyes softened for a moment.
“I… I did kill your mother, Prince Tedjek.”
“What?”
Golan pursed his lips and whistled loudly. The door to the back room swung open and the armed men emerged and faced the Prince. Fearing they would assail him, Tedjek quickly released Golan but jumped back behind the bar in a defense stance. But instead of drawing their weapons, the men bowed to him… as did Golan.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted, his cheeks hot from anger. “I thought you were rebels. You… wouldn’t bow to a Royal.”
“You’re wrong, Prince.” Golan smiled. “We are rebels… But we bow to you because you are one of us.”
“One of you?” Tedjek lowered his sword.
“Gods above, are you really so stupid?” Golan pointed at a mirror that was hanging on the wall. “Just look in the mirror! Look at your skin, your hair. There is not one hair of gold on your head, boy! And your skin is tan as leather. Your name—it’s not even Eccahanian!”
Tedjek shook his head, confused. “S-so what? What’re you saying?”
Golan sighed and shook his head. “Tedjek. It’s Mahali for miracle. You are of Royal blood, boy. But that Queen… she is not your mother. The truth is, your father is an unfaithful tyrant.”
The blood rushed away from Tedjek’s head. He felt lightheaded. He dropped his sword and leaned against the table at his side.
“But… they would’ve told me…” he muttered.
“Ha! You think that bitch Queen wants everyone to know she’s raising a child that isn’t even hers? If there’s one thing she does care about, it’s keeping up her appearances.”
“Then… my mother…?”
Again, Golan’s eyes seemed to soften and he looked away, also gazing into the mirror on the wall.
“Ayliana... I… I killed her. It was an accident, though! The Queen tricked me into doing it. No one here in the city knew your mother had been carrying the King’s son all along, except for the Queen. And when she found out, oh you can bet that she wanted your mother dead. And who do you think she came to? Me, the man already in charge of her own assassination. I should have killed the Queen right then and there, but I would’ve been killed myself by Royal Guards soon enough.”
He took a deep breath and continued.
“She told me she had heard whispers about plans to take her life and said she would be leaving the city for a few days with her husband that night and that it would be the perfect opportunity to kill Ayliana. And that’s how it happened. You were due that night, and the King snuck away to be there for your mother… When you were delivered, your father had taken you into another room to clean you off and… Well I knew I had to act fast to kill who I thought was the Queen, and in all the confusion, I…” He choked up. “An arrow. Through the window. I didn’t even know it was her until the next day.” He stopped for a moment and shed a few tears. The other men bowed their heads silently. “She was a good friend… I lament her loss.”
Tedjek looked like he was about to be sick.
“Then why…?”
“Why did the Queen want to release me?” Golan crossed his arms.
“The King certainly wanted be dead, but that Queen is a treacherous bitch. The Queen let me go today because she secretly reveled in the fact that the only woman your father truly loved—Ayliana—was dead. Instead of being announced as a Mahali death, my crime was written up as an attempt on her life to cover up the King’s unfaithfulness. And the Queen…” He held up a large bag and poured out gold coins onto the bar. “She paid me while I was captive in prison. She paid me to keep quiet about her unfaithful husband… and for your mother’s death. It was all to mock me, of course. She knew I was planning to assassinate her. I should’ve suspected her lies; she would never have come to trust a Mahali with such a task. That is why, all these years, I haven’t spent one of these damned coins.”
“So my whole life… they lied to me?” Tedjek reached for his sword and gazed at his reflection in the steel.
“They lied to us all!” Golan shouted. “Look at this city—it’s falling apart from their oppression! Your Father is adulterous, weak, and a poor ruler, and Aggiana is a manipulative woman. Tedjek, did you honestly feel any love from her?”
“I…” His voice faltered. “But my father—”
“Your father may love you, but why do you think there is a rebellion brewing at all? I’m afraid to say he’s a tyrant. There needs to be change.”
“You, Tedjek, are a good man. And one of us. We are not here to hurt you, or to make decisions for you. But everything I just told you is the truth… If you feel you can still sheathe that sword and go back home to those people, then so be it.” He stepped in front of the bar walked slowly up to the confused Prince and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“But the people, your people need your help. If you’re willing to leave your life behind and start anew with us… I can promise that with you on our side, things will turn out for the better.”
Tears brimmed the Prince’s green eyes and painfully he ripped away the royal seal he always wore around his neck underneath his clothes. He tossed it onto the ground and followed the rebels and Golan into the back room.
“Hey.”
“… Hey.”
“Thought I’d find you in here.”
“Looks like you were right.”
“Not a bad spot. A little dark for my tastes, but nice.”
“Not a fan of loud places, sir. Never have been. Give me the quiet spot and a good shot of whiskey and that’s all I’ve ever asked for. Maybe a bit of music too, the good stuff you know? None of that new shit that’s all flash but no heart. Hit me.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t fucking look at him, I said hit me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Christ, you can listen to him but not me. Wonderful.”
“I’m just-“
“Just what, sir? Looking out for me? I didn’t ask you to.”
“Just call me by my name, Sarah, we’re not on duty.”
“Does that mean I can officially say what I’d like to say, sir?”
“I’d like to say no to that, but go right on ahead.”
“Fuck off, Roy.”
“Noted, but refused.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“I haven’t even done anything to deserve that.”
“You’re here, ain’t you? I didn’t ask you to be. In fact, so far all I’ve told you is to leave me the fuck alone. I mean, shit, I’m sitting here in the afternoon all by myself with every intention of getting trash blasted straight to the moon. Did I really need to be more explicit?”
“I get your point.”
“Not doing a great job of showing it.”
“Yeah, I just think your point is bullshit.”
“Oh, are you here to be the preacher and tell me all the answers to my questions aren’t at the bottom of this glass?”
“Are they?”
“Fuck you.”
“I didn’t think so. Look, Sarah, I get it. The rest of the squad gets it.”
“You don’t. You can’t. You never will.”
“Well shit, Sarah. Throw me a fucking bone here, huh? I’m trying. We’re all trying, and we can’t do anything to help if you don’t let us. No! You’re not having another.”
