She meets the eyes of her reflection in the mirror.
– a mirror of mirrors.
Inverted eyes and inverted smiles, glimmering shadows of crystalline blue framed in curling lashes of black painted matte, she has garbed herself in finishes of red and silver, liken to warpaint, all harsh lines and feathered out colors with darkened undertones and glimmering shards of ruby. Her gaze feels heavy, slumberous, intentional, slick scarlet smiles perched over glistening bone to answer her observation before some unknown emotion compels her to look away. It’s with a devastating finesse that Amma Cahors inspires, and it’s with brutal efficiency that she performs as she cinches her waist and bodice in latex, a corsetted garment rigged with ebony, bone, and silver metals. Gossamer fabrics spill down her supple shoulders, bisected through ebony materials of mesh and nylon to expose inked skin and embossed scarring. A canvas of terror and the macabre beauty of torment undone under the might of life and power now harnessed into the weaponized woman that was Tiamat. It was the exterior of the beast, the facade, the donned mask of cruelty with barbed snatches of teeth and waggling tongues of malice; viperish annotations curled into French brooding, whispers of a lover endured and forlorn– lamented over in her passing graces.
Little more than a tool, a sword, a spear perhaps, little less than human.
Just the means to the end.
Through darkened tunnels and blackened halls, she was guided on rattling chains, some black and some rusted, some silvered and some purely decorative to be scalloped along her figure and through the deep plunge at her front where an inked moth pulsated with tendrils of red over skull donned wings. Freshly embedded yellows accentuated grays and whites, and she delicately traced over it in idle musings as she walked with an alluring swagger, her usual diminutive height exaggerated by the heeled boots belted over her legs with cinched, crisscrossing leather done all the way up to her thighs, buckled in silver. They lead her through a door and then another before introducing her onto the official set where a photo shoot has been scheduled; it is an initiation, a welcoming affair to the newest addition to The Foundation Force.
To welcome the experiment, the product, the one Made to be All, Amma Cahors, dubbed Tiamat as a goddess of chaos and destruction. A single moniker to embalm the fear she commands in crackling crimson and the void of death and renown eternally endowed. Everything is deliberate; everything is purposely undone; everything is permitted in the artful display of curling black that frames her elaborate pretenses, volumized to lengthen her intimidating stature to capture onto film and later displayed in banners to herald her inclusion into these infamous ranks. Here, she is a doll, a porcelain figure, a catered-over thing that hands fuss and brush and pluck over, head tilted here, arms positioned there, a curling lash to flutter then, and brushed lock of hair done too. A line of imposing heroes stand in her peripheral, guarded eyes awash in mute detachment, familiar with the procedures and now silently acknowledging the girl before them to be as one of them.
She is so young, one utters.
We were once young too.
The Amma that is not Amma flashes her eyes through slanting black, a glow that pours down her carefully done features, a dusting of blue that shimmers in silver as they talk until a hand guides her face back, a cruel smile donned and slid through her rouged cheeks that she bites around, literally snapping her teeth as a feral animal.
“Don’t touch me.” She calmly speaks, but there is a tremor through her hands, a subtle twitch in her brow, as she procures a darling smile and focuses back onto the camera, poised to perfection and not permitted to be anything less.
One. Two. Three.
She is instructed to turn, to bend, to summon those whipping red tendrils into a frenzy. Arcing lines of chaos glisten against her skin and writhe through her hair, plumes of black spiraling up and out. A show. A demonstration. It’s all for the camera, it’s all for the stories spun through the world, it’s all for the –
What is it all for?
One. Two. Three.
She smiles. She dances. She even sings.
Through it all, no one notices the tears that go unshed or the brittle soul that screams from within; the child she was facing against a mirror shattered and lost, reflecting all that was broken and what little shards of humanity remained.
A mirror of mirrors.
– a mirror of mirrors.
