#The Evil Within Ch.1 An Emergency Call

[bismuthupmy]

Nothing Hurts | Leon x Luis RE4

Chapter 4 | 5.2k

The story of tragic righteousness where nobody is hurt and everything is perfect. Except nothing is perfect in hell.

A re-imagining of the events of the Resident Evil 4 remake where Luis and Leon get the ending they deserved.

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Wow this ones a big boy compared to the others- I got carried away and accidentally wrote too much but I didn’t want to halve it so here it is! :)

Ch.1

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Leon came to with a jolt as the sun was dipping below the trees on the hills. His head pulsed and his body ached where he had landed. He muttered curses as pulled himself back up and onto the seat grabbing at his arms before realising where he was. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth as he just sat there for a minute. The boat was slowly filling up with water which had soaked his left side. Pulling on the motor string, Leon forces it to work again and speeds off towards the boathouse hopefully before the boat sinks and he becomes fully soaked. 

He made it just in time, the boat gurgling as it sunk into the lake. The boathouse was dark because of the lack of light making it into the valley, meaning he must’ve been out for a good few hours. Leon mentally slapped himself for wasting so much time. He patched through to Hunnigan. She was probably worried he fucking died.

“Condor One to roost,” he called in. “Do you read me?”

Hunnigan immediately picked up, as was her job, but she was frantic.

“Condor One!? You’ve been radio silent for three hours. Are you alright?”

Three hours. Shit. 

“Yeah…  I’m fine. Won't let it happen again.”

Hunnigan sighed, “And the church?”

“Still looking for whatever ‘key’ I need.”

“Copy that,” a pause. “I’m glad you’re ok. Roost out.”

Leaving the boathouse Leon was met with a near pitch black forest, having to pull out his flashlight. Night exploration was a pain because you couldn’t see anything and the torchlight was a beacon for enemies. There was no one immediately in the vicinity but as Leon approached a bottleneck in the road, chanting could be heard. Crouching down through a rocky crevice, Leon quietly stalked up to the voices. He could see shadows of two people against the stone cliff beside him, cast from a fire or candles around the corner he couldn’t see. As he got closer the chanting got more frantic. One of the villagers yelled and its shadow convulsed, its head exploding with something erupting from it. Leon cringed as he saw some of the blood spatter from around the corner and long fleshy tentacles whipping around. What the fuck?  He moved forward slowly again, stepping on a large stick, however, which snapped loudly. The villagers up ahead were alerted and stumbled his way. The first villager that emerged from around the corner was the one with the weird fleshy mound for a head, tendrils lashing out towards his direction.

Leon stood up to take aim and shot a few rounds into the guy's head. It didn’t die though which concerned him. The second villager came around the corner and Leon decided to take him out first. Within the same amount of shots it was dead but immediately started convulsing on the floor. Leon couldn’t get to it to knife it dead dead either because he was blocked in by the… twisty guy. 

The villager on the floor’s head exploded then and another fleshy head replaced it, the same as the other guy. Leon groaned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Deciding to just save his ammo and not bother with fighting these guys, Leon pulled out a flash grenade to stun them and run past. He covered his eyes and prepared for the flash as the grenade went off. Except the flash pierced his eyes through the cracks left by his arm, causing his head to sear in pain as he dropped to one knee, ears ringing. He shook his head to get rid of the fuzziness, looking up to see the two villagers lying dead on the floor, the fleshy heads having disintegrated and left a soggy puddle on the ground. 

“What the fuck?” Leon huffed, standing up straight again. “Twisty sons of bitches.”

Jogging past the dead bodies, Leon continued along the path. He had a key to look for and Ashley wasn’t getting any safer in that church if she hadn’t been taken away by now already. The path led into a cave which then opened out into a small room off to the side. In the room was an altar between two large hand statues. 

“Some kind of shrine?” Leon muttered as he got closer. On the wall between the statues was a symbol. “Same mark from the church.”

Yep this was the church key. It was held together by mini stone hands which Leon assumed that the larger statues had something to do with it. On the far wall was a map with two locations marked on it. He may have said finding information was easy but applying the information was not.

Finding the first stone key was fairly straight forward. Leon followed the cave system through a loop and used another convenient boat around the corner, taking out villagers as he went. As soon as he got up to the caged up head, Leon inspected the stone tablet with several buttons and realised he needed to be looking out for symbols. So back he went, scanning the walls of the cave for hastily scrawled symbols on the walls and made it back to the key. He imputed the symbols and the gate opened loudly. Leon was faced with a weird demon looking statue with a suspicious line running around its neck and figured he just had to lift the head off its perch. 

The head, once disconnected, spurted blood coloured liquid which leaked all over his hand. Leon grimaced with disgust, shaking as much of the liquid off as he could, not really wanting to find out what it was and especially not  being stuck with it on his pants.

He returned to the room with the church key and placed the stone head onto one of the hands. Half of the mini hands holding the church key twisted and released the key. Now he just needed to make it back across the lake.

Before heading off, Leon leaned down over the edge of the dock and dipped his hand in the river, washing off the blood. He looked around the cavern, spying the other end of the merchant’s workshop. The church key could wait for a moment, he was running low on supplies. 

He steered the boat to the lower platform and climbed up to meet the merchant. The same scruffy British voice greeted him. 

“Hello there, stranger. Care to run an errand for me? Or two ha ha.” Leon leaned on the desk nearby, picking out supplies he needed.

“What errands?” “Need an egg. A gold one. I’ll pay you handsomely for one of them buggers. That or I need three snakes.

Leon scoffed, “I’m not going out searching for snakes in the wilderness.” “You’d be surprised how many of them end up in bloody crates, ha. Chicken egg it is.” Leon restocked up on ammo and invested in some more first aid spray while he was there. It was the exact same stuff the American government had packed him with except the text was all in Spanish of course.

“So,” Leon reloaded his weapons absently. “What’s so special about the gold ones? Can you even find them?”

“You have yet to witness the power of a gold chicken egg, eh? Nothing much. It's gold.” “Seriously?” Leon looked at him incredulously. Was he really about to go out of his way to find just a funky looking egg.

“No. But I can't have you running off with my egg if I tell you what they can really do, am I right?” Leon shook his head and started back for his boat, the merchant calling back to him, “Thanks, mate!”

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Leon took the boat out to the other side of the lake, speeding through another cave before coming to a stop at a tower looking construct. There weren’t any people lurking around which put Leon somewhat at ease. He didn't bother to check if the door down the bottom was open or not and began another climb and search of strange painted symbols on various surfaces. Leon absently wondered how the hell someone managed to paint up on stalactites but there wasn’t any time to worry about it because he made it to the key code to the door. Three more symbols were imputed and the gate opened. Leon grabbed the head, careful of the splash of blood that came with it and descended down the tower to check out the lower room. Maybe there was some treasure he could collect. Damn that merchant and turning Leon into a treasure freak.

On his way back across the lake, Leon spotted another light to his left. There was another flat area beneath the hills that was fenced off. He decided to check it out and upon closer inspection the land was a chicken coop. Might as well go search for that chicken egg the merchant wanted. He wasn't planning on doing it in the first place but he was here now and  he wouldn’t pass up the chance to gather some dinner.

Leon searched around the coop, walking laps in circles, startling chickens left and right, picking up a few normal eggs for later as well. Just as he was going to give up and move on, he spotted a flash of gold out the corner of his eye. There lying on the ground, nestled between hay and mud, was a golden chicken egg. Leon chuckled in disbelief, rubbing a hand down his face. A fucking gold chicken egg. Leon picked it up and headed back to the cave that held the key for the church and the reward he was going to get for this egg.

The second stone head was placed on the other hand statue, fully unlocking the circular key. Leon tucked the key away safely and headed back to the merchant’s safe house. The first thing Leon did was place the golden chicken egg on the merchant's table, startling the man awake from a nap. 

“I didn’t expect you to actually do it,” the merchant smirked, taking the egg and hiding it away somewhere. 

“Yeah, well, it  was on the way,” was all Leon said, not wanting to clue the merchant in that he was somewhat now addicted to finding treasures. 

“Thanks for the help, stranger. Your payment.” A few purple crystals were placed into Leon’s hand. He looked at them and then at the merchant perplexed. 

“Spinels. Special currency. Some things money just can't buy. Take a look.” The merchant slid over to another section of his little store, pointing out “special” stock. Leon pocketed the spinels, deciding to spend them on something that would actually be useful for later instead of a few jewels or gunpowder he could find elsewhere. He could never tell what expression the merchant had but he vaguely thought he caught disappointment on the other man’s face when he left. 

“See ya later, then.” Leon waved over his shoulder, making sure that the church key was secure in one of his pouches preparing for the jog back to the church. He wanted to get to Ashley as soon as possible. Having the church key himself reassured him that she must still be there but that didn't mean she was safe.

The night brought rain, the clearing Leon passed through empty of any crows that he found everywhere else during the previous day. The gate where Leon entered was mysteriously locked up with no clear way of opening it which would be a real hindrance to his mission if he couldn't find a way back. Leon grumbled and returned back to the clearing, deciding to go back and ask the merchant about it when a ground rumbling roar came from the other side of the area. Another gate dropped, blocking the way back to the merchant, something big battering against the solid gate beside it. He was locked in an arena. He looked up to see a figure cloaked in red distorted by the rain.

The big creature bashed through, revealing a massive ugly troll looking monster. Maybe he had been too cocky when he’d mentioned the massive weapon earlier and he hoped the creature wasn't smart enough to go find it. 

The giant’s arms sweeped for him, Leon ducking under it and scrambling to get behind and to the other side of the arena. He pulled out his rifle and aimed for its head. The giant seemed to feel pain as it howled and angrily charged towards Leon, however he was going to take a lot of effort. Leon spent most of this time running for clear ground and getting shots in where he could. 

The giant roared again, paying Leon no mind as he shot at him, making a beeline for one of the sheds that lined the edges of the arena. Leon lowered his weapon. 

“Surely not.” Surely yes. The giant ripped the house out of the ground and launched it in Leon's direction. He barely managed to jump out of the way of its path, stumbling in the mud. The giant made wide sweeping motions with its arms again, Leon diving out of the way as quickly as possible. The rain made the earth slippery, his hair sticking to his face and in his eyes making things all the more difficult.

Leon could vaguely hear howling in the distance over the pouring rain, sighing to himself. He wasnt going to deal with rabid wolves in addition to a fucking troll. Behind him he heard snarling and barking. He whipped around and up on the higher ledges of the hills around the arena was the wolf he had saved earlier.

“Hey, it’s that dog.”

The wolf jumped down, running circles around the troll, distracting it. While it was a welcome relief from the stress for Leon, the troll was chasing the wolf with its eyes round and round in circles so he couldn't get a good shot in. The wolf darted out of the way of a swooping grasp and dove back in, teeth latching onto the giant’s heel causing it to howl. Out of it’s back, emerged a slimy worm looking thing, not unlike the twisty fuckers he’d seen earlier. 

“You got worms too?” He pulled out his rifle and trained it on the worm, hitting it a couple of times, bringing the giant to its knees. He rushed up to it, knife in hand, and scaled the giant to slash at the exposed weak spot. He got a few slashes in before he was bucked off and the giant regained its strength. Now that he knew how to defeat this thing the game was on.

The dog circled the giant again which angered it more. The giant reared back its leg before striking the dog, kicking it back several feet. Leon’s heart dropped for a second but the dog got back up. The giant ignored the barking and the shower of bullets into its back that Leon was hoping would draw out the worm again. It grabbed onto a second house bracing to lift it. Leon swiftly shot at the giant’s hand which caused it to drop the house it was holding onto its feet. Apparently splitters were enough for the worm to emerge again so Leon continued to attack the weak spot. The giant eventually tumbled again and Leon slashed at the worm. Soon enough the giant howled and threw Leon off it which sent him sprawling into the mud. 

The giant hollered and crumbled to the ground one last time. Leon dropped his shoulders in relief, covered in mud with the rain quickly washing it off. The gates around the arena opened again letting him out. 

“God damn,” Leon breathed shakily, looking down at the dead troll in relief. “I was almost a pancake. I simply must tell god about this one.”

He was about to leave for the church when the barking of the wolf caught his attention. Glancing back up to the ledges, the wolf was laying out panting. He looked up at it with a small smile.

“Thanks bud.” He journeyed back to the old church.

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The church was still quiet when he made it back, no villagers around for now luckily for him. Leon placed the church key in the gate and like hands on a clock it spun, triggering the poles to drop. The door behind the gate was open and he was finally inside. 

“Ashley Graham? I’m here to help!”

The main room was doused in colourful light from the moonlight outside shining through the stained glass window above the altar. Ashley wasn't anywhere on the first floor after exploring but there was a locked gate to the side of the main chapel area. 

Inspecting the altar he found a puzzle which required an extra piece which was easily found in the church. The stained glass had to be rearranged in a certain orientation which was really not that difficult to figure out. Seems like they had exhausted all their time in hiding the main key to bother with any more meaningful security measures. The gate clicked to the side and Leon went through, climbing to the second floor. There was a long corridor which wrapped all the way around the church but it wasnt a loop so he wouldn’t be able to miss her.

“Ashley, you in there?”

Leon came up to a door on the left. He opened it up cautiously waiting for something to jump out at him. Sure enough a high pitched grunt and a candlestick came crashing towards him. He quickly dodged the candlestick, finally finding the young girl holding it. 

“Just let me go,” Ashley pleaded. Leon had to admire the girl’s strength because they candlestick certainly looked a little worse for wear. Ashley swung gthe candlestick at him again to which he easy caught it.