“Don’t you do that, don’t you come here and tell me what I can or can’t do. We’re off-duty, so drop your shitty hero act cus’ I want nothing to do with it.”
“Fine. Fuck, fine, that’s just fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Just answer me one question, that’s all I want.”
“Depending on the question, you might be wanting a lot.”
“Have you visited him?”
“… No.”
“Not once?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.”
“Really, you would? Let’s say it was your father, you’re telling me you’d want to see that fucker ever again?”
“People make mistakes-“
“That’s one big mistake, sir, what he did wasn’t just a mistake, it’s fucking murder. I want you to understand that, and don’t you dare throw out that same line of bullshit everyone has been throwing me. Family is family, right? Family doesn’t fucking do that.”
“Shit, Sarah. Just let me speak for more than a second.”
“Well, I’m waiting. The floor is yours commander, do as you please.”
“Christ. All I’m saying is he’s your father. He raised you. There’s story there, history, the real shit, you hearing me? If you just let that all go it’s gonna’ eat you alive.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure. You’re really doing so well right now. Yeah, fuck me right? Fuck me. That’s all you’ve got to say about this, nothing else. Fuck off, Roy. Fuck off, everyone. Sarah can handle everything all on her own.”
“I can.”
“Bullshit. It’s bullshit and you know it.”
“No, Roy. I don’t fucking know it. You don’t understand, none of you understand. It wasn’t your dad. It wasn’t someone you knew, for all of you it was just a bunch of crazy lunatics and you were right to think that because only a psychopath could do what he did. You just don’t know.”
“It’s been a year. It’s over now.”
“Because I fucking ended it.”
“What?”
“They left it out of the report, sir. Psychological protection from trauma or whatever lie they pulled out of their ass to keep the cameras off me.”
“Left what out of the report, Sarah?”
“I was there that day. I was on some mundane patrol, just shooting the shit with one of my squad mates. We walked and walked, and I kept kicking a rusty old soup can just to pass the time. Then the bombs went off, and New Texas went to shit. We thought it we were being invaded, that it was some new world war about to break out, or something like that. Something. I didn’t ever believe it could be the resistance movement. What’s funny is that I agreed with them. Still do, honestly. I just never thought they could do that. No one could set off a bomb like that and just dust over a hundred thousand people going about their days like normal. But, they did.”
“You were there.”
“Yeah.”
“Then that means you were on the counter operation.”
“You’re quick Roy. Real quick.”
“So that night you-“
“Yeah. It was smooth, quick, and efficient. We were mad. I don’t think I can describe how we felt. You know, we do our jobs because that’s what we volunteered for but sometimes you don’t want to go through with all the things that go on out there. But this, this was different. We didn’t want to just stop them, we wanted to kill them. Butcher them. No mercy, no surrenders, no survivors. It was a long and quiet ride over there, but the fight was fast. Most of them were good shots, but a lot of ‘em didn’t have any real training. We knew that once the firefight started, and we exploited it. The fight was over in an hour, and that’s when I saw him, and that’s when I knew he’d done it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He asked me for forgiveness… I double-tapped him to the chest, once in the head when he was on the ground.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you? You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“What about your mom, your sisters?”
“Tell my mom I shot her husband? Tell my sisters I shot their fucking dad? Yeah, Roy, that’s a great idea. No, I haven’t told them. I haven’t seen them in over a year, and I didn’t go see that fucking monster get buried either if you’re wondering.”
“I was.”
“Well you don’t have to anymore. You got your answers, happy?”
“Not really. You want another drink?”
“Oh fuck you, you feel bad for me now?”
“Honestly, I just think you’ll go broke if I don’t pay for the next few rounds.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah, maybe, but at least I got a smile for that one.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Cheers, you prick...”
“You should see them, your mom and your sisters. I’m sure they’d like to see you.”
“I know they would. I’ve got plenty of messages to prove that true. Look, Roy, I just can’t face them. I just can’t look them in the eye knowing the truth of how it actually went down. That I was the one who shot him, and worse, I wanted to.”
“You could visit him first. What you lookin’ at me like that for? He won’t talk back. I’m just saying you need something, and if you don’t start getting your ass back out there you won’t ever find your way back. Is that how you want it to be?”
“No.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“No. I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe’s good. Maybe’s better than nothing, huh?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Yeah…”
“… Yeah.”
“… Hey.”
“Thought I’d find you in here.”
“Looks like you were right.”
“Not a bad spot. A little dark for my tastes, but nice.”
“Not a fan of loud places, sir. Never have been. Give me the quiet spot and a good shot of whiskey and that’s all I’ve ever asked for. Maybe a bit of music too, the good stuff you know? None of that new shit that’s all flash but no heart. Hit me.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t fucking look at him, I said hit me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Christ, you can listen to him but not me. Wonderful.”
“I’m just-“
“Just what, sir? Looking out for me? I didn’t ask you to.”
“Just call me by my name, Sarah, we’re not on duty.”
“Does that mean I can officially say what I’d like to say, sir?”
“I’d like to say no to that, but go right on ahead.”
“Fuck off, Roy.”
“Noted, but refused.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“I haven’t even done anything to deserve that.”
“You’re here, ain’t you? I didn’t ask you to be. In fact, so far all I’ve told you is to leave me the fuck alone. I mean, shit, I’m sitting here in the afternoon all by myself with every intention of getting trash blasted straight to the moon. Did I really need to be more explicit?”
“I get your point.”
“Not doing a great job of showing it.”
“Yeah, I just think your point is bullshit.”
“Oh, are you here to be the preacher and tell me all the answers to my questions aren’t at the bottom of this glass?”
“Are they?”
“Fuck you.”
“I didn’t think so. Look, Sarah, I get it. The rest of the squad gets it.”
“You don’t. You can’t. You never will.”
“Well shit, Sarah. Throw me a fucking bone here, huh? I’m trying. We’re all trying, and we can’t do anything to help if you don’t let us. No! You’re not having another.”
“Don’t you do that, don’t you come here and tell me what I can or can’t do. We’re off-duty, so drop your shitty hero act cus’ I want nothing to do with it.”