Inverted eyes and inverted smiles, glimmering shadows of crystalline blue framed in curling lashes of black painted matte, she has garbed herself in finishes of red and silver, liken to warpaint, all harsh lines and feathered out colors with darkened undertones and glimmering shards of ruby. Her gaze feels heavy, slumberous, intentional, slick scarlet smiles perched over glistening bone to answer her observation before some unknown emotion compels her to look away. It’s with a devastating finesse that Amma Cahors inspires, and it’s with brutal efficiency that she performs as she cinches her waist and bodice in latex, a corsetted garment rigged with ebony, bone, and silver metals. Gossamer fabrics spill down her supple shoulders, bisected through ebony materials of mesh and nylon to expose inked skin and embossed scarring. A canvas of terror and the macabre beauty of torment undone under the might of life and power now harnessed into the weaponized woman that was Tiamat. It was the exterior of the beast, the facade, the donned mask of cruelty with barbed snatches of teeth and waggling tongues of malice; viperish annotations curled into French brooding, whispers of a lover endured and forlorn– lamented over in her passing graces.
Little more than a tool, a sword, a spear perhaps, little less than human.
Just the means to the end.
Through darkened tunnels and blackened halls, she was guided on rattling chains, some black and some rusted, some silvered and some purely decorative to be scalloped along her figure and through the deep plunge at her front where an inked moth pulsated with tendrils of red over skull donned wings. Freshly embedded yellows accentuated grays and whites, and she delicately traced over it in idle musings as she walked with an alluring swagger, her usual diminutive height exaggerated by the heeled boots belted over her legs with cinched, crisscrossing leather done all the way up to her thighs, buckled in silver. They lead her through a door and then another before introducing her onto the official set where a photo shoot has been scheduled; it is an initiation, a welcoming affair to the newest addition to The Foundation Force.
To welcome the experiment, the product, the one Made to be All, Amma Cahors, dubbed Tiamat as a goddess of chaos and destruction. A single moniker to embalm the fear she commands in crackling crimson and the void of death and renown eternally endowed. Everything is deliberate; everything is purposely undone; everything is permitted in the artful display of curling black that frames her elaborate pretenses, volumized to lengthen her intimidating stature to capture onto film and later displayed in banners to herald her inclusion into these infamous ranks. Here, she is a doll, a porcelain figure, a catered-over thing that hands fuss and brush and pluck over, head tilted here, arms positioned there, a curling lash to flutter then, and brushed lock of hair done too. A line of imposing heroes stand in her peripheral, guarded eyes awash in mute detachment, familiar with the procedures and now silently acknowledging the girl before them to be as one of them.
She is so young, one utters.
We were once young too.
The Amma that is not Amma flashes her eyes through slanting black, a glow that pours down her carefully done features, a dusting of blue that shimmers in silver as they talk until a hand guides her face back, a cruel smile donned and slid through her rouged cheeks that she bites around, literally snapping her teeth as a feral animal.
“Don’t touch me.” She calmly speaks, but there is a tremor through her hands, a subtle twitch in her brow, as she procures a darling smile and focuses back onto the camera, poised to perfection and not permitted to be anything less.
One. Two. Three.
She is instructed to turn, to bend, to summon those whipping red tendrils into a frenzy. Arcing lines of chaos glisten against her skin and writhe through her hair, plumes of black spiraling up and out. A show. A demonstration. It’s all for the camera, it’s all for the stories spun through the world, it’s all for the –
What is it all for?
One. Two. Three.
She smiles. She dances. She even sings.
Through it all, no one notices the tears that go unshed or the brittle soul that screams from within; the child she was facing against a mirror shattered and lost, reflecting all that was broken and what little shards of humanity remained.
A mirror of mirrors.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Unknown.
Human #5.047: awaken.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s):&
Previously: éternité.
It’s all so familiar. Perhaps it is too familiar to be anything but a coincidence.
The howling sounds, the eerily alluring echoes of wind-song that billow through the damp rock, all of it alludes back to a time that seems so far away, what feels like months ago is only maybe a handful of weeks, but in her weighted bones, it feels… longer. It is a sensation that she cannot explain, but as she glances over the edge once more and regards the spires of rock below, everything feels reflected somehow. Switched. Where up is down and left is right. On shaking limbs, Amma lowers her body to sit with legs swinging over the edge, exhaustion allowing for little else as she leans against the yawning mouth of the aperture and sighs out a heavy breath that pulls her shoulders down and her eyes to close with them.