“Hey, easy with that!” He tossed the candlestick away which in hindsight might have been too aggressive as the girl looked absolutely terrified. He didn't approach her, instead taking a step back to appear less menacing. “My name's Leon. I’m here on the president’s orders to-”

Ashley ran at the opportunity as Leon stepped backwards leaving a gap for her to dash out of the room. Leon sighed. Yep, definitely a bit too aggressive. 

“That went well,” he muttered to himself, following after Ashley. She hadn’t run towards the exit so he hadn’t lost her yet. He quickly walked to the front of the church on the second level, seeing Ashley looking out the floor to ceiling window. 

“Hey. It’s dangerous outside,” Ashley ignored him and continued to stare out the window. They needed to leave now and Leon was starting to get a little more urgent. “You need to listen to me-” “What is that? Over there?” she interrupted him, pointing out to a hoard of villagers approaching the church. A sharp ringing pierced Leon's ears as he and Ashley grimaced.

Pursue them. The lost lambs are escaping. Deliver unto them… Salvation.

The piercing pain let up and Leon turned to Ashley earnestly.

“Your father trusts me,” He looked her directly in the eyes. “And I need  you to trust me too, and do exactly as I say. I’m gonna get you home safe.”

Tears began to well up in Ashley’s eyes but she held them back with a brave face and a nod.

“Ok…Ok, Leon.”

Leon turned just as the villagers entered the church's lower floor. He crouched down to avoid being seen, gesturing to Ashley to do the same. “Alright. Let’s get the hell  out of here,” Leon muttered to which Ashley eagerly  agreed. Leon signalled to her to follow him and they made their way around to another ladder which led to the top floor. Leon stayed crouched on the ground and waved over to Ashley.

“I’ll boost you up. Get the ladder.” Ashley nodded hesitantly and climbed onto his shoulders as he hoisted her up to the next platform. Ashley pulled herself up, turning around to drop the ladder down for Leon to climb up behind her. Leon took the lead again, searching the attic for any way out. He came across a window which overlooked a lower ledge below easy enough to get down to. Leon climbed up onto the window sill, Ashley gasping from behind him. Leon dropped down and Ashley rushed to the window to see if he was alright. Leon looked back up at her, completely fine, waving her down.

“No way-”

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.” Ashley began to protest before thinking better of it. Leon surely knew what he was doing. She jumped up to sit on the edge of the windowsill before jumping over, arms crossed over her chest and eyes shut tightly. She landed with a small yelp in Leon’s arms, heart hammering from the free fall.

“You alright?” Leon let her down and helped steady her until she nodded slowly. Leon jumped off the ledge up ahead, glancing back at Ashley as she climbed down the ladder like a sane person, calling Hunnigan to report in.

“Roost, I’ve secured Baby Eagle.”

“Copy that,” came Hunnigan’s pleased reply. “Is she ok?”

“Affirmative.” “Good job, Condor One. I’ll dispatch a chopper ASAP”

Hunnigan quickly typed into her computer, the clicking of the keys audible through the comms, “I’m  sending you the coordinates for the extraction point. Make your way there. And don't let anything happen to Baby Eagle.”

“Copy that.”

“Hurry, the weather is getting worse. Roost out.”

Leon led Ashley around the side of the church, signalling her to crouch down as they snuck past villagers in the courtyard. Leon halted them behind a large rock watching stray villagers wander into the church. They managed to slip out through the gates and into the graveyard but were met with another hoard of villagers. 

“Stay close to me!” Leon tried weaving the two of them through the graveyard, avoiding the most threatening group of oncomers. “What is wrong with these people!” Ashley cried, keeping low to avoid the grabbing hands of the villagers. They ran through a tunnel, heading back towards the village centre through the town hall. The extraction point was nearby but they couldn’t get anywhere with a hoard on their trail. Leon was hoping they could lose them somewhere deeper in the village. 

More angry villagers blocked their path in the centre, Leon hastily pulling out his shotgun to thin out the crowd enough for them to run, “Spread out!” Ashley ducked behind a nearby house as Leon took out a few of the villagers, calling out to her again to follow him as they ran by the outskirts of the square. They ran through the farm again, jumping over the paddock fence to loop around the oncomers. They made it to the bridge, villagers hot on their tail when Leon noticed the gate to the house up ahead was open. He remembered it was locked shut. The door burst open and Luis waved them over urgently.

“Hey! Over here!” His voice was drowned out by the rain but  Leon got the idea and led Ashley into the villa, closing the gate behind him. Ashley heaved beside him, trying to catch her breath. He put a hand on her shoulder in reassurance before turning back to Luis. 

“You,” Leon stalked towards Luis, the other seeing the anger in his gait and quickly put his hands up in surrender.

“Hey, listen. About earlier, I-”

“Yeah about that,” Leon grabbed Luis by the shirt and shoved him into the wall. Luis’ face contorted in pain for a moment before he glanced to the side. Leon followed his gaze.

“Heyyy. I see you found your missing señorita.”

Ashley seemed to have regained her breath and joined them over at the wall,  a scowl over her face.

“The señorita has a name, and it's Ashley,” she sassed, not taking any shit from a random guy. “And you are?”

Luis smiled, “Name’s Luis. Encantado.”

“Great. We all have names. Now then-” Leon shoved Luis harder into the wall to draw his attention back. “Who are you?  And what’re you doing here?”

Luis chuckled, “Very good questions, unfortunately…”

He tipped his head towards the gate Leon had shut where the villagers had broken in. Leon let go of Luis to get a closer look before turning back to Ashley, “Hide. Now!”

Ashley frantically looked around the villa for somewhere to hide, all previous confidence gone, until Luis spoke up, kneeling beside an overturned wardrobe.

“In that case, here, help me.”

Leon  joined him in the wardrobe and helped Luis lift it up just enough for Ashley to crawl outside. He nodded to the hole in the wall for her to go but noticed her hesitance.

“Go,” he urged, watching Ashley finally crawl under the wardrobe before dropping it back down. With Ashley safe he could now focus on the villagers searching for them. Leon peeked out through the window at the hoard, sizing it up. Luis joined him on the other side, gun raised.

“Ok. It’s game time.”

Leon ran around the room, picking up any loot or ammo that he could find, pocketing it and a few grenades. Luis kept talking, however, and Leon couldn't tell if he just wasn't taking this seriously or if he was just a nervous rambler.

“Hordes of them against two of us,” he flitted around the room dramatically. “Oh, and let's not forget — this mob is made up of monsters.”

The villagers had made it to the windows now and had smashed them in, claiming through. 

“You done warming up? Hope you stretched!”

Leon shot a few of them as they attempted to get inside, knocking them back outside and into the mud. Luis was lagging slightly, boarding up one of the windows to the side. More and more piled up at the windows. Leon quickly grabbed a bookcase and slid it across, simultaneously smashing a villagers skull as well as narrowing down the entry points. The bookcase didn't hold up for long and soon enough a few villagers made it inside. Leon shuffled up the staircase for a vantage point on the villagers before deciding to check out the top floor. He found a few more boards upstairs he could use so he dropped back down to the bottom floor.

“Cover me!” Leon called to Luis, who grunted in acknowledgement, while he boarded up the last two windows. The last few villagers were taken out when they heard knocking up on the top floor.

Running up, the thing that concerned Leon was that they had gotten a hold of  ladders and lent them up against the house. If they couldn't get in through the bottom floor why not  try the top right? Leon kicked down the ladders, taking the villager climbing up with it when he heard yet another crashing sound followed by an unwelcome roar.

Looking to the lower floor, Leon saw the bull headed man run to the staircase, having broken through the window and letting in a whole bunch more of the villagers. Groaning in frustration Leon readied one of his grenades and chucked it to the base of  the stairs killing the villagers on impact but leaving the bull man. At least it had thinned the crowd.

More ladders were propped up against the second floor windows but Leon found himself busy holding off the bull man. He looked to Luis to try to signal to him to knock them back down for him but he too was caught up in a swarm. Leon narrowly dodged the big hammer swung right for his head but in the process was grabbed from behind by another villager. He struggled against the arms  but the bull man was quicker, raising its hammer again. A shot to the head from behind stunned the bull man and a second shot to the villager restraining Leon allowed him to quickly duck away with an appreciative nod in Luis’s direction.

They were caged in, the ladder and the staircase to the lower level not an option anymore with villagers closing in. Another bang.

“Leon! This way, hurry!”

Ashley stood in another doorway having pushed open the door. Leon wasted no time running through the hoarde, Luis in front of him, finally escaping the house. They ran across the bridge, villagers right behind them until they got past a gate. Looking around Leon spotted the wheel mechanism holding the gate up and shot it, causing it to drop and block the path. 

The three of them leaned against the walls of the portcullis, breathing deeply. Ashley’s coughing and choking caught Leon’s attention.

“Ashley-”

She was shaking and still coughing wetly as she held out her hand in front of her. It was covered in blood.

“Whats- What’s happening to me?”

Leon wasn’t sure what to do in a situation like this. He wasn’t a doctor but he knew coughing up blood was bad. He paid no attention when he did it but f Ashley was hurt-

“Ashley,” Luis gently held onto  her bloody hand, his expression grim but it looked like he knew something they didn't. “Is this the first time you’ve coughed up blood like this?”

Right, Luis worked for Umbrella. Surely he’d know what was going on. Ashley nodded at the question.

“You wanna start explaining?” Leon demanded.

Luis took a few steps backwards, “the cry, the blood — it’s caused by something called a… ‘plaga’.”

Leon frowned. That was definitely a lot more intense than he was expecting. Not quite fully understanding, Leon and Ashley just looked at Luis.

“Ok,” luis walked back over to the gate, vaguely gesturing to behind it. “You saw those ‘people’, right? Well, you have the same thing inside you. The same thing that made them like that.”

Leon looked down in thought. Sure he’d survived zombie apocalypses but he’d never had to deal with being infected. This added a whole new layer of complexity to the mission now.

“This,” Luis continued. “What you’re experiencing, these symptoms… They’re only the beginning.”

Ashley began to panic, her voice shaking, “I don't want to become like them.”

“You are, well, lucky,” Luis reassured her. ‘You see, at this early stage the parasite — the plaga. It is possible to remove it with a surgical procedure.”

Parasite. Not even a virus. Leon supposed that made things easier, though he hated to think what the American government would do to him and Ashley if they got hands on the parasite. Luis was being slow on the information and Leon needed him to just get straight to the point.

“And all you need is some know-how. And, oh yeah — the right equipment.”

Luis spun around, pulling away the neckline of his shirt revealing a long jagged scar across his chest. Leon shook his head in frustration and confusion.

“Wait. You too?”

“No worries. See. I have a plan. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

Luis spread his arms out cockily. The bastard knew that they had no choice but to trust him and he was toying with them. Leon sighed and nodded at him. Luis beamed with a clap of victory.

“Great! I guess you wouldn’t mind extra company then?”

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I really didnt know how to really describe the… worm heads of the guadañas soooo fleshy mound 👍 I used that phrase once i think and i also think never again.

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[dusky-dancing]

The Prince and the Pirate - CH 3

For SoKai Week - Day 3

Story Summary: Sora finds himself far away from the walls of the Radiant Garden he's known his whole life, kidnapped by a rowdy group of pirates whose captain is as alluring as she is mysterious. What he thought was a simple hostage negotiation turns into an adventure that Sora couldn't have anticipated. He doesn't know which is worse, not knowing what's up ahead, or liking it that way.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Adventure, Pirate AU

Length: ~ 3700 words

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Links for story navigation:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

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Over the next few weeks, Sora found himself beginning to feel a surprising kinship with the crew.

He met the remaining three crew members, Tidus, Wakka and Selphie, who acted as the ship's lookout, navigator, and boatswain respectively. With no land or help in sight, Sora was stuck with acting the part, so he swabbed the deck, scrubbed their dishes, and entertained their banter.

Little by little, each of them let him into their circle. Biggs let him judge his fencing matches with the other crew members. Wedge let him steer the ship once, which fulfilled some juvenile wish deep within Sora. He learned Jessie's name for each of the canons. Wakka taught him rope-tying techniques. Tidus even allowed him up into the crow's nest, though Sora couldn't stay up for long without getting vertigo. Selphie did a bit of everything aboard the ship, though cooking and keeping most of the men in order seemed to be her muse.

Then there was Kairi.

Just like her appearance, her leadership differed greatly from how pirate captains were supposed to act. Instead of ruling strictly with a sharp blade and even sharper tongue, she commanded the crew with respect and trusted them to carry themselves.

Bigg's lack of concern about sea monsters made sense, for none ever came to attack the ship. If Sora hadn't heard the first-hand witness of their danger, he would've doubted they existed at all. Maybe Kairi's magic went even further.

Sora was stuck with scrubbing the deck again when Tidus's voice boomed over the deck.

"Captain! Ship ahead!"

Sora's head snapped to attention. Could the navy have found him again already?

Soon after, Kairi's small form emerged from her quarters, strode across the deck without paying Sora any mind, and fixed her focus on the horizon through a spyglass.

"Aye, merchant ship!" She shouted, and Sora's shoulders fell.

Tidus called out again. "Captain, their colors-"

"I see who they are," she spat with a venom that even Sora hadn't received before. "Hoist our own, Tidus. We owe them a visit."

In one swift motion, she snapped her spyglass closed, spun around, and sped to the upper deck.

Sora's gut tensed. He'd never witnessed such a malevolent side to her before, and he couldn't help but feel they wouldn't just be "visiting" this merchant ship.

She was a pirate, having survived for so long on the seas with a loyal crew, for a reason. He'd denied the reality thus far, but as a pirate, maybe even Kairi wasn't above pillaging and looting.