“Fine. Fuck, fine, that’s just fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Just answer me one question, that’s all I want.”
“Depending on the question, you might be wanting a lot.”
“Have you visited him?”
“… No.”
“Not once?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.”
“Really, you would? Let’s say it was your father, you’re telling me you’d want to see that fucker ever again?”
“People make mistakes-“
“That’s one big mistake, sir, what he did wasn’t just a mistake, it’s fucking murder. I want you to understand that, and don’t you dare throw out that same line of bullshit everyone has been throwing me. Family is family, right? Family doesn’t fucking do that.”
“Shit, Sarah. Just let me speak for more than a second.”
“Well, I’m waiting. The floor is yours commander, do as you please.”
“Christ. All I’m saying is he’s your father. He raised you. There’s story there, history, the real shit, you hearing me? If you just let that all go it’s gonna’ eat you alive.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure. You’re really doing so well right now. Yeah, fuck me right? Fuck me. That’s all you’ve got to say about this, nothing else. Fuck off, Roy. Fuck off, everyone. Sarah can handle everything all on her own.”
“I can.”
“Bullshit. It’s bullshit and you know it.”
“No, Roy. I don’t fucking know it. You don’t understand, none of you understand. It wasn’t your dad. It wasn’t someone you knew, for all of you it was just a bunch of crazy lunatics and you were right to think that because only a psychopath could do what he did. You just don’t know.”
“It’s been a year. It’s over now.”
“Because I fucking ended it.”
“What?”
“They left it out of the report, sir. Psychological protection from trauma or whatever lie they pulled out of their ass to keep the cameras off me.”
“Left what out of the report, Sarah?”
“I was there that day. I was on some mundane patrol, just shooting the shit with one of my squad mates. We walked and walked, and I kept kicking a rusty old soup can just to pass the time. Then the bombs went off, and New Texas went to shit. We thought it we were being invaded, that it was some new world war about to break out, or something like that. Something. I didn’t ever believe it could be the resistance movement. What’s funny is that I agreed with them. Still do, honestly. I just never thought they could do that. No one could set off a bomb like that and just dust over a hundred thousand people going about their days like normal. But, they did.”
“You were there.”
“Yeah.”
“Then that means you were on the counter operation.”
“You’re quick Roy. Real quick.”
“So that night you-“
“Yeah. It was smooth, quick, and efficient. We were mad. I don’t think I can describe how we felt. You know, we do our jobs because that’s what we volunteered for but sometimes you don’t want to go through with all the things that go on out there. But this, this was different. We didn’t want to just stop them, we wanted to kill them. Butcher them. No mercy, no surrenders, no survivors. It was a long and quiet ride over there, but the fight was fast. Most of them were good shots, but a lot of ‘em didn’t have any real training. We knew that once the firefight started, and we exploited it. The fight was over in an hour, and that’s when I saw him, and that’s when I knew he’d done it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He asked me for forgiveness… I double-tapped him to the chest, once in the head when he was on the ground.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you? You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“What about your mom, your sisters?”
“Tell my mom I shot her husband? Tell my sisters I shot their fucking dad? Yeah, Roy, that’s a great idea. No, I haven’t told them. I haven’t seen them in over a year, and I didn’t go see that fucking monster get buried either if you’re wondering.”
“I was.”
“Well you don’t have to anymore. You got your answers, happy?”
“Not really. You want another drink?”
“Oh fuck you, you feel bad for me now?”
“Honestly, I just think you’ll go broke if I don’t pay for the next few rounds.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah, maybe, but at least I got a smile for that one.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Cheers, you prick...”
“You should see them, your mom and your sisters. I’m sure they’d like to see you.”
“I know they would. I’ve got plenty of messages to prove that true. Look, Roy, I just can’t face them. I just can’t look them in the eye knowing the truth of how it actually went down. That I was the one who shot him, and worse, I wanted to.”
“You could visit him first. What you lookin’ at me like that for? He won’t talk back. I’m just saying you need something, and if you don’t start getting your ass back out there you won’t ever find your way back. Is that how you want it to be?”
“No.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“No. I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe’s good. Maybe’s better than nothing, huh?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Yeah…”
“… Yeah.”
P O T A T O E S
"It's been pretty much the same routine everyday. I sit at my desk and type away at my keyboard. Watch little black letters jump onto my screen and find their place in line. Around nine..ish I get my first phone call. Usually just some irate person complaining about the powers that be making decisions a couple pay grades above me, and I always give them a pass. It's too early to fight and honestly, I'm a little upset too... I'm tired, I'm incoherent, I'm unbalanced, I'm not ready for the day. Right now sounds are just... too loud and all I want to do is drown it all out, but then I hear you... and so my day begins, the same way every time:
'Would you like some coffee?'
I can't see your eyes. Or your mouth, or your... face. I can see the cups of steaming brew quite well actually but nothing else. You're always blocking yourself from my view. But I accept anyways, grab a cup off the tray and get back to my work... At least that's what I usually do. Lately however, I've been watching you.
You walk away on those skinny legs of yours with your back turned to me, your face always hidden. I watch as you carefully carve a path through each cubicle. Watch as you pass some joe to Amy with the fat lips. Watch as you pass some joe to David with the silly hair. Watch as you approach Carl and his fucked up arm.
It's been two months. He's mindfully typing away with one hand and wholly aware of your presence but also aware of the date. His review is just around the corner and it's painfully obvious that productivity has slowed since his accident. He's well on his way out the door and he's knows it but then you... you surprise me. It's even more surprising when I realize that you've been doing this almost every day. There you are, reaching out to lend a hand... and he takes it. And you move on.
By now Lily's at the front door and because of a bum leg, she can't get in. She's late... or she's going to be and it's clear by the panic in her porcelain eyes that her next write up will be her last. She can't help it of course but then again, neither can the job. It's not their fault that she's been reduced a limb and sadly, that's just the way of the world. The others? their too busy with their heads buried in the five by five foot square that is their world. Me? I'm too busy watching... And you? Well look who it is showing up to her rescue. She's missing a leg and so, you lend her yours. She makes it to her shitty job on time where she can do her shitty work. You leave her, one time punch closer to keeping her job, and then move on.