Death was so, so tiring.
Though now, Amma had to venture if that is what truly happened to her, for the pain that continued to pulse through her wounded legs and body numbingly, it all felt entirely too natural. Too real. Far too aware of being anything but life that spilled crimson rivulets down her flesh from needle-like punctures through her thigh and the old bruising and marks to be as faded as they were, recent injuries that should not have been so advanced or deep. She tried to decipher why and how—relying on recent memories that resurfaced with the vague recollection of her mother’s stories. They were too disjointed, hazing in and out as fragmented pieces of truth, lies, and shattered frames of red that burned through her venture as she tried. More locks were found in the layers of her mind, and more fractured remains floated unbound between her ears and phased into shadow, forgotten and forsaken.
Amma cradles her head within her scarred and bloodied palms.
This was not death, no, and it was not even an actual hell.
It was something, far, far worse, something unknown. Perhaps it was the realm meant for the beast that was her calling card, the prophesied creature worn through time and hate that reigned here as an almighty being of eternal demote.
And if this was such a place, and the cavern she crawled through was possibly an entryway to this realm, could she return?
Did she want to?
She glanced back into the darkness. Perhaps what attacked her, what horrible things she had seen, were watchers of a gate, of the pit she had languished in, unleashed to feed upon her remains so that she may never attempt to go back. Perhaps it was all meant to appease her into that possibility, to dream and brood over this afterlife of all she could have been under the passionate revelations found in a kiss and softened words whispered into a dance.
What good did it do now to think about it when he was dead?
Amma sunk nails into her temples and raked through her tangled hair, pulling through the strands to temper her sudden grief. She allowed no tears to fall, for no sorrow could encompass the well of sadness that burst to life betwixt her heaving ribs as she gazed up to a blooded moon and wished with all the power she once possessed to cleave through this shaded torment and rend it all asunder. For him. For her. For all the lost and forlorn souls of life, for all of Blackjack. Rage festered there and overtook her misery, sharpened it into a blade that cauterized her dejection and filled her lungs with a frenzy of harsh anger, of a blackness that fell into the familiar depths of her soul of souls, flitted to the fragments of self and wed to the brim of her hate. Amma grits her teeth and pulls at the tattered remains of her dress; she shreds through silks with a grunt and a hiss, wrapped pieces of obsidian skirts over her palms and the bruised soles of her feet. With a scream of pain, she took more swatches of fabric and bunched it over her bleeding wound, ignoring the webs of black that splintered underneath her flesh and breathed through her nose as she fitted another tear of chiffon through her teeth and bit down. A wail bubbled from her throat as she quickly knotted silk together and pulled, applying pressure to the bite and lapped at the warmth of blood through her mouth and spat it out, red awash over her teeth as she dragged the back of her hand against her violet-hued lips and glared into the dark of this perpetual night.
She couldn’t stay here, she knew that.
Adrenaline flooded her mouth in bitter saliva and sluiced through her veins as she craned her neck and looked up the cliff face, quickly surveying purchases in the rock before she stood and swung out her trembling hands and clutched over jutted pieces of earth. The wind promptly tore through her hair and the jagged pieces of silk that clung to her figure, determined to send her below where waves crashed against the uneven spires. Still, Amma was tired of falling, and the howling symphony that arose compelled her ever higher, reminiscent of a night she had scaled a similar musical edge to the depths of a much calmer ocean. A storm appeared to be brewing, the bitter cold spearing through her arms and legs, a clap of thunder booming as a quivering roar that sounded like something she had heard before. Once, maybe, in a nightmare long ago, where in the dark of sleep, a continuous bellow fell into the gloom, a screeching call of something ancient.
Of something angry.