Sora dropped the mop and marched up to where she was on the upper deck. Her stance told him she was already preparing to use her magic to catch up to them. He grasped her wrist to stop her from finishing. Her eyes snapped to him, losing none of their fire.

"I thought you were above this," he said, mustering all of his conviction to not waver under her gaze.

She chuckled and, with surprising ease, freed her arm from his grasp. "This isn't a children's bedtime story, Sora." Her attention didn't stay on him for long, more focussed on the distant sails. "Some things are necessary."

Sora's heart sank with betrayal. Sure, she'd kidnapped him, but he'd thought they were different from the pirates he'd read about - greedy and blood-thirsty. He felt foolish, placing his trust in Kairi so quickly, believing she had good intentions behind her actions. If she was willing to attack an innocent merchant ship for supplies, then what else would she be willing to do?

The conventional flag was lowered and replaced with a flag Sora hadn't seen before. Dark blue covered most of it, with a white sea serpent elegantly twisting throughout the frame. When the wind caught the flag, it appeared as if the creature were flying through the air with its mouth open towards its destination.

Sora recognized depictions of the Leviathan in his studies, but he'd never seen such an illustration before.

The thought of pirates appropriating the image of the sea goddess for their own work only made his gut sink even further. With Kairi's magic, they caught up to the ship in no time, close enough to notice they had no canons.

He pulled Kairi back again by the arm, disrupting her magic and slowing the ship down. "Stop! They're unarmed!"

The rest of the crew reacted quickly, drawing their swords and directing them at him.

Her amusement fell, replaced with frustration. Much like her stature, her expression wasn't intimidating by nature, but the way she held herself made him want to be anywhere but on the receiving end.

"To the brig with you, then, if you're going to get in the way."

Next Sora knew, several hands pushed him to the ground, holding his wrists behind his back and his legs flat on the ground.

"Hey!" He managed to shout, but when he lifted his head, she was already walking down the steps to the lower deck.

The weight on his heart felt heavier than the three bodies on top of him. After spending all this time with them, why would they suddenly change so much?

They hauled him back to the cargo hold, where he'd first awoken aboard the ship. He offered little resistance, acting as more dead weight than anything. Even as they tied him back up to the post, he could barely lift his head to look them in the eye.

"Sorry, Sora," Biggs sighed. "There's no time to explain. You just have to trust us, okay?"

He couldn't. How could they expect him to? The despair in his heart reignited into anger as they tightened the ropes.

"Trust you?!" He faced his captors, the familiar faces of Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie. Their expressions all contained different levels of amusement and hesitation. What about this could possibly be entertaining? "You're all pirates. I could never trust you!"

The only face that changed was Wedge's. A frown pulled hard at the corners of his mouth, and his grip on Sora's arm wavered ever-so slightly. Jessie noticed his change too, and offered him a comforting touch on the shoulder.

Wedge nodded to her, and she turned back to Sora, her gaze much less light-hearted now. "Just...sit tight a minute, okay?"

"But-"

"I know!" she interrupted. "Evil pirates, yada yada yada. Don't feel too down, yea?"

For a moment, they all stood in silence before him, as if waiting for him to say something more. If that was what they wanted, he didn't satisfy them. His head turned away, as far as his restraints would let him, and let the heavy silence hang over them.

Finally, they left in a rush back up the stairs. Soon after the door above closed, the fresh sea air waned, replaced by the musty smell of old wet wood.

The room had no light this time, leaving him along with the rocking of the ship and the creaking of wood all around him. The ship swayed heavier than usual with the waves moving unnaturally beneath it. The shouting and footsteps above grew more distant.

As Sora's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that, for the first time on the ship, he was alone. They hadn't bothered to restrain him painfully tightly or knock him unconscious.

For the first time, he had a chance to escape.

Sora took a deep breath and wiggled his hands underneath the rope. If he positioned himself just right, he could get it in one swing.

He closed his eyes and focussed. He felt himself fall deeper into his own consciousness to call upon the light that slept within him. With each inhale it swelled and grew, and with each exhale it released itself into his body, out of his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm, and into his palm.

His hand opened on reflex, and the light flashed out of it to form the long silver blade he'd always known.

Immediately, the ropes around him fell slack as the magic cut through them, and his wrists felt relieved to breathe again.

He stood, and the dark, stale room lit aglow with the golden light that shone from his blade. It had been so long since he'd summoned it, and Sora missed the peace that washed over his heart whenever he held it.

From first glance, one would never think his gift to be a weapon at all, with its bulky form and blunt key-shaped blade. Its name fit it justly, however.

The Keyblade.

He turned his gaze to the door. There was no time to waste if he was to save the merchant ship and escape.

The door didn't budge. Locked. But the setback only caused a giddy smile to form on Sora's face. He stepped back and pointed the tip of his key to the door.

"Finally, something useful," he muttered.

On a concentrated exhale, a narrow, precise beam of light burst from the blade and into the door. Though this side had no keyhole, the lock clicked and the door swung open. With the smile still painted across his face, Sora eagerly took one step closer to freedom.

It must have taken him longer than he'd thought to break out of his bindings, because the ship was completely empty. Clanging metal, shouts, and cries for help from the side caught his attention. They'd already boarded the merchant ship and begun to seize it.

The space between the two ships was large, but not uncrossable if he jumped far enough. Sora took a few readied steps backward and released his Keyblade. Filled with nervous anticipation, he spent a few too many beats just bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Just as he readied himself to run forward and leap across, however, a grappling hook struck the mast above him. Biggs swung across and landed directly in Sora's path. He didn't come empty-handed, but instead of carrying across cargo or coin, he held a child firmly but carefully in his grasp.

Biggs stood up straight and regarded Sora with a smirk. "Well, that was a quick escape. Glad you decided to join us."

The confusion and anger from before flared up again within Sora. "I'm not-!"

"Say, kid," Biggs ignored Sora completely and placed the kid down, "why don't you hang with our friend, Sora, while we get the rest of your friends, huh?" The man glanced at Sora with a look that said 'don't say no'.

The child's small hands clung to Bigg's shirt as he tried to set him down. He was a boy, maybe no older than six, and his eyes squinted like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Biggs gently pried his clothes free and gave the boy a reassuring pat.

"Don't worry, he'll protect you."

"What's going on?" Sora asked, but before he could get an answer, the boy ran to him and hid near his legs. With Sora's baggy pants, the boy was practically invisible behind them.

Biggs chuckled and pulled his grappling hook free with a whip of the rope. "Captain will explain everything, but we're the good guys here."

The man was off without another word, leaving Sora alone with the trembling child hiding behind his legs. He knelt down and straightened out the boy's ragged clothing, wiping the tears and snot from his face.

"What's your name?" Sora asked.

The boy sniffled. "Gula"

"Well, Gula, have you ever seen a magical sword before?"

The boy's eyes grew wide, the fear within them replaced with curiosity. Sora smiled and summoned his Keyblade again. He hadn't used it in so long, but doing so for the second time that day felt much more natural.

A bright smile grew across the boy's face. Wonder filled his eyes, like whatever had been troubling him moments ago didn't even matter anymore. He reached a small arm out for it, but pulled back at the last second.

"It's okay. You're my friend, so you can touch it without getting hurt." Sora held it forward.

"Friend…" The boy repeated before he accepted the invitation, first with a poke on the golden handle, then with fingers running down the blade and over the crown-shaped teeth of the key.

Warmth filled Sora's chest at the sight. His heart knew that this, even the smallest comfort, was what his gift was supposed to be used for, but he'd never been given the chance to his whole life.

An explosion on the other ship strong enough to rock the boat made him stumble and snap back to attention. He stood, and the boy returned to a fearful state as he sought cover behind Sora.

Jessie had made a dramatic escape from beneath the ship with not one, but two children in her arms. Both young girls around the same age as Gula. She readied her grappling hook, and Sora released his Keyblade again and rushed to the railing to catch them.

Sora caught her as she clumsily landed. The girls were uninjured, though they still clung to their rescuer for life.

Jessie stood and eyed him. "Hey, didn't we…? Oh nevermind."

"Will you tell me what's going on here?" Sora asked.

"Nope!" she rubbed his head. "Still alota work to do. Keep these girls safe, aye?"

"Aye," Sora grumbled, though one look in the girls' eyes told him that he had the most important job. What would merchants need to transport children for?

The girls looked past Sora and immediately ran to Gula. All three kids embraced as if they were long lost friends.

Everything happened so quickly after that. More children were brought over until they numbered nine in total. There was no hiding behind Sora anymore as they huddled with each other.

Finally, the sounds of combat died down, and the only faces that emerged were familiar ones. Biggs laid down a wooden plank, and they all returned.

Kairi emerged from the ship's quarters last, carrying a small toddler in her arms. As she crossed the plank, the crew parted to make way for her, directly towards Sora. She was busy coddling and comforting the child in her arms, so she paid Sora no mind until she stopped in front of him.

The eyes that met him looked like they wanted to say, I told you so, but instead she glanced at the kids huddled behind him and smiled.

"You'll notice, Sora, that I never used my canons on that ship." She bounced the toddler in her arms. "This is why. Those weren't merchants, they were smugglers posing as merchants. We only knew because we've encountered them before."

Sora knew he should've still been angry. All she had to do was communicate, to say what her plan was, but she'd conveniently developed an unspoken language with her crew and left him in the dark. Even so, the almost motherly look of relief and satisfaction in her eyes made it difficult to cling to that anger. Everything she did was beginning to make sense. Perhaps he was the fool for believing that, after weeks of being compassionate, she'd betray that character.

She hadn't so much as stolen a single piece of cargo from the other ship.

A gentle tug at his pant leg pulled his attention down, where several of the kids now gathered behind him.

Kairi giggled. "You're good with kids, I see."

Sora couldn't understand why. Growing up sheltered within the castle, he'd never even had little siblings to look after.

Suddenly, he found the small toddler being placed into his hands. "Think you can look after them for a while?"

She was letting him decide again what his role would be. Maybe she genuinely cared, or maybe it was another test for him. Regardless, he couldn't say no.

He nodded. "They're probably starving. I'll take care of them."

The uptick in her smile told him he'd passed, and the soft sparkle that crossed her eye was his reward.

"There is enough food in the captain's quarters for them all," she nodded to her doors. "You can sit them around the table."

By the time Kairi returned, all were full and tired, though still wary of everything and everyone around them, including Sora.

She leaned into Sora and whispered, "We learned where they were taken from. We'll need to go off course to return them home first."

"Ironic for you to return kidnapping victims," Sora responded, then realized that all eyes were on them.

Gula shuffled forward and asked, "What's gonna happen to us?"

Kairi knelt down to meet him and smiled. "We're taking you all home!"

All of their little eyes, even the most tired ones, lit up with excitement. She was so approachable, especially to children.

"Think you guys can sit tight on a ship for a few more days?" Kairi asked.

Some of their faces fell again. They were tired of being at sea and just wanted to go home like any other kid. Sora related to that primal need to return to comfort and familiarity. But the more he thought of it, the less he wanted to return to how things were. Maybe his predicament wasn't ideal, but Kairi was right when she'd guessed that he wanted more from life.

While he reflected, Kairi had opened the door to her bedchamber and sat on the edge of her bed. Hesitantly, Sora followed.

"Gather around," she gestured all around herself, "maybe a little story will help you sleep."

The eyes of the younger ones immediately widened again, while the older ones tried a bit harder to mask their excitement. Sora took that as his cue and turned to leave.

"You stay too, Sora. You'll want to hear this one," she winked. Turning the focus of her attention back to her audience, she began in a much softer voice. "How many of you have heard of the Leviathan?"

A few hesitant hands raised themselves halfway, while the rest merely exchanged wandering glances. Of course Sora knew, so he confidently shot his hand into the air. Suddenly, all eyes were on him, and Kairi giggled.

"I see many of you don't know the goddess of the sea. Legend tells of a majestic sea serpent nearly as long as the sea herself, atleast she appeared so to the men who encountered her."

"Like a monster?" a little girl asked, cowering behind her knees.

"Not at all. Though enormous, she nurtured all life in the sea like a mother would. She protected her children and fostered their growth. She was beautiful too, with scales that shimmered a deep ethereal blue and graceful fins that danced endlessly in the waves."

"What happened to her?" a boy asked. "Why don't we see or hear of her?"

"Uh-uh," Kairi wagged a finger, "don't get too far ahead now," she smiled. "Leviathan wasn't alone in her power over the sea. There soon grew another creature of sizable strength, the Kraken!" Her voice, as well as her gestures, grew more exaggerated. "How many of you have heard of him?"

This time, each hand in the room shot into the air, including Sora's. No child was a stranger to the frightening tales of the Kraken told by their parents to steer them from the waterfront.

Kairi allowed a moment for the kids to settle down before continuing. "You see, where the Leviathan was good and nurturing and filled with light, the Kraken was filled with darkness, envy, and hunger. He wanted her power all for himself, but he knew he couldn't win against her head-on. Instead, one day he attacked and corrupted her children of the sea, and she was quick to come to their defense. Because her focus was on keeping the ocean safe and not herself, the Kraken was able to overpower her."

Every kid in the room now leaned forward intently. Sora himself had become completely enraptured, not only in the story, but in how she told it. From her voice, to her movements, to her expressions, he would have listened to her tell stories for hours.

One of the older kids finally spoke, "He...he killed her?"