Mike. What the fuck would he do without you. A promotion too soon or may be one taken too late. He sits and stares are spreadsheets on his table all damn day. Illustrates graphs on a computer screen and gawks at them through blank eyes unable to absorb any of the information he's putting down. There is a meeting in forty minutes and it's calling for ideas and direction and what is Mike doing? He's looking for your eyes and ears. As soon as you're within earshot it's on. He runs his mouth like a motorboat, pointing at everything on the table and then nothing at all. He doesn't even let you speak and yet there you are, a wall for him to bounce his ideas off of until they start to make sense. And when forty minutes are up, he's gone, satisfactory presentation in hand... and you? You move on.
Your cubicle is across from mine and for a while now I've been trying to catch a glimpse of your face. But I can't. I can't find you because for whatever reason there is always something in the way. I could never quite see you and even when I try to be very quiet, I can't... hear you... and that's when I realized.
You've never asked me if I wanted coffee. Every time you came up to me in the morning, I threw those words into the air between us because that's what I wanted. Carl? He needed a hand. Lily needed a leg. Mike needed your eyes and ears and I just wanted someone to come up to me and ask me if I wanted some coffee because I was feeling miserable about being at work. I needed you and I took from you just like everyone else and that's why I can't see you. There's nothing left.
So... today, it's about nine thirty-ish and you've already made your rounds... and... I've just started making mine. I know it's a little strange because I don't normally do this but I thought you could be my first stop and I wanted to give you th-"
She took off her smile... and stuck it on his face.
Edit: Grammatical.
‘You’ve gotta be a villain,’ I said. ‘The good guys are constantly on the defensive, they’re the guys defending the good shit. Being a villain means you get to plan out the attack, take out the defenders way ahead of time, you’re more likely to win. Besides, as a good guy the best you’ll get is a pat on the back and a paycheck, villains gets to keep all their loot.’
‘Um, Charlotte,’ Holly looked a bit uncomfortable as she replied. Several of my like-minded friends giggled at my words, others looked uncomfortable, only Holly was able to reply. ‘I don’t think it’s that easy. Villains have to deal with the guilt of committing crimes, making people’s lives worse, being shunned…’
‘Eh,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll get easier over time. Not that it matters, none of us are going to awaken powers any time soon.’
The subject was dropped, and we eventually picked up our plates and deposited them at the proper place in the school cafeteria, and headed back to class.
_______
‘She’s bullying at school, she’s cheating at tests and she listens to nobody. W-we can’t let our girl continue like this…’
I staggered back, eyes wide staring at the wall of my room. It wasn’t that I just had heard my mother lament over me that had startled me. It was the fact I had heard her from four rooms away as if she had just spoken inside my head. In fact, I felt where she was, alongside my father. I also felt my neighbors, their neighbors, someone driving by in a car, numerous dogs and cats, countless bugs… I felt the location of everything living on the street, and I could choose to hear whatever sounds they were making. All I had wished for was to be able to eavesdrop on the conversation I knew they were having, and somehow I got it. And, instinctively, I knew it could do so much more. My lips curled into a grin.
‘… BO!’
Both my mom and dad jumped from the unexpected sound erupting in their heads, my voice. I felt their panic, and I laughed. This was glorious.
_______
‘Excluding you four, you currently have fifty-four men on this compound,’ I declared with confidence. ‘Thirty of them are playing games in the barracks, six of them are cooking lunch for the rest, fifteen are on guard, one is on the toilet and the two in the ceiling above me are filming me and have guns trained on me in case I do something funny. Then there are twenty-one hostages in the basement…’
Bloodshot, large man, local villain, sat with his hands together inspecting me along with the three other present power-users under his command. He looked like he needed some more convincing, so I continued.
‘I can also feel which ones are power-users. As of currently, including yourself, you have five power-users. Four in here, and one among the regular troops.’ Power-users somehow felt differently to my powers. I smirked, knowing how valuable this had to be. Finally, Bloodshot stood up, his large frame quite intimidating.
‘Impressive, I must admit,’ he said. ‘But before I let you join, you’re going to have to prove to me you have the heart of a villain.’
I looked at him a bit curiously, before one of the four suddenly vanished from existence. Only because I could sense him by my power did I know he had teleported down to the hostages. Down there he grabbed a few, and then he reappeared as suddenly as he had vanished in front of me, three bound hostages in hand. A middle-aged woman, a young man and an older man. The woman and the young man were struggling and crying, the old man was glaring angrily. The teleporter then held a handgun forward towards me. I frowned, looking over at the boss.
‘Prove to me your determination. I can’t trust someone who’s hands remain unsullied,’ Bloodshot said, gesturing at the gun.
While slightly hesitant, I accepted the gun. I’d never even seen one before, but knowing I might run into this situation I had studied their function. It was light, yet the danger was real. I inspected it for a second before ensuring the safety was on. Then I inserted my finger into the trigger-hole and started spinning the gun on it.
‘For the record, I think we could work together without these sorts of measures,’ I said, closing my eyes while spinning the gun abscently. ‘I could put my own demand saying you’re not to expose me to the rawer side of the operations. I think my power is useful enough you’ll have use of me regardless.’
‘That said,’ I finished, turning to the squirming hostages. I grabbed the gun, undid the safety, and directed it at the old man’s chests with one hand.
My aim was true, my expectation for the recoil was not.
As the bang of the gun sounded through my ears my fingers jerked in pain, my hand had flown up to so the two sections of my arm collided. First there did I manage to stop it after having staggered a bit. My ears hurt from the sound of the gunfire, but the man I had shot screamed so much louder. The shrill scream echoed inside my head, and seeing the blood on the floor staggered me more than the recoil. The man died moments later, falling over on the floor.
I grunted, feeling a disgusting feeling in my chest. Guilt? Disgust? Fuck that. I gripped the gun with two hands before directing it. My power helped me aim, and with two more bangs I shot the woman in the heart and the young man in the head. They died way faster than the old man.