Amma bit down against the answering cry of pain as the sharp rock fell away against her scars, but she ignored the well of warmth through her fingers, of the blood she now dragged and drenched through the silk wrapped around her hands as she continued to climb. Lightning flashed and struck far out into the void of the raging sea, and the great boom of wings sounded soon after, followed by another deep roar that shuddered through her bones. She was sure the gargoyle was now coming for her, determined to drag her even lower or carry her off to their creator. Amma dug her bloody nails in deeper, pushed herself that much harder, and relished in the pain of this peculiar life after death to see the edge of this plateau and face her would-be reaper.
A massive shadow passed overhead as she finally crested the cliff, arms trembling with the weight of her body as she dug and pulled and heaved herself up and over, clawing through dirt and grass and rolling onto her back with shuddering breath sawing through her lungs. She gazed up at the passing shadow above, blanketed in black clouds, lightning crackling overhead with crimson-membraned wings puncturing through the billowing storm with blackened scales that gleamed red, likened to blood with a jagged crown of silver horns.
Was that a fucking dragon?
Amma laughed as it flew overhead; it was utterly gargantuan! More extensive than any fantastical story could conjure as she witnessed such a fabled creature fade away into the dark with only seconds maybe that passed before a powerful tremor fell through the earth as it landed with a shattering wail of other beings that abruptly arose and clamored through the treeline that surrounded her. A smattering of golden eyes suddenly bloomed, glaring at her through scarlet shadows as the moon above seemed to glow even brighter in the blood-red gloom.
“Shit,” she was too weak to run and could only roll over to her hands and knees before she stood on trembling legs and faced the massive beast that crept from the darkness cloaked in pale fur with undertones of brown and grey. Harsh features fell into a snarling face as another figure shadowed and adorned in fur, but lesser, stepped beside the wolf and stroked through its muddled coat, for that is what it was that towered over her. She gazed at the massive claws that scraped through the dirt before the man, she noted, loomed over her next with a swift hand that latched onto her pale throat and snarled.
“Look what woke up the dragon.”
The howling sounds, the eerily alluring echoes of wind-song that billow through the damp rock, all of it alludes back to a time that seems so far away, what feels like months ago is only maybe a handful of weeks, but in her weighted bones, it feels… longer. It is a sensation that she cannot explain, but as she glances over the edge once more and regards the spires of rock below, everything feels reflected somehow. Switched. Where up is down and left is right. On shaking limbs, Amma lowers her body to sit with legs swinging over the edge, exhaustion allowing for little else as she leans against the yawning mouth of the aperture and sighs out a heavy breath that pulls her shoulders down and her eyes to close with them.
Death was so, so tiring.
Though now, Amma had to venture if that is what truly happened to her, for the pain that continued to pulse through her wounded legs and body numbingly, it all felt entirely too natural. Too real. Far too aware of being anything but life that spilled crimson rivulets down her flesh from needle-like punctures through her thigh and the old bruising and marks to be as faded as they were, recent injuries that should not have been so advanced or deep. She tried to decipher why and how—relying on recent memories that resurfaced with the vague recollection of her mother’s stories. They were too disjointed, hazing in and out as fragmented pieces of truth, lies, and shattered frames of red that burned through her venture as she tried. More locks were found in the layers of her mind, and more fractured remains floated unbound between her ears and phased into shadow, forgotten and forsaken.
Amma cradles her head within her scarred and bloodied palms.
This was not death, no, and it was not even an actual hell.
It was something, far, far worse, something unknown. Perhaps it was the realm meant for the beast that was her calling card, the prophesied creature worn through time and hate that reigned here as an almighty being of eternal demote.
And if this was such a place, and the cavern she crawled through was possibly an entryway to this realm, could she return?
Did she want to?
She glanced back into the darkness. Perhaps what attacked her, what horrible things she had seen, were watchers of a gate, of the pit she had languished in, unleashed to feed upon her remains so that she may never attempt to go back. Perhaps it was all meant to appease her into that possibility, to dream and brood over this afterlife of all she could have been under the passionate revelations found in a kiss and softened words whispered into a dance.
What good did it do now to think about it when he was dead?