Kairi's gentle expression never left. "I would not have told you a story if it didn't have a glimmer of hope at the end," she smiled. "You see, Leviathan cannot be killed. Instead, the Kraken sealed her heart and light away, in hopes that it would never be found." She held up a finger. "But, he was unable to contain all of her light. Some say it escaped into the world."

"Where would it go?" many of them asked.

"Well, to another heart for refuge, of course. Leviathan's Blessing, as it's called, is gifted by her to one heart in each generation. In doing so, she grants them an innate love of the sea and incredible powers to harness it as their own. Though it is a fraction of her power, she is still able to watch over the sea through this heart."

Her gaze found Sora for a brief moment, and he understood. Her adventuring spirit, her magical gift, her nurturing nature, had all been a result of this 'light'. Though those traits were such a deep part of who she was, he refused to believe she wouldn't be all of those things without her gift.

"So you see, wee little ones, no matter how bad things may seem, there will always be a sliver of hope left."

The kids now were all completely scrunched up beside her feet, all trying to get as close as possible. One of them yawned, which caused a chain reaction throughout the small young audience.

As Kairi wrapped up the story, Sora couldn't get his mind off of the revelation. He'd always been told Leviathan abandoned the mortal world long ago, never to return, and if sailors asked her, she might grant them protection from the monsters at sea. He never considered the possibility that her forced absence was the reason for the growing danger.

Next he knew, the kids were shuffling out to their own beds. Kairi waited expectantly by the door for him to follow. As he passed her, he turned around.

"You know, that's not the story I know," he smiled, "but I like yours better."

——————————————————–

A/N: Thank you for reading! I know the chapter lengths are going up, but I promise it won't get longer than this haha.

Happy Day 3 of SoKai Week! I always headcanon that Sora and Kairi would be great with kids, and that Kairi would inherit her grandmother's love of storytelling. I hope you all are enjoying the story so far!

[rainythefox]

Nightfall (Ch.9)

Synopsis: Pre-Resident Evil 1, slight-AU/Canon Divergence. Claire Redfield comes home to visit her brother Chris for the holidays but gets caught up in a dangerous game of cat and mouse with Albert Wesker, the Captain of STARS, after stumbling upon dark secrets. She can’t call the law; Wesker is the law, and she can’t tell Chris. She is trapped…Claire/Wesker & Slight Chris/Jill. Rated M for eventual smut, language, violence, adult content.

AO3 Link

Chapter 9: The Goddaughter

Claire couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. The new, two-story brick home in the fancy neighborhood was just as quiet and expensive as the other homes on the block on this chilly morning, only Claire knew the evil inside this one. She was just here the other day, breaking in to try and find something to expose Wesker, and ended up nearly being ripped to shreds by his guard dog instead. She wasn’t here to break in this time. Oddly enough, as Claire stepped up to the front door and rang the doorbell, she felt she would’ve preferred dealing with the attacking Doberman over the corrupt STARS Captain.

She heard Odin bark once, but it was faint and sounded like it had happened on the upper floor. Still, she flinched from the awful memories of snapping jaws inches from her face.

William had stopped by yesterday evening, relaying a message from Wesker to meet him at his house after Chris was at work. Claire let her brother take his truck because Jill was off of work today and just gave the excuse that she would most likely stay home. When in reality, she was about to go see what his boss wanted with her.

William wasn’t able to give her anymore information when he gave her the message and left. And that created a whole new problem. Chris had spotted William leaving. 

Claire could tell her brother was starting to grow suspicious. Between her behavior and seeing William, Chris was beginning to realize something was amiss. He had good instincts; it was what made him a good cop. She had to figure out a way to keep him far off the trail, or they would both be dead - courteous of her brother’s double-dealing supervisor.

Ignoring the nippy wind, wondering if Ada had found out anything yet, the door opened, making her heart rate spike considerably. Here goes nothing...

She glared at Wesker when he greeted her with his usual sneer, magnified by his lack of shades, his icy-grey eyes, bewitching and dangerous, a stopping force all on their own. “Ms. Redfield, nice of you to drop by on this lovely morning."

“It's not by choice,” she grumbled and pushed by him when he gestured for her to come inside. “What do you want?”

She looked around the foyer and living room, tense from having her back to him as he shut the door. He didn’t answer right away, but she nearly leapt out of her skin when his hands brushed up her back, his voice purring in her ear.

“From you, dear heart? Where to even begin?”

He took her jacket off of her and hung it up. Still reeling from his words, Claire was stiff as a board as he wrapped his strong arm around her lower back and escorted her further inside. Some kind of charged electricity sparked under her skin from the contact. She finally got a grip on herself, ignoring her stomach as it flipped in a way she would rather not admit. The younger Redfield sibling moved away from him and went over to the den area, facing him and keeping her back to a couch.

“William gave me a message to meet you here after Chris was gone. He didn’t say why.”

“That’s because I never told him why.”

Wesker wore more formal, black clothes like she saw him wearing in NEST the other day. She hated that she found him even more attractive in such attire. The college student kept herself from gawking, instead she folded her arms and gave him a dirty look. “Well?”

He instantly reacted to her animosity with a dark smirk, as though her fire sparked something within him. Claire was starting to get the feeling that Wesker enjoyed her temper and defiance, as if he got some sort of sick gratification from it. It aggravated her even more, but at the same time she knew she couldn’t let him goad her. It’s what he wanted.

And though Claire had kept her eyes from wandering over Wesker’s chic outfit and toned body, he didn’t even try and hide his roaming eyes. “You look quite lovely today, Claire.”

Again with her first name. There was that light, fluttering sensation in her chest again. Claire hadn’t realized it at first, but she had backed up right into the sofa when Wesker took a couple of steps in her direction. Stop messing with me, you asshole!

Claire opened her mouth, about to give him a slew of colorful, unladylike words, when the Doberman trotted down the stairs into the den, tags jingling on his chain collar. Odin gave her one short look before his snout upturned towards the stairs, alert, his docked tail wagging before he sat on his haunches.

Something else came down the stairs a bit slower, emerging into the den with soft steps. The Redfield girl gasped, not at all expecting a child. The little girl spotted Claire staring and dashed the rest of the way to Wesker, using him as cover.

The girl peeked from behind him, gripping his shirt tight. She had to be around nine or ten years old, her blonde hair in a messy bun, loose strands hanging around her cute face. Her blue eyes were curious but shy. She wore jeans and a light blue shirt and white vest. She didn’t have shoes on, only socks, and there was a golden pendant necklace around her neck.

Claire’s inner motherly instincts kicked right in. The girl was precious and Claire had no clue why she was in a place like this, hiding behind a man like Albert Wesker as though he was her guardian.

She slightly bent over, smiling, and gently waved. “Hello there.”

Her soft greeting delighted the bashful girl and she came out a little further, although still kept halfway behind Wesker, gripping his clothes like a lifeline. “Hi!”

Claire glared at Wesker. “Kidnapping children now?”

“Charming,” he mocked. “She’s my goddaughter. Sherry, where are your manners?”

The name instantly clicked, and Claire remembered. So this is William and Annette’s daughter? She’s adorable!

“Oh, right…” the little girl mumbled. She smiled at Claire again. “I’m Sherry. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Claire gave her a big, friendly smile in return. “I’m Claire. It’s nice to meet you too, Sherry.”

Sherry blushed, slightly retreating behind Wesker. “I like your name!” She looked up at the tall, silent man she was using as a shield. “She’s really pretty, Uncle Albert!”

Wesker’s eyes were locked onto Claire, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “She is, isn’t she?”

Claire shivered but quickly focused back on the girl. There was a strange, hushed excitement to Sherry that she couldn’t quite understand. It was as if she was shy, but, at the same time, was really intrigued by Claire. The younger Redfield felt a peculiar, warming connection right away with the child…as though their fates were somehow connected.

“Are you Uncle Albert’s girlfriend?”

Claire’s mind blew a gasket, horrified at the girl’s implication. “W-what?! No!”

She was about to unleash onto this little girl what kind of a monster she was hiding behind, but then quickly bit her tongue. Sherry was a child. There was no way she could even begin to understand. She looked at her godparent as though she idolized him. Wesker seemed to have everyone fooled. Everyone thought he was a good man, until, of course, they stumbled upon him in the woods blowing a man’s head off.

Claire sighed, took a deep breath, and faked a smile. “No, sweetie. It’s not like that.” She gave Wesker a hard look. “And it’s never going to happen.”

Wesker smirked, his eyes entrapping her, as though he knew something she didn’t. Claire forced herself to look away, feeling awfully jittery for a moment.

“Oh…I was hoping you would become my aunt and we could play.”

Claire’s forced smile derailed. She wasn’t sure what to think about that. Wesker’s goddaughter peeked halfway out from behind him, curious yet insecure. Claire had a feeling the little girl didn’t have many friends and didn’t get much attention from her family, if her parents and Wesker were anything to go by.

Claire stooped to Sherry’s level, smiling. “We don’t need to be related to play. How about being friends instead?” She extended her hand.

Sherry came out a tad bit further, eyeing Claire and her offered hand. She glanced up at her guardian, unsure. Finally, Wesker stepped out of the way. The girl froze, watching him, as if afraid her wall was gone to leave her out in the open unprotected. Wesker patted her head and gently pushed her closer to Claire.

“Go ahead. She doesn’t bite, Sherry.”

As if that was the only reassurance she needed, the young girl reached out and took Claire’s hand, beaming. They shook hands. Their moment was soon ruined by the phone as it started ringing on the stand on one of the end tables. Sherry’s smile disappeared and soon became disheartened, gazing up at Wesker. The STARS Captain checked his watch with a scowl and moved towards the phone. As he passed by the girls, he petted Sherry’s hair.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, watching as Wesker answered the phone.

Sherry sighed. “Daddy. He’s running late again. Or got held up and can’t come get me. I thought you were him when I heard the doorbell, even though he usually just walks in.”

Claire frowned. “Well, what about your mom?”

“She’s busy all the time, too. Like Daddy. They work at Umbrella and are making a new medicine to help people…but they work all the time and I don’t get to spend much time with them.”

At this point, Claire wasn’t even sure if William and Annette were working on any kind of medicine at all, let alone anything that could help people. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Wesker’s goddaughter shrugged with a weak smile. “It’s okay. Uncle Albert helps take care of me when he isn’t busy. He comes and gets me from school when my parents forget. He sometimes helps them make new medicine too, but mostly he just keeps me, Daddy, and Mommy safe and protects the city.”

You poor, naive little girl…if only you knew…

Then Sherry’s words clicked and she looked at the Birkins’ daughter. “Wait, Wesker makes medicine, too?”

Sherry nodded. “Yeah. He’s really, really smart! Him and Daddy are two of the best doctors working for Umbrella…as Daddy likes to brag.”

Claire logged it away. It was definitely something she could use in digging up dirt on Wesker. There was more than his corruption as an officer of the law. He was also in the same shady business as William and Annette, whatever Umbrella had to do with it. She wondered exactly how many jobs he had…

“He really likes you.”

Claire shook from her thoughts and stared at Sherry’s cute, curious face. “I could tell when he let you in. You look cute together!” The girl suddenly gasped, cupping her cheeks. “Your babies would be so adorable! I could be like a big sister to them! And we could play together!”

The college student almost fell over backwards from the shock of Sherry jubilating at the idea of her having any sort of physical relationship with her “uncle”, let alone having offspring together. Her stomach jerked queasily. Despite her disgust, Claire had to give Sherry props for being so easily excited. She must’ve gotten it from her equally whimsical father.

Ah, to be that innocent again. Claire weakly smiled, trying to avoid that subject with the girl. She had come to the conclusion that Wesker liking anyone was a) highly unlikely and b) not a good thing in general, even if the Birkins told her otherwise.

She decided to see what else Sherry could inform her about Wesker. “So uh, what else does he do? Besides make medicine and protect the city?”

Claire had to keep herself from rolling her eyes at such a ridiculous notion. The only thing Albert Wesker protected was himself and his own interests, no matter how many innocent people got in the way.

Sherry pursed her lips in thought. “Hmm...he does a lot of things. He does some kind of pest control, I think? Daddy said he got rid of a big rat a few days ago. Mommy says that Uncle Albert is a workaholic like they are. But I don’t know...seems like I see him more than them sometimes.”

Human pest control, sweetie. You poor thing...doesn’t sound like your parents deserve any Parent of the Year awards!

She’d like to give William and Annette a piece of her mind the next time she saw them. Sherry was so sweet and well-mannered for someone half-raised by self-absorbed parents and half-raised by a manipulative psychopath.

Odin trotted over, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He licked Sherry’s face, making her giggle. She hugged the Doberman. “This is Odin. He’s Uncle Albert’s dog and I love him. We’re best friends!”

“Yeah...we’re well acquainted. Aren't we, boy?” Claire replied, reminded of how the dog almost tore her throat out. Sherry would never know it, but her backpack had saved Claire’s life the other day.

Odin snorted in response, but showed no signs of aggression, sitting next to Sherry and yawning.

They heard the phone click on the receiver. Sherry looked to Wesker expectantly as he returned to them. Claire remained kneeled in front of the girl, tensing as the corrupt STARS Captain came up behind her.

“Your mother is on her way, Sherry. You should go upstairs and get your things.”

Sherry frowned. “But Daddy promised he would take me this time.”

Wesker sighed. “I know he did, darling. Go on, now.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherry gave one last dispirited smile to Claire and left back upstairs. Odin followed right behind her.

Claire stood, watching the girl depart before turning to Wesker. There was a strange look in his eyes as they followed Sherry up the stairs, but Claire couldn’t read Wesker like William could, and so she was lost on what it could be.

He finally looked at her, lips quirking. “Precious, isn’t she?”