The feeling wouldn’t go away. I stood frozen where I had fired the last bullet, looking over the three corpses. The three individuals I had killed. I might have remained there if Bloodshot hadn’t started slowly applauding. Reawakening, I brought the gun hand to my hips and grinned at him.
‘So? Sullied enough for you? You got it all on film, too,’ I giggled, knowing the people in the ceiling had filmed the proof.
‘I’m willing to give you a shot. Come, let’s share the news with the team. I want them all to see you,’ Bloodshot stated, some pride in his voice, as he and his underlings passed me towards the door. I breathed out in relief, but… the repulsive feeling in my chest hadn’t gone away, my hands were shaking. I looked at them, one of which was still holding the gun. I couldn’t stop the shaking. I gritted my teeth, clutching the gun hard, before I turned to follow Bloodshot.
It’ll get easier over time, I told myself.
_______
It was a curious feeling, seeing someone get killed with my power. It could only pick up living beings over a certain size, so as soon as they died they just vanished. For four months, I directed Bloodshot’s team with my surveying power, warned about opposing power-users and informed of enemy numbers, looked out for reinforcements. Battlefield control was my game, and I played it well. I could make call-outs that nobody else could, and I was now an integral part of the team. I directed them to kill so many people…
Even when I stood a kilometer away, I sensed Bloodshot shooting his blood-shots at the guards, I felt Hijack teleporting people hundreds of meters into the air to fall to their deaths, I felt Clawress literally slicing people in half. For all these months… the feeling of disgust in my chest had never vanished. Even though I myself had never partaken in the killing again, the feeling had never vanished.
I felt two guards running straight for Bloodshot’s trap through a door. I frowned in frustration.
‘Stop, you fools!’
I didn’t realize I had sent the message to their minds until I saw them stagger and stop. Oh, fuck. … Well, whatever!
‘Bloodshot’s behind this door! If you know what’s good for you, hide and don’t show yourselves until-’
Bloodshot decided not to wait and leapt at the door before immediately shooting both guards, who winked out of existence to my senses.
‘Damn it,’ I whispered, frustrated.
‘Scryer?’ one of the guard assigned to protect me immediately asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘…’ I didn’t give him a reply. I didn’t trust myself to not completely fuck up my excuse. I suppressed my feelings and kept up my support.
It’ll get easier over time… right?
_______
It was a drunken party, months later. Because of my help, Bloodshot’s gang could constantly evade authorities, because I felt their approach. Tonight they celebrated another victory, another successful deal, and I pretended to be knocked out from some of the things that had been distributed. It was easier like that. I… I didn’t feel like celebrating. They didn’t know, I was now repeatedly sending warnings ahead of time, to prevent unnecessary loss of life. Each time I had to simply pray Bloodshot didn’t find me out. But no matter what I did, the feelings just wouldn’t go away. The feelings of disgust in my chest, the feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. It wasn’t getting any easier.
Suddenly, I felt someone entering my range. A flying hero. Judging by the pose as he flew… Starlight.
I lay there silently. I knew what I should do. It was so easy to do, too.
I made my decision.
‘Starlight. This is Scryer.’
_______________
And there I was. I sat on a stump in a forest, arms crossed, looking on from a range as Bloodshot’s gang were being ambushed by heroes they didn’t even know were coming. I sat with a somber expression, knowing they were trusting me to look out. My guards had no idea, they assumed my silence meant everything was going according to plan. I felt the special forces approaching my position. Old Gunslinger was leading them.
‘Raise your hand, so we know who not to shoot,’ Gunslinger said. Obediently I raised my right hand up above my head.
‘Scryer? What are you-’
The guard didn’t have time to finish the sentence before a spray of bullets flashed through between the trees, taking down the guards around me. I breathed in heavily, feeling the finality of their bodies hitting the ground around me. The special forces moved in, double-checking that they had finished off my guards.
In the distance I felt Starlight and Steelia take on Bloodshot. Hijack and Clawress were out, as were the other power-users. Bloodshot was there… and there he was out. It was over.
Gunslinger walked and stood beside me. Older man with a gun, grey beard, limited sight into the future that allowed him to predict what would happen and see exactly how to act to win. Yeah, I couldn’t counter that.
‘You do understand that we still have to arrest you?’ he asked, in a calm but thankful voice.
‘… Yeah. I’m ready.’ I said, breathing out.
I sighed. My life was basically over. I was a known villain with blood on my hands. But with this, the disgusting feeling had finally withdrawn. It wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t as bad. I would live my whole life from now regretting what I had done… but at least for now, I was satisfied.
‘I’ll see if I can put in a good word for you,’ Gunslinger suddenly said, causing me to look up in surprise. ‘We could really use someone like you. If possible, I’d like to give you a second chance. If you really regret what you did, then you’ve got a long route to go for redemption yet. Are you ready to travel it?’
‘… Ha.’
I couldn’t do more than laugh. Was I going to get a chance to make things right? … It was more than I felt I deserved. But… if he was going to put it that way…
‘… Yes, sir. Gladly, sir.’
It was bittersweet. But perhaps, with enough work, I’d be able to make up for what I had done, and the pain in my chest could go away.
Who knows? Perhaps forgiving myself would get easier over time.
‘Um, Charlotte,’ Holly looked a bit uncomfortable as she replied. Several of my like-minded friends giggled at my words, others looked uncomfortable, only Holly was able to reply. ‘I don’t think it’s that easy. Villains have to deal with the guilt of committing crimes, making people’s lives worse, being shunned…’
‘Eh,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll get easier over time. Not that it matters, none of us are going to awaken powers any time soon.’
The subject was dropped, and we eventually picked up our plates and deposited them at the proper place in the school cafeteria, and headed back to class.
_______
‘She’s bullying at school, she’s cheating at tests and she listens to nobody. W-we can’t let our girl continue like this…’
I staggered back, eyes wide staring at the wall of my room. It wasn’t that I just had heard my mother lament over me that had startled me. It was the fact I had heard her from four rooms away as if she had just spoken inside my head. In fact, I felt where she was, alongside my father. I also felt my neighbors, their neighbors, someone driving by in a car, numerous dogs and cats, countless bugs… I felt the location of everything living on the street, and I could choose to hear whatever sounds they were making. All I had wished for was to be able to eavesdrop on the conversation I knew they were having, and somehow I got it. And, instinctively, I knew it could do so much more. My lips curled into a grin.