Amma sunk nails into her temples and raked through her tangled hair, pulling through the strands to temper her sudden grief. She allowed no tears to fall, for no sorrow could encompass the well of sadness that burst to life betwixt her heaving ribs as she gazed up to a blooded moon and wished with all the power she once possessed to cleave through this shaded torment and rend it all asunder. For him. For her. For all the lost and forlorn souls of life, for all of Blackjack. Rage festered there and overtook her misery, sharpened it into a blade that cauterized her dejection and filled her lungs with a frenzy of harsh anger, of a blackness that fell into the familiar depths of her soul of souls, flitted to the fragments of self and wed to the brim of her hate. Amma grits her teeth and pulls at the tattered remains of her dress; she shreds through silks with a grunt and a hiss, wrapped pieces of obsidian skirts over her palms and the bruised soles of her feet. With a scream of pain, she took more swatches of fabric and bunched it over her bleeding wound, ignoring the webs of black that splintered underneath her flesh and breathed through her nose as she fitted another tear of chiffon through her teeth and bit down. A wail bubbled from her throat as she quickly knotted silk together and pulled, applying pressure to the bite and lapped at the warmth of blood through her mouth and spat it out, red awash over her teeth as she dragged the back of her hand against her violet-hued lips and glared into the dark of this perpetual night.
She couldn’t stay here, she knew that.
Adrenaline flooded her mouth in bitter saliva and sluiced through her veins as she craned her neck and looked up the cliff face, quickly surveying purchases in the rock before she stood and swung out her trembling hands and clutched over jutted pieces of earth. The wind promptly tore through her hair and the jagged pieces of silk that clung to her figure, determined to send her below where waves crashed against the uneven spires. Still, Amma was tired of falling, and the howling symphony that arose compelled her ever higher, reminiscent of a night she had scaled a similar musical edge to the depths of a much calmer ocean. A storm appeared to be brewing, the bitter cold spearing through her arms and legs, a clap of thunder booming as a quivering roar that sounded like something she had heard before. Once, maybe, in a nightmare long ago, where in the dark of sleep, a continuous bellow fell into the gloom, a screeching call of something ancient.
Of something angry.
Amma bit down against the answering cry of pain as the sharp rock fell away against her scars, but she ignored the well of warmth through her fingers, of the blood she now dragged and drenched through the silk wrapped around her hands as she continued to climb. Lightning flashed and struck far out into the void of the raging sea, and the great boom of wings sounded soon after, followed by another deep roar that shuddered through her bones. She was sure the gargoyle was now coming for her, determined to drag her even lower or carry her off to their creator. Amma dug her bloody nails in deeper, pushed herself that much harder, and relished in the pain of this peculiar life after death to see the edge of this plateau and face her would-be reaper.
A massive shadow passed overhead as she finally crested the cliff, arms trembling with the weight of her body as she dug and pulled and heaved herself up and over, clawing through dirt and grass and rolling onto her back with shuddering breath sawing through her lungs. She gazed up at the passing shadow above, blanketed in black clouds, lightning crackling overhead with crimson-membraned wings puncturing through the billowing storm with blackened scales that gleamed red, likened to blood with a jagged crown of silver horns.
Was that a fucking dragon?
Amma laughed as it flew overhead; it was utterly gargantuan! More extensive than any fantastical story could conjure as she witnessed such a fabled creature fade away into the dark with only seconds maybe that passed before a powerful tremor fell through the earth as it landed with a shattering wail of other beings that abruptly arose and clamored through the treeline that surrounded her. A smattering of golden eyes suddenly bloomed, glaring at her through scarlet shadows as the moon above seemed to glow even brighter in the blood-red gloom.
“Shit,” she was too weak to run and could only roll over to her hands and knees before she stood on trembling legs and faced the massive beast that crept from the darkness cloaked in pale fur with undertones of brown and grey. Harsh features fell into a snarling face as another figure shadowed and adorned in fur, but lesser, stepped beside the wolf and stroked through its muddled coat, for that is what it was that towered over her. She gazed at the massive claws that scraped through the dirt before the man, she noted, loomed over her next with a swift hand that latched onto her pale throat and snarled.
“Look what woke up the dragon.”
3x Thank