“You seriously don’t seem the type to like kids.”

“I don’t,” Wesker admitted. “But Sherry is the exception.”

Claire snorted. “Exception or not, you shouldn’t have kids let alone be a godparent to someone else’s. Not sure what William was thinking.”

Wesker softly chuckled. “I have no intentions...although,” he looked her over again with a dark, suggestive leer. “With the right partner, perhaps I would change my mind.”

It was a deliberate jab to provoke her. Claire glared at him, ignoring her heart that flailed madly in her rib cage after her stomach did a low pitch and rolled. The younger Redfield refused to take the bait, biting her tongue. She didn’t trust how her body reacted to his words at all.

“Whatever. Sherry’s way too sweet to be in the Birkins’ care or yours. She deserves better.”

“She does deserve better.”

Claire was surprised by his words, his eyes lingering on the staircase for a moment before he turned and slightly glared at her. “But life never goes how we expect it to, does it, dear heart?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

She wished her life had just stayed the same, instead of getting caught in this spider web of conspiracy, deception, and blackmail.

Wesker took her necklace into his fingers, rubbing his thumb along the silver feather pendant and turquoise stone. His eyes found hers, and he squeezed the pendant shut in his hand, tugging her towards him using the small chain. So close, Claire's hands braced his solid chest to give her a small buffer.

“And that is why I make sure I hold all the cards and have complete control over my fate. I am no longer the ruled, I am the ruler.” Wesker dipped to whisper in her ear. “And you, dear heart, will help me get even more power.”

His lips grazed her temple as he pulled back, still clenching the necklace and keeping her close. The chill that came over her was more thrilling than she wanted to admit, and according to Wesker’s dark smirk he had sensed it too. Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?

The doorbell chimed. Claire’s heart nearly burst, relieved in the interruption because she was convinced something was about to happen. 

Sherry bounded down the stairs with a bag, the Doberman still tailing her. She paused at the bottom step, noticing Wesker and Claire’s close proximity.

“Did you get everything, darling?” Wesker asked, eyes not leaving Claire’s.

Claire was confused until she heard the soft voice and spotted Sherry coming back into the den. “Yes, Uncle Albert.”

“Good. Get your shoes on.”

Wesker stepped away from Claire, his fingers brushing her collarbone when he let her necklace go. He went to the door and answered it. Annette entered the house, looking mostly the same from when Claire saw her last, except maybe more tired. The older woman paused when she noticed Claire, surprised, but she contained it and shot a suspicious glare to Wesker’s back.

Sherry pulled on her boots after retrieving them from the foyer. She grinned at her mother. “Hi Mommy!”

Annette, distracted, looked between Wesker and Claire, and that made the college student even more uncomfortable. She then presented her daughter with a listless smile.

“Did you behave for Albert?”

“Yes, I did.”

Annette motioned to Claire with the same smile, though with added wariness. “Claire...It’s, uhh, good to see you again.”

In other words she was surprised Claire was still alive. Claire didn’t blame her, although that didn’t make the situation any less awkward. “You too, Annette. You’re daughter is very sweet.”

“Oh, right. Yes...she is.” Annette turned to her daughter just as she cinched the last strap on her boots. “Come along, Sherry. We need to go.”

Sherry got up and shouldered her bag. “All set!”

Annette looked relieved. “Good. Albert, thank you. William will stop by later, assuming he still isn’t at the estate in that ridiculous meeting. Claire...take care. Sherry, let’s go.”

The little girl frowned, glancing between her mother’s retreating back and Wesker and Claire. She sighed, trudging along behind Annette but soon paused and looked back at them.

“Bye, Uncle Albert. Bye, Claire. It was nice meeting you. I hope I get to see you again.”

That hit Claire right in the feels, and she felt torn over it. She wanted away from Wesker, the Birkins, and whatever they were a part of. She wanted her life back to normal, meaning no Sherry. But on the other hand, there was something about the young girl that Claire was drawn to. She wanted to see Sherry again also.

Claire smiled. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again real soon. Take care, Sherry.”

The girl was ecstatic at that, looking the happiest Claire had seen her yet. Annette hollered at her from the door.

“She’s a keeper, Uncle Albert!” Sherry added cheekily before joining her mother.

Claire flushed, paralyzed. Sherry giggled and hugged Odin before leaving with Annette. Once that front door shut, trapping her alone with Albert Wesker, he turned to her with a conceited and, dare she infer, sensual smirk. Her nerves turned to ice, although she suddenly felt feverish.

“I agree, Sherry. She is a keeper.”

Chris, Forest, Brad, Joseph, and Enrico walked back to the STARS office. Chris yawned. It was still early in the morning, but their day had commenced in chaos, having had two different emergencies to deal with. A freeway accident with a tipped over bus and an active shooter in southern Arklay County. None of them had even gotten their morning coffee in them yet.

“Good work, boys. Maybe we can finally take a breather,” Enrico said.

Brad rubbed his back. “Good. I need one.”

Joseph snickered. “What’s wrong, Chickenheart? Your ass still hurting where you busted it on the ice goin’ for cover?”

“Very funny, Joe.”

Forest wrapped his muscular arm around Brad’s neck and scrubbed his knuckles hard into his scalp. “Aw, we’re just fuckin’ with ya, Vickers. You did good!”

Try as he might, Brad couldn’t escape the taller, stronger Bravo member. Finally, Forest let go and dodged a swipe from Brad with a chuckle. The flustered Alpha pilot straightened his yellow vest with a glare to Forest and Joseph. Chris grabbed them both and banged their heads together.

“Knock it off, you dicks,” he said with a grin.

“Thanks, Redfield,” Enrico huffed and gave Frost and Speyer a mild glare. “You two knuckleheads have already given me a damn headache.”

They entered the STARS Office. Richard waved at them from his desk where he filled out a report on his computer.

“Aiken, anymore calls?” Enrico asked.

“No, sir. Been quiet.”

“Good.” Enrico pointed at Joseph. “Frost, go make some coffee and see if there’s anything left from the breakfast bar.”

Joseph groaned. “Why am I always the errand boy?”

“Because you get on my nerves and Wesker’s nerves, that’s why. Now go.”

“You couldn’t tell me while we were downstairs closer to the break room?”

“Nope.”

Joseph muttered under his breath and started to leave the office.

Forest hollered at him just as he sat down at his desk. “Make it extra strong, errand boy!”

Joseph flipped him off as he slipped out the door, earning him a chuckle from his Bravo friend. Brad took a seat next to Richard and Chris went to his own desk. He frowned at the empty desk beside him. Jill’s hat sat on her desk as well as a photo of her Golden Retriever, Bella. It was rare for them to have different days off, but this time of year always had Alpha and Bravo Team’s schedules mixed up.

Before he got busy and forgot again, he opened up the drawer to her desk and dropped a bag of her favorite candy inside. He closed it and signed into his computer. It was strangely quiet in the STARS office. Enrico had locked himself away in Wesker’s office and without Joseph around, the rest of them were quietly doing their work. It was strange to have Wesker, Barry, and Jill missing all in one shift. Kenneth and Edward wouldn’t be in until later.

Brad must’ve read Chris’s mind. “It feels like something’s missing…it’s too quiet.”

Forest snorted. “Course it is! We don’t have Chris and Jill yakking away behind us, no Barry laughing at his own jokes, and no Wesker scolding Frost or barking orders. Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts. Won’t be long before Marini gets on our asses again.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “As if you enjoy anything of the sort, Forest.”

“Chris does seem like a sad puppy without Jill around,” Richard noted.

The sharpshooter glared at them. “I’m working. What are you guys doing, exactly?”

He ignored their laughs and entered the license plate number that was on the BMW that he saw at his house yesterday. As the information pulled up, Joseph returned and announced that the coffee was brewing. Forest mumbled something about the STARS office needing to replace the coffee pot that Edward accidentally broke a couple weeks ago and left downstairs to go get some. If anyone left with Forest, Chris didn’t notice, too absorbed in the profile the license plate brought up.

Vehicle is a 1997 BMW M3…everything is up to date…Registered to William Birkin of Raccoon City, Colorado. Chris did a separate search for William Birkin in their database. Not much came up. Age 35. Married. Type O blood. Height: 5’10’’, Weight: 147lbs. Blond hair, blue eyes. Licensed under the Umbrella Corporation as a medical researcher. No records, no flags.

There was a picture on profile, looking to be a few years old, but it was definitely him. He didn’t look threatening, but something just didn’t sit right with Chris. He wondered how Claire could know this man. Surely she wasn’t seeing him romantically as he was married. Claire wasn’t like that. Maybe she didn’t know?

It might not even be like that…don’t jump to conclusions. Jill’s right…this could all be harmless. Maybe he’s just a friend.

Still…he did not like the feeling in his gut looking at the man’s seemingly innocent picture. It was hard to decide if it was his innate instincts as a cop or his overprotective devotion as a big brother. Unfortunately, Chris couldn’t do much else beside keep a closer eye on his sister and see if anything else came on his radar. Claire was still acting strange…hiding something. He was sure this man had something to do with it. Sighing, he closed the profile and got back to his other work. He remained distracted for the rest of the morning.

Before leaving for lunch, Chris had found Ralph Hendricks again and asked his neighbor and fellow brother-in-uniform to keep an eye out for anything else unusual at his house, especially if it involved that silver BMW and the man that drove it. Ralph, sensing Chris’s worry, assured him he would do what he could. That made the older Redfield feel better and drove home to enjoy some lunch with his sister.

He unlocked the door and went inside. Chris usually took his lunch with Jill, and so he was sure Claire would be surprised. The house was warm, but he didn’t see her when he came inside. The television wasn’t on, it was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Sis, you here?” When there came no answer, he hollered again with a frown. “Claire?”

He checked the house. She was gone. Trying to remain calm, Chris thought where she could have gone without the truck. He searched for a note but found none. He had to rationalize this. Maybe a friend came and picked her up...

Or maybe that guy in the BMW?

Chris paced, knowing he was overreacting. He couldn’t call his STARS teammates in to help him look for her once more, especially since last time it turned out she had been just fine. Barry was out of town with Robert, and Wesker would probably wring his neck if he called him on his day off again. He decided that calling Jill would be best. She would talk him down and help him to clear his head.

He picked up the phone with a heavy sigh. If only he could get rid of the terrible feeling in his gut. You have to quit doing this…Claire’s an adult. She’s out there living her life. And you cannot be there to protect her all the time. She knows how to take care of herself. She’s probably just out there having fun. Quit worrying!

Claire was not having fun. This was torture. The silence ate at her, the small, confined space that smelled of leather and his cologne was dizzying. Every nerve under her skin thrummed, from what she didn’t know. Demanding her to move, to escape, to fight. Or perhaps respond to a darker urge she refused to acknowledge, pushed to the farthest corner of her mind.

“You’re more restless than William, and that’s saying something.”

The college student fell out of her thoughts, not realizing she had been so fidgety in the passenger seat of Wesker’s car. His look was that of mild amusement, genuinely less snide than usual.

Claire glared at him. “Can you blame me? Stuck in a car with an evil asshole like you. What are we even doing here anyway?”

“Waiting...some of us more patiently than others.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

He stared out the tinted windows, elbow resting on the side panel of his door with his chin propped on his knuckles. He had taken his sunglasses off again when they had parked here over half an hour ago, observing and waiting patiently. Apparently, this man had the patience of a saint - and Wesker having any saint-like qualities, wasn’t that the epitome of irony? 

They were in southern Raccoon, on the east side of Circular River, south of Cider District where all of Raccoon City’s schools were. It was mostly warehouses and old apartment complexes around here. It wasn’t the poorest part of town, but Wesker’s XK8 was out of place in this area, and Claire had no idea what he was waiting for.

Claire had tried to behave, be good like Ada and the Birkins suggested, but her defiance soon got the better of her being stuck in that car with him, with nothing to do but go mad. So she deliberately fidgeted and made noise, anything she thought that would get under his skin.

After a bit, certain that her antics weren’t working, the STARS Captain soon glowered her way. “If you wish to irritate me, perhaps you should take pointers from Will. But let’s be honest here, Ms. Redfield, I know you are above such petty antics. If you have something to say, then say it.”

Claire didn’t break his intimidating gaze, glaring at him in return. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Feel better?”

“I will if I get the chance to kill you.”

Wesker’s smirk knotted her stomach again. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, dear heart.”

Smug prick…

Claire leaned back against her seat, folding her arms. “Why the hell am I even here? Surely, you can ruin someone else’s life without me?”

“I can. But why do that when I have pawns...and pleasant company...like you?” He smiled wryly at her glare. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear. No one will get hurt...today.”

“How can you be like this? My brother and the STARS look up to you, respect you! The city relies on you...Sherry adores you. How can you do this to them? Do you not feel anything?”

Wesker closed his eyes for a moment but remained impassive. “You’re wasting your time trying to understand me, Ms. Redfield.”

Claire wasn’t about to let him dissuade her that easily. She had a feeling her prying would get her in trouble, but damned if trouble wasn’t her middle name. “I have nothing better to do. So...hate the world? Trying to prove something? Issues? Emotional trauma? Revenge?”

She tried to read him for any kind of reaction, even if only minuscule. Though he was probably just a psychopath and nothing more, Claire had a feeling it was more than that. His relationship with the Birkins and apparent physical attraction to her proved that. It was something much deeper. The signs were there, what little the Birkins and Wesker himself had revealed to her.

I am no longer the ruled, I am the ruler. Wesker was obsessed with power and control. Something had to have made him that way.

Unfortunately, if the corrupt STARS Captain gave any reaction to her prying, she had missed it. If only she could read him like William could...