‘… BO!’
Both my mom and dad jumped from the unexpected sound erupting in their heads, my voice. I felt their panic, and I laughed. This was glorious.
_______
‘Excluding you four, you currently have fifty-four men on this compound,’ I declared with confidence. ‘Thirty of them are playing games in the barracks, six of them are cooking lunch for the rest, fifteen are on guard, one is on the toilet and the two in the ceiling above me are filming me and have guns trained on me in case I do something funny. Then there are twenty-one hostages in the basement…’
Bloodshot, large man, local villain, sat with his hands together inspecting me along with the three other present power-users under his command. He looked like he needed some more convincing, so I continued.
‘I can also feel which ones are power-users. As of currently, including yourself, you have five power-users. Four in here, and one among the regular troops.’ Power-users somehow felt differently to my powers. I smirked, knowing how valuable this had to be. Finally, Bloodshot stood up, his large frame quite intimidating.
‘Impressive, I must admit,’ he said. ‘But before I let you join, you’re going to have to prove to me you have the heart of a villain.’
I looked at him a bit curiously, before one of the four suddenly vanished from existence. Only because I could sense him by my power did I know he had teleported down to the hostages. Down there he grabbed a few, and then he reappeared as suddenly as he had vanished in front of me, three bound hostages in hand. A middle-aged woman, a young man and an older man. The woman and the young man were struggling and crying, the old man was glaring angrily. The teleporter then held a handgun forward towards me. I frowned, looking over at the boss.
‘Prove to me your determination. I can’t trust someone who’s hands remain unsullied,’ Bloodshot said, gesturing at the gun.
While slightly hesitant, I accepted the gun. I’d never even seen one before, but knowing I might run into this situation I had studied their function. It was light, yet the danger was real. I inspected it for a second before ensuring the safety was on. Then I inserted my finger into the trigger-hole and started spinning the gun on it.
‘For the record, I think we could work together without these sorts of measures,’ I said, closing my eyes while spinning the gun abscently. ‘I could put my own demand saying you’re not to expose me to the rawer side of the operations. I think my power is useful enough you’ll have use of me regardless.’
‘That said,’ I finished, turning to the squirming hostages. I grabbed the gun, undid the safety, and directed it at the old man’s chests with one hand.
My aim was true, my expectation for the recoil was not.
As the bang of the gun sounded through my ears my fingers jerked in pain, my hand had flown up to so the two sections of my arm collided. First there did I manage to stop it after having staggered a bit. My ears hurt from the sound of the gunfire, but the man I had shot screamed so much louder. The shrill scream echoed inside my head, and seeing the blood on the floor staggered me more than the recoil. The man died moments later, falling over on the floor.
I grunted, feeling a disgusting feeling in my chest. Guilt? Disgust? Fuck that. I gripped the gun with two hands before directing it. My power helped me aim, and with two more bangs I shot the woman in the heart and the young man in the head. They died way faster than the old man.
The feeling wouldn’t go away. I stood frozen where I had fired the last bullet, looking over the three corpses. The three individuals I had killed. I might have remained there if Bloodshot hadn’t started slowly applauding. Reawakening, I brought the gun hand to my hips and grinned at him.
‘So? Sullied enough for you? You got it all on film, too,’ I giggled, knowing the people in the ceiling had filmed the proof.
‘I’m willing to give you a shot. Come, let’s share the news with the team. I want them all to see you,’ Bloodshot stated, some pride in his voice, as he and his underlings passed me towards the door. I breathed out in relief, but… the repulsive feeling in my chest hadn’t gone away, my hands were shaking. I looked at them, one of which was still holding the gun. I couldn’t stop the shaking. I gritted my teeth, clutching the gun hard, before I turned to follow Bloodshot.
It’ll get easier over time, I told myself.
_______
It was a curious feeling, seeing someone get killed with my power. It could only pick up living beings over a certain size, so as soon as they died they just vanished. For four months, I directed Bloodshot’s team with my surveying power, warned about opposing power-users and informed of enemy numbers, looked out for reinforcements. Battlefield control was my game, and I played it well. I could make call-outs that nobody else could, and I was now an integral part of the team. I directed them to kill so many people…
Even when I stood a kilometer away, I sensed Bloodshot shooting his blood-shots at the guards, I felt Hijack teleporting people hundreds of meters into the air to fall to their deaths, I felt Clawress literally slicing people in half. For all these months… the feeling of disgust in my chest had never vanished. Even though I myself had never partaken in the killing again, the feeling had never vanished.
I felt two guards running straight for Bloodshot’s trap through a door. I frowned in frustration.
‘Stop, you fools!’
I didn’t realize I had sent the message to their minds until I saw them stagger and stop. Oh, fuck. … Well, whatever!
‘Bloodshot’s behind this door! If you know what’s good for you, hide and don’t show yourselves until-’
Bloodshot decided not to wait and leapt at the door before immediately shooting both guards, who winked out of existence to my senses.
‘Damn it,’ I whispered, frustrated.
‘Scryer?’ one of the guard assigned to protect me immediately asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘…’ I didn’t give him a reply. I didn’t trust myself to not completely fuck up my excuse. I suppressed my feelings and kept up my support.
It’ll get easier over time… right?
_______
It was a drunken party, months later. Because of my help, Bloodshot’s gang could constantly evade authorities, because I felt their approach. Tonight they celebrated another victory, another successful deal, and I pretended to be knocked out from some of the things that had been distributed. It was easier like that. I… I didn’t feel like celebrating. They didn’t know, I was now repeatedly sending warnings ahead of time, to prevent unnecessary loss of life. Each time I had to simply pray Bloodshot didn’t find me out. But no matter what I did, the feelings just wouldn’t go away. The feelings of disgust in my chest, the feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. It wasn’t getting any easier.
Suddenly, I felt someone entering my range. A flying hero. Judging by the pose as he flew… Starlight.