Wesker sighed, as if he heard this all before. “Since I know you are wondering it, I had a standard childhood.”

“Oh yeah? Parents? Siblings?”

He half-rolled his eyes. “My parents died long ago. I have a sister but we were raised separately.”

Now we're getting somewhere!

“That’s not a standard childhood,” Claire stated.

He looked at her and for half a second the college student swore she could see a little into this man’s darkened soul. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

The nerve he hit was sharp and sudden, like a knife digging underneath her fingernail. She scowled, no longer able to keep his gaze. She should’ve known he would’ve turned it right back around on her.

“Car accident, correct?”

Claire flinched, certain he would ridicule her for her loss and heartache on the subject. “Yeah.”

Say it...I dare you! Just give me a reason to pound your face in...

“I’m sorry, dear heart.”

Claire’s head snapped to gape at him so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. Completely taken by shock, he didn’t present her with anything further on the words she would have never thought to ever hear come out of his mouth, let alone sincerely.

“Ah, right on time,” Wesker eventually said after a long bout of silence. “You see that man crossing the street ahead?”

Claire suppressed the turmoil of thoughts swirling in her head over their recent conversation and looked. She did see someone crossing the street; a younger man, tall and skinny, wearing mostly black, baggy clothes. He looked like a typical hoodlum, covered in tattoos, a cigarette lazily poking out from his lips.

“Yeah.”

“He will get inside that parked Ford Taurus. I need for you to join him.”

“What? I don’t even know the guy!”

Sure enough, the hoodlum got into the driver side of the parked car just up ahead.

Wesker looked to her, lips twitching in amusement. “He’s expecting you, dear heart. Just say ‘not the gravy’ and he will do the rest.”

Claire gawked at him. “Not...the gravy? Are you kidding me?”

Wesker sighed. “Do I wish I was. William’s code, not mine.”

“Oh…” she mumbled. She wasn’t really surprised since it was William. Still, she wasn’t fond of the idea of sitting in the car of a total stranger with no weapon on her. Granted, she was sure she could pummel the guy easily enough, but one couldn’t be too careful.

Wesker must have sensed her unease. “The sooner you do this, the sooner we can leave. Meaning one step closer to you going home. Trust me, Claire, as long as I have you, no one will touch a hair on your head.”

Unless it’s your Russian Colonel friend, right?

The Devil might as well have been telling her to trust him. Still, there was something about his tone that did make her feel a little safer...a little. The younger Redfield slowly opened the door to the black luxury car and stepped out.

Taking a deep breath, really wishing she could have her gun or knife on her, she walked down the slushy sidewalk. A lot of the snow had melted from the sun being out for a couple of days, but more snow - and cloudy gloominess - was inbound. The dropping temps tonight would for sure turn this slush into more ice.

Reaching the car, Claire slowly pulled the handle to the passenger door and slipped inside. The interior was ragged and smelled of cigarette smoke. The guy had been sitting patiently this whole time with his hands in his pockets. He looked at her, only mild surprise coming over him and he gave her a one-over. If Claire had to guess, this seemingly normal looking hoodlum was an informant of some kind.

Claire sighed. “Not the gravy.”

The guy nodded, eyes scanning around them for a moment before he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small white envelope. He offered it to her. Claire studied it for a couple of heartbeats and then grabbed it. When she tried to pull it away, he tightened his hold on it.

“They only stayin’ for another week. If he gonna hit ‘em, he better hit ‘em fast.”

Claire swallowed. “Got it.”

The informant let the envelope go. He reached up and turned the keys to his ignition. Claire was sure that was her signal to leave and got out of the car. She barely shut the door before the sedan pulled away from the curb, loud music blaring even through the rolled up windows. Claire watched him go for only a second before turning and going back to Wesker’s car.

Once she was back inside his much nicer vehicle, shutting the door to contain the warmth from the heater, she immediately presented him the envelope. The STARS Captain took it, their fingers brushing, and Claire wasn’t sure whether he deliberately did it or not. He had already placed his sunglasses back on.

“He said they are only staying for a week and if you are going to hit them, you better do it fast.”

Wesker smirked as he opened the envelope and pulled out a folded up piece of paper. He unfolded it and read through it while Claire remained quiet, waiting.

“Hmm, interesting,” he mused. “I may get to cut the head off of more than one snake.”

Claire had no idea what he was planning or who it involved, but she knew it meant people were going to get hurt or killed. Or exploited if Wesker had his way. These “snakes” had to be problems or threats to him somehow. Or perhaps obstacles to a bigger prize. Her stomach soured just thinking about what he could do to these people, innocent or not.

All she knew was that she was sitting right next to her snake. And it was constricting around her, each new coil making it harder to breath, pulling her closer, poised to strike with venomous fangs. Claire had heard plenty of rattlesnakes growing up. She didn’t hear a rattler, but she sure felt the same cold weight of dread plummet in her stomach hearing one often produced.

[elizabethgoldlokidottir]

Something Precious: Gold King Version, Ch. 1, The Meeting of the Dark Ones

The walls of Tartarus were a lot more common than one would expect. The deepest pit of Hades was now fit to meet the age of which the earth now held. It was like any other dungeon, but with differences that one would expect when entering the land of the dead. The glowing volcanic rock surrounded the prisoners, the hot stone serving as the building material for the bricks building the dungeon wall. The walls were paved with brimstone mixed with tar. The smell of sulfur wafted through the air as the foul environment encompassed the lowest criminals of the underworld. Through the smoke-strangled air an ancient language whispered and echoed. It spoke in a long lost language that no man or woman dead or alive remembered. It was the raw language of magic, speaking the raw language of the universe from which virtue and evil is built. The language could either goad the actions of man or push them away from such actions. In the middle of this particular dungeon sat a cracked black marble table, lit by a blue flame in the brazier at each corner of the room.

Perhaps even more terrifying were those who gathered around the table to meet. These had been the prisoners of this dark realm. They were known in life as the dark ones. They were the most feared sorcerers in the land. Like pit vipers, they could kill with a single strike. The men and women with glittering golden scales covering their bodies showed that same pension for greed. In life, every decision that they had ever made had been selfish. All magic is based on emotion, and theirs was born out of thoughts and emotions of darkness. Selfishness, greed, envy, pride, gluttony, adultery, cowardice, hatred, jealousy, bigotry, sadness, pain and fear only named a few fires which fueled their powers. They wore cloaks so dark that one could mistake them for shadows covering their glistening features. Around each of them was a heavy pile of golden chains. Every man, woman and child who dies receives a chain to bear as punishment for their misdeeds in life. Every act of kindness and goodness causes them to be free of a chain link. Every act of evil causes them to gain a chain link. A ponderous chain encircled and fettered each of these individuals, so many that their spirits could hardly move. Every one of their faces showed the same expression: one of regret.

There were two dozen of them that had lived these past four thousand years since the first dark one had walked the earth, yet only one of them was female. The first dark one appeared at the head of the table, a woman who had a sad and faraway look in her amber eyes. Zozo, the last dark one before the one who now lived was the first to speak up. “Nimue, why have you called us here? Aren’t our afterlives hard enough without some tedious meeting? Speak, woman.” And it should be noted that that one person was rather bitter, even more so than the others. Nimue, carrying the regal air of a queen, placed her hands on the table in a gesture of power and stood up among them once again. “I have called you here because we have a new dark one. Zozo has joined us in death, which means another dark one now lives.” Boron, another of these dark creatures spoke up bravely. “Yet we have never had a meeting before this. Why have you called us here when in the past we just let them live out their lives? Why have you called us here…why now?” Under the questioning, she maintained that queenly way in which she carried herself. “I have called this gathering because Rumplestiltskin has been called to a very important mission for the rest of us. He alone is fit among us to carry out this task. From his loins shall spring the new light one.”

With this admission, disagreeable sighs, glares of disbelief and restrained and doubtful laughter came from the rest. “Rubbish.” One of the others said. “There has not been a light one since Merlin and he has been transformed into a tree. He didn’t stand a chance.  And of course you know all about that…” he said with somewhat of a teasing smirk. Nimue’s eyes immediately began to burn with anger and a look of heartbreak began to cross her face. An animalistic growl issued from her throat in the way that all dark ones growled when they became exceptionally angry. “You speak of Merlin that again and these claws go in your throat. I will find a way to make it hurt.” With this threat, the insubordinate one backed down and slunk to the end of the table where he once was. Zozo raised another point. “He does have a son, I know this to be true.” Nimue simply shook her head. “No. It will not be Baelfire who will carry on my lover’s legacy. The boy was spawned when Rumplestiltskin was human. Have you all forgotten the prophecy?” and what she had gotten back were blank stares. 

She gave another growl as she paced back and forth like a human lion. “You didn’t even read the book of the dark one, did you? Unlimited power and ultimate opulence just to read a book and you still couldn’t do it!? And don’t give me that look, Rookworm, when each of you took on this mantle you were given the ability to read! Must I do everything myself? Men…” she said with an annoyed sigh and waved her hand. A book appeared in her hands. “Rumplestiltskin, another one who hasn’t even read it yet. He won’t miss it for a moment.” With a roll of her eyes she turned to one page in particular, an illuminated text with a celtic design of a horse with wings, and the only page in the book which had color. The vibrant colors and the gold text itself shone in the darkness, as if they entire page echoed the knowledge within its words.

One day, a second light one will return to walk the earth. This creature will pay the price of magic so that every dark one along with everyone who practices magic shall be not be automatically met with damnation at the end of their lives. This will come in the form of a child, for the innocence of children is the only light from which the magic of true love and light can emerge. The child will be the offspring of a human mother and a dark one father and the product of true love. Other children will come before her, but not one will meet this requirement. The sex shall be female to make amends for the actions of the first dark one. She will not be what you expect. She will meet many challenges and undergo much suffering within her life so that she will learn compassion for those who suffer.  She will appear both in the form of a child and a horse. She will be the most powerful light magician to ever live and will bring light to those who dwell in darkness. She will feed the hungry, house the poor, and protect all children like herself. She will raise the dead. Horses will be sacred to her and animals will worship her. This child will come in an unexpected way. Therefore, do not judge by appearances, for a book cannot be judged by its cover.

“The problem is…” Nimue sighed some. “…this child will not be born for another three hundred years. Certain events must take place first before she can arrive in the world. And a certain mother must be chosen out of all. She must be Rumplestiltskin’s true love, not just some woman that he beds. She herself will not be born for another two hundred and seventy-five years. In order for us to be freed from our chains and from this prison, we must guide him towards the right path. The seer that spoke with him fourteen years ago has already set things in motion, but now she is even more under my control. I plan to inspire her to take a prophecy to him that will lead him down the right path. Until then, we must keep hope. She will return to us, and she will come to save us. This meeting is now adjourned.” And as soon as she said that, the spirits were gone, all to their separate cells in tartarus, Nimue being drawn back into her own. Her clawed hand lay over the one physical thing that she was allowed to bring with her into this realm. She closed her eyes and held the engagement ring gingerly within her claws. She remembered him…how he worked and slaved so hard to save up for that ring. She remembered how he had been transformed into a tree, how he had died. He was trying to stop her, trying to save her from herself. She had her own doubts. If Merlin could not save her…how could a child save all of them? But she would not lose hope. She would see him once again. I’m coming, my love. Wait for me still.

[afishtrap]

This article examines how the Dragon Princess, one of the most celebrated characters in the Lotus Sutra, is represented in the noh drama Ama and the Heike Nōkyō sutra set. By doing so, it debunks the prevailing consensus in understanding the Dragon Princess and her episode in the sutra, and illustrates a hitherto unnoticed intrinsic affinity between medieval Japanese engi stories and Buddhist scriptural narratives.

Ryūichi Abé. "Revisiting the Dragon Princess: Her Role in Medieval Engi Stories and Their Implications in Reading the Lotus Sutra."  Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, Vol. 42, No. 1, Engi: Forging Accounts ofSacred Origins (2015), pp. 27-70.

As Tokuda Kazuo (2013, 11-12) has pointed out, the terms engi and innen were often used interchangeably in medieval Japanese society; furthermore, in the context of proselytizing, innen meant metaphorical and didactic tales such as hiyu, sekkyõ, and setsuwa. Tokuda has gone on to argue that the simplest way to understand the word engi in the medieval Japanese context is to see it as a type of monogatari or storytelling that has something to do with the past origins of things and that is relevant to the worship of Buddhist and indigenous Japanese divinities. Compared to previous research, Tokudas interpretation thus brings the term engi much closer to the sense of nidãna , thereby relating it to narrative categories within the Buddhist scriptural tradition. In fact, in the world of popular medieval religious culture, the word engi had little to do with the philosophical concept of dependent co-origination; instead, it was closely tied to engi and innen accounts from the scriptures. In other words, those who took part in creating and expanding the genre of medieval engi literature exerted themselves as raconteurs, not philosophers.

[...]

What is of particular interest in this article is the element of reigen, miraculous manifestations, as a lens through which the sacred histories of divinities, their home grounds, or temples and shrines that support their worship are revealed. The significance of reigen has already been noted by Sakurai (1975, 459-63). Here I wish to call attention to the fact that reigen episodes frequently involve the death, revival, and resurrection of protagonists, thereby acquainting their audiences with characters' past lives in both human and nonhuman realms. In this respect, two crucial elements highlight the intertextuality of medieval engi stories and scriptural nidãna accounts. First, the narratives traverse the cycle of transmigration by moving back and forth between past and present births and deaths; second, these stories result in the recovery of lost memory or sacred knowledge from the distant past. Thus, a careful reading of scriptural narratives can provide a key to better understand medieval Japanese origin stories, and vice versa.