I lay there silently. I knew what I should do. It was so easy to do, too.
I made my decision.
‘Starlight. This is Scryer.’
_______________
And there I was. I sat on a stump in a forest, arms crossed, looking on from a range as Bloodshot’s gang were being ambushed by heroes they didn’t even know were coming. I sat with a somber expression, knowing they were trusting me to look out. My guards had no idea, they assumed my silence meant everything was going according to plan. I felt the special forces approaching my position. Old Gunslinger was leading them.
‘Raise your hand, so we know who not to shoot,’ Gunslinger said. Obediently I raised my right hand up above my head.
‘Scryer? What are you-’
The guard didn’t have time to finish the sentence before a spray of bullets flashed through between the trees, taking down the guards around me. I breathed in heavily, feeling the finality of their bodies hitting the ground around me. The special forces moved in, double-checking that they had finished off my guards.
In the distance I felt Starlight and Steelia take on Bloodshot. Hijack and Clawress were out, as were the other power-users. Bloodshot was there… and there he was out. It was over.
Gunslinger walked and stood beside me. Older man with a gun, grey beard, limited sight into the future that allowed him to predict what would happen and see exactly how to act to win. Yeah, I couldn’t counter that.
‘You do understand that we still have to arrest you?’ he asked, in a calm but thankful voice.
‘… Yeah. I’m ready.’ I said, breathing out.
I sighed. My life was basically over. I was a known villain with blood on my hands. But with this, the disgusting feeling had finally withdrawn. It wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t as bad. I would live my whole life from now regretting what I had done… but at least for now, I was satisfied.
‘I’ll see if I can put in a good word for you,’ Gunslinger suddenly said, causing me to look up in surprise. ‘We could really use someone like you. If possible, I’d like to give you a second chance. If you really regret what you did, then you’ve got a long route to go for redemption yet. Are you ready to travel it?’
‘… Ha.’
I couldn’t do more than laugh. Was I going to get a chance to make things right? … It was more than I felt I deserved. But… if he was going to put it that way…
‘… Yes, sir. Gladly, sir.’
It was bittersweet. But perhaps, with enough work, I’d be able to make up for what I had done, and the pain in my chest could go away.
Who knows? Perhaps forgiving myself would get easier over time.
Soren was falling.
He was also lucid. That was unusual. Why did he consider that unusual? Then it all came back: the moments before he had broken.
Soren dashed through an infinite desert, running in vain from a pursuer who could make the imaginary wasteland bigger.
He had been told of this place: this limbo between his mind and his body, where he could see everything. His heart raced as he considered the implications. That was new—he could feel his heartbeat again.
Soren dove into the shallow oasis, hoping for a way out. It was deeper than he thought; he fell through the water, drowning on the way, and came out in a jungle full of abominations.
He was free.
He heard screaming. It was his voice. Thousands of tendrils flayed him in places he didn’t know could hurt.
It’s said that only a sane man can tell who is insane. For a few shining moments, Soren was still in the mindscape; he had control. He could save himself from insanity.
His fellow Lords of Chaos closed in on him. They had green hair, just like him. That was funny. All he knew was pain. He laughed.
Soren tried desperately to forget it all. He gathered up the memories of his abusers wherever he could find them, smashing them together, shoving them into a box. When he shut it, he forgot.
He stopped feeling. That was better. Maybe he could tell these people to stop, nicely. Anger boiled up in him, he saw red, and the jungle burned. He heard screams; they were not his own.
He found his insanity, snarls of thorny vines pulling connections apart and smashing them together. It had broken his consciousness, stolen his awareness. He had to get rid of it.
He had long since stopped laughing. There was no more satisfaction in this jungle. He would simply have to take his revenge farther.
When he bundled them up and freed his mind, he screamed. The pain was back. He didn’t want it! But he didn’t want the insanity, either. What could he do with it?
Soren ruled. Every Lord of Chaos bowed to him, cowering in fear. They thought they could use him in his own mind? He’d teach them pain.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He dropped the ball of madness somewhere, hoping that in its shrunken state it couldn’t do any damage—and then he ran out of time. He fell out of the mindscape and into his body for the first time in months. He had escaped his insanity. He could begin again.
He stood in a grassy plain dotted with oddly shaped buildings; people he didn’t know milled about him, looking confused. He was confused. Then he turned around and saw a group several yards away from him, full of his friends. Had they saved him? He thought he should feel excitement upon seeing them, but he did not. He pretended he did, anyway. “Hey!” he shouted, a huge grin on his face. His voice was hard and boyish, rough and slightly raspy, and he spoke with energy. “I’m over here, guys!”
The first person to turn around was his sister, red-white hair and all. Her eyes widened, and she rushed toward him, the others in the group following. Soren smiled, still confused, as Ruby wrapped him in her arms; he figured it was socially acceptable to hug her back.
“Welcome back, Soren,” she said, her voice catching like she was relieved. It was a little rough, like his—she must have lost her composure—but it was beautifully melodic. “It’s been so long.”
“I bet it has. Gosh, Ruby, what happened to me? It feels like it's been forever, and nobody ever told me while I was in there.”
Ruby pulled back from the hug. “Svár took over your body and mind. Then he forced you into the shared mind with the rest of the old Lords of Chaos.” Soren nodded; that last part he knew. Where had all his memories gone? He was sure he had done so much, but he felt like he only remembered the first month or two.
Data spoke up; he was a tall, pale man with a mop of black hair and a lab coat. “We located Svár, subdued him, and entered your mind,” he began, with a crisp, rich voice, deep and flowing. “There, we discovered and eradicated the corruption that some malevolent force had touched him with, and then we rescued you and brought you back in control.”
“Huh. Was it fun?” Soren wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d be able to feel fun. However, the things that ran through his mind when he thought of the word “fun” were not all socially acceptable.
“Yeah, actually, it was,” Ruby replied, tilting her head. “Since when did you care about fun? You used to be so stoic and solemn and serious.”
Soren grinned. “Ruby, if you didn’t have fun while rescuing me from Svár of all people, then that was no rescue at all. And, well, I spent a lot of time with the other Lords of Chaos. They’re pretty laid-back; I think they rubbed off on me. I’m a new me, you know? I hope that’s okay.” He thought that was right, but really, he barely remembered the Lords' names, let alone what kinds of people they were.
Ruby nodded. “It’s totally okay. You’ll always be my brother.” She squeezed Soren in another tight hug. He felt tears stain his shirt. When Ruby next spoke, her voice broke. “I’m so glad you’re back.” The rest of Soren’s friends followed Ruby into the hug, enveloping him in a loving embrace.
Soren felt no love. Instead, he felt thorns. When his sister hugged him, something utterly terrible, something horrible and new, grew inside him. It was anger. Unprecedented rage exploded inside of him, and in moments it seethed like a tempest. He hated Ruby, and he hated his friends, and he hated the whole world he was standing on. Green magic suffused his body as he prepared to unleash his fury.
It’s said that only a sane man can tell who is insane. Soren was free from his madness. He was a new man. A sane man. After all, he had boxed up his insanity and thrown it away.
Why was there a knife in his hand?
He stabbed himself in the stomach. It felt… good.
His anger melted away. Ruby screamed, and then he blacked out.
He was also lucid. That was unusual. Why did he consider that unusual? Then it all came back: the moments before he had broken.
Soren dashed through an infinite desert, running in vain from a pursuer who could make the imaginary wasteland bigger.
He had been told of this place: this limbo between his mind and his body, where he could see everything. His heart raced as he considered the implications. That was new—he could feel his heartbeat again.
Soren dove into the shallow oasis, hoping for a way out. It was deeper than he thought; he fell through the water, drowning on the way, and came out in a jungle full of abominations.
He was free.
He heard screaming. It was his voice. Thousands of tendrils flayed him in places he didn’t know could hurt.
It’s said that only a sane man can tell who is insane. For a few shining moments, Soren was still in the mindscape; he had control. He could save himself from insanity.
His fellow Lords of Chaos closed in on him. They had green hair, just like him. That was funny. All he knew was pain. He laughed.
Soren tried desperately to forget it all. He gathered up the memories of his abusers wherever he could find them, smashing them together, shoving them into a box. When he shut it, he forgot.
He stopped feeling. That was better. Maybe he could tell these people to stop, nicely. Anger boiled up in him, he saw red, and the jungle burned. He heard screams; they were not his own.
He found his insanity, snarls of thorny vines pulling connections apart and smashing them together. It had broken his consciousness, stolen his awareness. He had to get rid of it.
He had long since stopped laughing. There was no more satisfaction in this jungle. He would simply have to take his revenge farther.
When he bundled them up and freed his mind, he screamed. The pain was back. He didn’t want it! But he didn’t want the insanity, either. What could he do with it?
Soren ruled. Every Lord of Chaos bowed to him, cowering in fear. They thought they could use him in his own mind? He’d teach them pain.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He dropped the ball of madness somewhere, hoping that in its shrunken state it couldn’t do any damage—and then he ran out of time. He fell out of the mindscape and into his body for the first time in months. He had escaped his insanity. He could begin again.
He stood in a grassy plain dotted with oddly shaped buildings; people he didn’t know milled about him, looking confused. He was confused. Then he turned around and saw a group several yards away from him, full of his friends. Had they saved him? He thought he should feel excitement upon seeing them, but he did not. He pretended he did, anyway. “Hey!” he shouted, a huge grin on his face. His voice was hard and boyish, rough and slightly raspy, and he spoke with energy. “I’m over here, guys!”
The first person to turn around was his sister, red-white hair and all. Her eyes widened, and she rushed toward him, the others in the group following. Soren smiled, still confused, as Ruby wrapped him in her arms; he figured it was socially acceptable to hug her back.
“Welcome back, Soren,” she said, her voice catching like she was relieved. It was a little rough, like his—she must have lost her composure—but it was beautifully melodic. “It’s been so long.”
“I bet it has. Gosh, Ruby, what happened to me? It feels like it's been forever, and nobody ever told me while I was in there.”
Ruby pulled back from the hug. “Svár took over your body and mind. Then he forced you into the shared mind with the rest of the old Lords of Chaos.” Soren nodded; that last part he knew. Where had all his memories gone? He was sure he had done so much, but he felt like he only remembered the first month or two.
Data spoke up; he was a tall, pale man with a mop of black hair and a lab coat. “We located Svár, subdued him, and entered your mind,” he began, with a crisp, rich voice, deep and flowing. “There, we discovered and eradicated the corruption that some malevolent force had touched him with, and then we rescued you and brought you back in control.”
“Huh. Was it fun?” Soren wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d be able to feel fun. However, the things that ran through his mind when he thought of the word “fun” were not all socially acceptable.
“Yeah, actually, it was,” Ruby replied, tilting her head. “Since when did you care about fun? You used to be so stoic and solemn and serious.”
Soren grinned. “Ruby, if you didn’t have fun while rescuing me from Svár of all people, then that was no rescue at all. And, well, I spent a lot of time with the other Lords of Chaos. They’re pretty laid-back; I think they rubbed off on me. I’m a new me, you know? I hope that’s okay.” He thought that was right, but really, he barely remembered the Lords' names, let alone what kinds of people they were.
Ruby nodded. “It’s totally okay. You’ll always be my brother.” She squeezed Soren in another tight hug. He felt tears stain his shirt. When Ruby next spoke, her voice broke. “I’m so glad you’re back.” The rest of Soren’s friends followed Ruby into the hug, enveloping him in a loving embrace.
Soren felt no love. Instead, he felt thorns. When his sister hugged him, something utterly terrible, something horrible and new, grew inside him. It was anger. Unprecedented rage exploded inside of him, and in moments it seethed like a tempest. He hated Ruby, and he hated his friends, and he hated the whole world he was standing on. Green magic suffused his body as he prepared to unleash his fury.
It’s said that only a sane man can tell who is insane. Soren was free from his madness. He was a new man. A sane man. After all, he had boxed up his insanity and thrown it away.
Why was there a knife in his hand?
He stabbed himself in the stomach. It felt… good.
His anger melted away. Ruby screamed, and then he blacked out.
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