[...]

The episode featuring the eight-year-old daughter of the Dragon King Sāgara is one of the most celebrated stories in the Lotus Sutra and occurs in the "Devadatta" chapter, which is chapter 12 in Kumārajīvas translation.3 During annual lectures on the eight fascicles of the Lotus Sutra ( hokke hakkõ Heian courtiers celebrated as particularly auspicious the day of the fifth fascicle ( gokan no hi) (Imanari 1994). This is an index of the importance of the "Devadatta" chapter as an illustration of the power of the sutra: although the Taishõ canon places the chapter in the fourth fascicle of the sutra, Heian manuscripts place it at the beginning of the fifth (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1979, 63, 121).

The "Devadatta" chapter consists of two parts. The first is a startling revelation by Śakyamuni Buddha that Devadatta, the Buddha's evil cousin, is in fact the Buddha's good friend and teacher. In a former life, the Buddha had been a  king who sought the highest teaching of the Dharma, which a holy man living in the mountains had mastered in the form of the Lotus Sutra . The holy man promised the king to teach it to him if he would agree to serve as his servant. The king accepted, and for many years he gathered firewood, collected wild fruits and nuts, brought stream water, and prepared meals for the holy man. In the end, the holy man, who was in fact Devadatta in a former life, taught the king the Lotus Sutra's teaching of the ekayãna (One Unifying Vehicle, Ch. yicheng; Jp. ichijõ). The king was reborn, eventually becoming Śakyamuni, who expounds the sutra's teaching on Eagle Peak before his final extinction. In recognition of Devadattas contribution in a former life, the Buddha grants him a prophecy: Devadatta is destined to attain Buddhahood in a future world (t 9-34b-35a).

The episode of the Dragon Princess immediately follows this prophecy. It begins as Manjuśri engages in a conversation with the bodhisattva Accumulated Wisdom, one of the attendants of the Tathāgata Many Treasures, who has come from a cosmic system in the east to visit Śakyamuni Buddha's assembly on Eagle Peak. Manjuśri tells the assembly that during a short stay in the Dragon King's undersea palace, whence he has just returned, he guided innumerable dragon beings into the path of the Mahayana. As soon as he finishes speaking, a countless number of dragon bodhisattvas emerge out of the ocean palace riding on flying lotus seats and gather in the sky over Eagle Peak. When Accumulated Wisdom praises Manjuśns great act of guiding these beings to the bodhisattva path, Manjuśri explains that throughout his stay in the Dragon King's ocean palace, he preached only the Lotus Sutra . Accumulated Wisdom then questions Manjuśri: "This sutra is extremely profound, excellent and subtle. It is the treasure among all sutras. I wonder if you found any being among your students there who diligently applied effort to practice this sutra's teaching and reached Buddhahood swiftly."4 Manjuśrfs answer is crucial for understanding the characterization of the Dragon Princess in the sutra:

"Yes there is one! She is the Dragon King Sāgara's daughter, who is merely eight years old. Yet she is sharp in her capacity of wisdom and observes well how karmie deeds play out in sentient beings' senses. She has mastered dhāraņī ; has excelled in upholding the profoundest of the teaching of all the Buddhas, their secret treasury; has entered into deep meditation; has thoroughly understood the nature of all things. In an instant she gave rise to the mind of enlightenment and reached the stage of non-retrogression. Her eloquence is limitless. She loves sentient beings as if they were her own infant children. She is perfectly endowed with merit. Whatever she thinks in her mind and utters through her mouth is sublime, grand, compassionate, and kind. With her gentle and elegant nature, she succeeded in reaching Bodhi."

[...]

Therefore, in the larger context of the sutra's narrative, the conversation between Manjuśrl and Accumulated Wisdom regarding the Dragon Princess' enlightenment is an exchange between the one who remembers and the other who forgot. Manjuśrl is fully cognizant of events of the distant past -the "engi" in which characters' previous life existences intertwine through the progress of spiritual training. In contrast, Accumulated Wisdom is devoid of such memory: he cannot even begin to imagine the engi -- the story of the Dragon Princess's previous lives -- that must have enabled her to make such great accomplishments in her current life. Grounding himself in insight into practitioners' spiritual progress in their past lives, Manjuśn chooses the Dragon Princess as the most advanced bodhisattva, one who has already attained perfect enlightenment. Accumulated Wisdom's objection derives from his ignorance and should therefore be understood as a rhetorical question. When he asks, "How then is it possible for me to believe that this girl realized the perfect unsurpassed enlightenment of the Buddha in such a short period of time?," he actually confirms that the princess is a very special practitioner who has realized the perfect unsurpassed enlightenment of the Buddha. For that reason, Manjuśn does not even need to answer Accumulated Wisdom. The Dragon Princess suddenly manifests herself before the Buddha. Having prostrated herself in reverence to him, and then having seated herself in a corner of the assembly, she praises him with a gãthã and expresses her resolve to save living beings.

When the Dragon Princess has announced in her verse to the Buddha her vow to engage in salvific acts that benefit living beings, it is Šāriputra who now opposes her. He says that he is not able to accept her enlightenment because he believes that a woman's body is soiled and thus cannot serve as a vessel to advance the Mahayana. Šāriputra supports his point by referring to "five obstructions" (Sk . panca-āvaraņa; Ch. wuzhang ; Jp. goshõ) for women: that they are unable to become Brahmā, Indra, Māra, a cakravartin , or a Buddha.6 The Dragon Princess presents a rejoinder to both Accumulated Wisdom and Šāriputra through not words but action. She offers to the Buddha her legendary jewel whose worth is equal to the entire universe system, and he immediately accepts it. Having seen the Buddha receive her jewel, the Dragon Princess turns to Accumulated Wisdom and Šāriputra and asks whether or not the manner in which the Buddha accepted the jewel was swift. They answer her in unison: "It was very swift." Her act of offering the jewel and the Buddha's acceptance of it create a crucial moment of transition, after which the episode moves into its finale. The significance of this vignette will be further discussed in relationship to the Heike nõkyõ frontispiece in the last section of this article.

[...]

Šāriputra's role in this part of the Lotus Sutra narrative closely resembles the one he plays in the goddess episode of the Vimalakīriti Sutra (t no. 475, 15.547C-548C; Paul 1985, 221-32). In the Vimalakīrti Sutra , Šāriputra, the proud leader of the celibate male clergy, is unable to understand that the Goddess, who had been studying under the householder Vimalakīrti for many years, is a very advanced bodhisattva with a fine grasp of the nature of emptiness as nonduality. In order to guide Šāriputra, the Goddess manifests a vision in which her body and Śariputras body are switched. Having seen himself as female and the Goddess in the form of himself, Śariputra finally frees himself from his androcentric bias, accepts her as his teacher, and is able to enter into the dharma gate of nonduality. At the end of the episode, Vimalakīrti tells Śariputra that the Goddess in her previous lives trained herself under ninety-two million Buddhas. Just like the Dragon Princess, she has already reached the bodhisattva stage of nonretrogression (t 15.548c). Here, too, Śariputra plays the role of a foil to bring to the fore the exceptional spiritual quality of the female protagonist.

[minusram]

4/? bonny and blithe, good and gay

actually yelly anon reminded me that i forgot to crosspost the penultimate chap of bbgg. not sure i actually have any tumblr-only readers, but hey; better safe etc etc

[ch 1 / ch 2 / ch 3] [do make tomorrow a sunny day series here]

They emerge into a carpeted receiving room thronged with what must be at least half a hundred psychics—even if a significant percentage of them weren’t palpably genuine practitioners Ritsu would recognize their trade from the terrible way they all dress.

‘Significant’, of course, is relative, but considering the concentration of spiritually gifted individuals in the general population, meeting even one other esper is noteworthy.

Ritsu and his employer remain mostly unnoticed by the mass of people clustered away from the door, but a few turn to peer at them suspiciously, to size up potential competition. Reigen's taken aback for less than a second—and Ritsu only knows because of the particular way he rolls his shoulder—then he gets started, working the room with his usual oily flair and carving a space for himself where he doesn’t belong with just fast talk and the force of his repugnant but bafflingly effective personality.

He wades into the crowd, a cloud of jovial introductions left in his wake, handing out business cards and subtly enforcing his social superiority in a way that is confident, but not overly so; avoiding alienation by the sprinkling of a few specks of modesty amongst the uptalk. Ritsu trails silently behind.

Reigen cuts a swathe through the room, speaking the way he does to clients and moving with purpose in the face of his skeptical marks. It’s difficult for Ritsu to tell which of them have powers; a staticky aura hangs in the air, but his impression of the energy’s source remains indistinct. He’s unused to sensing others of his kind—every psychic he’s ever met has found him first.

Reactions to the rapid-fire establishment of their standing vary from baffled to condescending. Psychics are either good with people, intimidatingly bizarre, or just extremely lucky, but even in all the strangeness of this past year Ritsu has never met anyone quite like the man he follows now. His employer, energetic, manic with possibility, reaches a new target, and begins again. Ritsu can feel his mood souring, the longer they’re here with nothing happening. He didn’t come to network, he came to help people. And, yes, to serve himself; in hope of personal gain.

Judging by how many people are here, the lure of money or fame had a similar effect on his fellow exorcists.

He’s spared half an ear for Reigen’s spiel, the prattling stream of words a ceaseless rhythm that's grown familiar over time, but tunes right back in, affronted, when he hears the direction it’s taking.

“Oh, yes, I’m Reigen Arataka, and this is my assis—”

“I’m not—”

“My assistant, Kageyama Ritsu. Bright kid, but a little uppity, if you know what I mean. Won’t you excuse us for a moment, please?”

Reigen ushers him away and they reach the edge of the crowd. His employer bends for a harshly whispered exchange, unaware or uncaring of the fact that whispers in public tend to draw more attention than they deflect.

“Hey, Ritsu, pipe down, alright? I liked the silent act, that was good. Keep it up, and follow my lead unless for some incomprehensible teenage reason you are actively trying to blow this. If you ruin our reputation, then where are you gonna find your little exercises, huh?”

“You mean your reputation. I have nothing at stake here, I just work with you.”

“You work for me, kid, and if you don’t want to be cut off, you’ll stop trying to screw up my moves.”

“Your moves, Reigen-san, are the pathetic graspings of a man past his prime and lost in a world on which he has no bearing, a con artist who can only survive by leeching off society and the gullibility of desperate fools.”

His employer’s lips part, then twitch up into a smirk.

“Tell me how you really feel,” Reigen says, raising arch eyebrows at him, “And, by the way— I’m twenty-seven!” he hisses, before turning to greet another psychic who’s just walked up.

Ritsu fades back subtly, uninterested in ingratiating himself to strangers or to Reigen Arataka, and disappears to lean against the wall. No one notices him there, so it leaves him free to watch.

The people move, swirling together and apart in patterns Ritsu’s sure would be easier to track from above, but he does his best—his habitual level of effort; customarily more than adequate for his purposes. He compares what he sees to the display the day before, and finds substantial differences. The cultists were constrained, stuck together in a static train despite their wild laughing. Their grouping was starkly different from the one he observes now. Unnatural, even, though he has yet to devote the matter much thought.

The psychics here are stiff but organic, clustered in clannish clumps that remain cohesive with and within the greater group. Ritsu can’t deny that there seems to be a hub, some sort of slimy nucleus around where the century’s self-proclaimed shining star is making his way through the crowd, interrupting the previous order like sediment irritating a mollusc. Noise rises in the room, low conversations springing up like weeds in his employer’s wake.

A few more people show up, on the verge of being late as the start time on the invitation grows nigh, and receive the same scrutiny that greeted his own delegation of two. The crowd murmurs, louder now, energized by impatience and anticipation, his employer’s voice and bright hair lost in the thrum.

He catches sight of the eccentric uniform—black with pale wooden beads—of the Psychic Moon System, which may or may not be the organization’s real name, but he can’t tell from his limited glimpse whether there are any bandages on the person’s face. Guilt twinges regardless, and it occurs to him that he has no idea how long a Glasgow smile takes to heal. What happened to Shouda Katsukaru is tragic, and no little part of the blame falls at Ritsu’s feet; both because his association with Reigen was what got the man involved with such a dangerous spirit in the first place, and because Ritsu was unable to subdue it when the time came for him to step up.

They were all lucky that the thing was so indivisibly linked with the myth it was based on. Ambiguous answers and tossing anything they could find in their pockets confused it long enough for all three of them to get away—but not unscathed. Another one of his failures; something he can use now, and does, when he needs a little extra boost from his powers.

He wonders if every psychic’s abilities fuction this way. If this negative existence, life spent relying on a capacity powered by murk and suffering, is how it’s meant to work.

A clock strikes the hour from somewhere out of sight, across the room and the mass of people that despite their numbers don’t come close to filling it. Ritsu steps away from the wall to find Reigen, in order to present an arguably united front in the face of their competitors and the expectation that suffuses the room.

The leather doors open, swung by suited security personnel, and a man enters, clad in a pinstripe suit.

Ritsu finds Reigen, finally, or is found, and they stand together in the midst of the crowd as their client, mustached and desperate, steps forward to introduce himself.

Asagiri Masashi has, apparently, put stringent effort towards only inviting bonafide psychics to this event. Ritsu and Reigen trade a silent, speaking look while they can still see each other, before the room darkens and they turn their attention back to the presentation.

Through a slideshow, Ritsu learns about their client’s spoiled daughter; a year older than him but miles further from mature, the product of wealth and an upbringing unfettered by empathic concerns. The kind of girl his mother would call a minx and his father would call a hellraiser.

“Something is inside her,” Asagiri intones ponderously, lit by spilled light from the image of his locked up daughter, ten feet tall. Minori is tied to a bed, ropes snug on her wrists and snaking under the blankets, watched by spirit tags and a sleuth of toy bears; a disturbing picture.

Ritsu reserves judgement on the possibility of possession; he’s experienced enough of the evils of his peers to wait on a verdict until he sees for himself, and can decide on his own what’s been happening. Familiar too are the evils of adults—intimately, a hole in his family only half-healed—whether parent or child is in the wrong here, it’s inarguable that something must be done.

The crowd shifts uneasily, an atmosphere of apprehension gathering at the revelation of their task, but Ritsu is ready to understand, to learn if it’s delusion or premonitive intuition that’s thrown Asagiri Minori to the dark.

Asagiri opens a panel in the wall, a hidden spiral staircase, and leads them down to find out.

The stairwell is narrow, and it takes minutes for every one of them to make it down the story and a half to the small anteroom at basement level. Ritsu ends up next to Reigen somewhere in the middle of the relocation, which means queuing at the top of the stairs and loitering at the bottom until Asagiri shuffles to the front of the herd to open the plain wooden door that is the room’s only other feature, leading the ragged lump of them behind him when he’s the first one through.

It’s an observation room, made of depressing concrete, dominated by the enormous pane of one-way glass that practically composes one wall. Their side, filling in tighter all the time as people jostle to get a view of the occupant, is dimmed; the inside, lit up bright enough that the mirror must be opaque to the girl staring blankly across her coverlet, is fishbowl-like, leaving Ritsu with the uncomfortably voyeuristic impression of being at a zoo.

Reigen, behind him, speaks right into his ear and Ritsu twitches away from the feel of warm breath against the side of his face.

He turns to talk over his shoulder, meeting Reigen’s eyes level with his own since the man is partially bent over to invade his personal space.

“What?” Ritsu hisses, irate.

Reigen flicks his eyes reprovingly from side to side, hands in his pockets, indicating the people that surround them and how little he wants every one of them to be party to this conversation. Ritsu turns back around and mutters out the side of his mouth.

“What? And don’t breathe on my neck this time.”

“I was just asking, what do you think?”

Ritsu concentrates, and senses... nothing. Just a person, kept and unkempt; a girl his age stifled by her father and pinned behind glass for people to peer at, offered up to a parade of probing eyes that seek to find her flaws.

Minori’s head rolls on her neck until she’s looking at the mirror, giving the illusion of eye contact. She looks weary; deep bags dug in under her eyes, blonde hair lank on her forehead.

“Nothing,” Ritsu says quietly, “I don’t sense a thing.”

He stares, rude but comfortable with his lack of etiquette since he knows he won’t be caught, tracing her searchingly with his eyes for signs of possession while Asagiri answers questions, going into a narrative explanation of the smeared blood on his daughter’s whitewashed ceiling.

Ritsu looks and pretends she’s looking back at him, like this whole farce isn’t a gross violation of her privacy. Her head tilts a little as she looks at herself in the mirror, a wry smile fleetingly upon her face, and Ritsu wonders what she sees in her reflection, how differently she thinks of herself compared to his picture of her, built only on what he can presume to discern from the outside.

The psychics grow loud around him, each asserting their experience and suitability; Reigen rises to the top of the pack with glib presumption and loud aplomb, claiming the case in their name about as sophisticatedly as a dog marking territory.

The room devolves, adults barking at each other like animals as they yell and argue, except animals aren’t driven by avarice and pride. Ritsu considers whether the glass is soundproof; concludes it must be since Minori has no reaction to the disagreements being bellowed just beyond her walls.

It resolves in a rock-paper-scissors tournament, a juvenile solution; fitting considering the behaviour of people that are ostensibly—according to society, though he has massive trouble believing it right now—his betters. His employer employs mind games and Ritsu uses strategy. Either age or experience declares Reigen the winner, leaving him triumphant in first place while Ritsu languishes in seventeenth.

Reigen gloats his way through the door, drawing the ire of everyone in the room as he disappears down the hallway that curves around to open on the far wall of Minori’s upsettingly ursine bedroom. He enters as all of them watch, closing the door gently behind him, and goes into one of his usual routines.

Ritsu recognizes his manner, courteous and comforting, as the way he deals with the more delicate clients, fragile people with ghostly problems that seek remedy at the agency. For the first time, Ritsu wonders how many of them he never sees; how many clients’ issues are solved with just kind hands and words, and the attention of someone willing to simply listen. He feels the violation all over again, watching the work, like an intruder to the private rapport Reigen is building with Minori.

The observation room is silent, ogling with bated breath as Reigen massages and chats, drawing a chilling, sordid account of her time here out of Minori’s waifish throat. The psychics turn again, inconstant as a weathervane, to stare mistrustfully at their client when she pleads to be let go.

Reigen emerges, subdued, and Ritsu tries to get a hint of what he’s thinking. Reigen notices him and subtly waves a hand, wait, with an enigmatic cant to his head. Ritsu waits, for now, with silent and watchful eyes, as their client is berated by the mass of people he’s hired for what is seeming increasingly likely to be no reason at all.

It’s looking like a consensus, the room united against a common enemy and piling on Asagiri with the easy conviction of a mob. Majority rule, maybe, but it’s one against many until his employer steps out to speak in their client’s defense.

Ritsu, attuned to Reigen’s theatrics, is not surprised the man chose the most dramatic moment possible to proclaim their client’s innocence.

Well, almost. Reigen’s moment is blown out of the water when a psychic—someone who slipped away into the room while Ritsu’s attention was elsewhere—is blown like an explosive cannonball through the glass, instantly transforming the wall into an expanding burst of shrapnel.

A piece of whizzing glass cracks to splinters on Ritsu’s barrier; his employer is gashed across the face, a shallow cut that in defiance of its depth weeps heavy blood in a curtain down Reigen’s cheek.

Ritsu glares, first at the minefield of glass shattered across the room, then at the psychic who was so destructive an instrument in spreading it, before he’s drawn inevitably to look at the source of the power that caused the victim’s unfortunately violent exit.

Minori laughs at them, lively and spiteful at the chaos she has wrought. Ritsu berates himself for feeling betrayed.

She challenges them with chuckles and mocking words, reveling in the panic that’s starting to poison the room, and Asagiri, reactive, shouts at them to save her. If anyone were to consult Ritsu, he would say that she’s not the one who’ll need saving, an opinion borne out by the maniacal cackling that throws back her body’s puppeted head.

A psychic with long straight hair and a ruched shirt—third in line of fifty-eight—steps forward to try his hand; his incomprehensible but intensely delivered chants prove extraordinarily ineffective. The next is also unsuccessful, and they all blur together into a useless chain until it’s almost Ritsu’s turn, attempt seventeen.

Reigen guides him off to one side for yet another private tête-a-tête and hovers a hand above his shoulder, a pseudo-touch that’s just on the edge of what he’ll tolerate.

“Are you okay with this?” Reigen asks, “You don’t have to do it, we can leave it to someone else.”

The condescension burns, and Ritsu knows they’re both remembering his failure at that apartment building, and in the face of the Kuchisake-onna. He thinks the second man, the ballistic psychic, was also a member of the same group—another tally, two of them now he hasn’t managed to save.

“I’m fine,” he snaps out, crisp, and turns away to end the subject.

“If you’re sure,” Reigen says dubiously, just to twist the knife.

“Positive,” he says, quellingly frosty.

“Okay, pricklepuss, just checking.”

“Well, don’t. I know what I’m doing.”

“Right,” a brief pause, and then:

“If you say so,” Reigen says with a mocking grin.

“You know what—”

“Fine, fine, sorry. I get it. You’ve got this,��� Reigen flashes him a confident smile, another expression Ritsu recognizes from work. “Knock ‘em dead, Ritsu, let’s show them how it’s done.”

Ritsu shrugs off the hand that bracingly pats his shoulder as they rejoin the group.

There’s no ‘let’s’ about it when his employer stays behind, one of many watching Ritsu step gingerly through the broken glass. Ritsu makes it through without cutting himself and looks up again to find himself closer than he expected to end up; in arm's reach of the comforter, practically the foot of the bed.

“Asagiri-san,” he says, wary and lacking anything else to call it, whatever’s wearing the body in front of him like a human marionette.

“Ritsu-kun,” she—it—replies.

And smiles.

for added verisimilitude, wait three months before reading the next chapter on ao3! although life willing it won’t take that long for the next chapter

[electricgreen13]

Of Monsters and Men Chapter 1

Ch. 1- A New Enemy

It was a perfectly average night. The stars were shining, crickets chirped in rhythm, and people were sleeping soundly in their homes. 

Well. Most people.

A group of about twenty were gathered in a clearing, murmuring to one another over the crackle of a bonfire. But all fell silent as Reverend Marcus Callahan emerged from the trees, Brother Michael at his heels like always, the ever faithful watchdog.

Reverend Callahan strode to the center of the clearing to stand before his flock, who waited in rapt silence. 

“Tonight is a glorious night, my friends.” Reverend Callahan declared. “For tonight, we do the Lord’s work, and rid this world of a great evil.” 

He gestured, and two of his followers came forwards from aside the group, dragging someone between them. They brought the abomination over and forced it to its knees before him, the men pinning its arms back to hold it in place. Its head rolled back and Reverend Callahan was pleased to see heavily dilated pupils. The drug they had been utilizing kept the demon’s mind and body sedated, with the added bonus of stifling its access to its unnatural abilities. 

“All of you are here because you have proven yourselves to be true believers in holy justice, and I have seen in you the conviction and strength needed to eradicate Satan’s influence from earth. Creatures like this,” he gestured at the abomination, bearing the guise of a petite blonde female. “are Lucifer’s demons, sent here on that fateful day many years ago in order to sow seeds of chaos and darkness so that sinners may bring about the end of days. But we shall not stand idly by while the snake corrupts more of God’s great creation!”

Reverend Callahan signaled and Sister Eliza parted from the group, crossing over to the large bonfire and, after pulling on a pair of heat-resistant gloves, removed an iron branding rod from its position over the flames. Eliza approached, the flickering fire casting liquid shadows across her face from behind, an eager glint in her eye as she brought forth the glowing orange tip, which was twisted into the shape of an intricate cross. 

The false woman saw what Sister Eliza held and made a pathetic attempt to flee, sluggishly jerking her head back, pulling her shoulders away, slurring out indistinct noises of panic. But it was no use. His heavenly soldiers held her tightly in place, and one of them reached forward and pulled down the collar of her shirt so that the top of her chest was nothing but exposed skin, ripe for divine purification. 

The Reverend clasped his hands in prayer before the iron rod, his followers mimicking the action. “Oh Lord, we giveth unto you this blessing, that you may protect and guide us in the coming war. We ask that you anoint this iron cross as a weapon against sin, so that we may purify those that seek to corrupt man from your divine will. Glory unto you. Amen.”

“Amen.” They echoed.

With a nod, Sister Eliza proceeded to press the heated brand into the creature’s chest. It howled and thrashed but Eliza held firm, ensuring that the holy symbol was properly engraved into the skin. 

Glory to God, the righteous will out!

But Reverend Callahan’s sense of victory quickly turned to horror as a radiant light erupted, forcing him to shield his eyes to avoid being blinded entirely as the men holding the prisoner cried out. 

Blast! How could it possibly be accessing its abilities?

The Reverend wondered, for a brief moment, if this was it— the time for them to become sacrifices in the name of God’s mission. But as always, the Lord provided. 

After mere moments of blazing, blinding light, there was a thud, and the clearing returned to its previous state of semi-darkness. Blinking away spots, Callahan was met with the sight of Brother Michael, his most loyal and competent soldier, standing over the abomination with his rifle held butt-down, seeming to have bashed the heathen over the head, who was slumped in the dirt facedown groaning.

The two men that had been holding the woman in place were both howling in pain, their hands and arms now covered in what seemed like burns, but the kind caused by radiation or ultraviolet light. Sister Eliza fell to her knees next to him, branding iron dropped aside as she clutched at her eyes. He sent up a prayer that she was not permanently blinded.

“It seems that even with the drugs, her abilities managed to activate as a self-defense mechanism.” Reverend Callahan motioned for some of his followers to come assist their compatriots, who were quickly led away to be treated. “We’ll have to take that into account in the future.”

He nodded to Brother Michael, who grabbed the heathen by the hair and dragged her into an upwards position like before, a handgun pressed against her temple just in case. The woman merely slurred out nothings, her face now even grimier than before, but no part of her showed signs of illumination. The fresh brand across her chest was swollen and puckered  and incredibly red, dirt clinging to the intricate cross shape leaking pinpricks of blood. It was a glorious sight to behold.

The Reverend reached into his satchel, retrieving their most sacred treasure. He unwrapped the violet cloth from around it, and held it up for his followers to gaze upon. The historic texts said it was an angel’s blade, and Reverend Callahan could believe it, admiring the intricate hilt and guard, the gleaming silver edge. The perfect weapon for eliminating evil.  

“With this holy blade, I cast out the demon residing within this form. Your evil shall be purged from this earth by a warrior of God’s army. Now I send you back to the flames of Hell!” 

With that, Reverend Callahan plunged the dagger into the abomination’s center, twisting it for good measure. Its eyes went wide, gasping out a rattled wheeze, and it coughed a trickle of blood when Callahan finally yanked the knife back out. 

Its hands weakly palmed at the wound, gurgling on its own lifeblood, and Callahan revelled in the panic and terror he saw there. Good, let all these wretched demons fear the righteous hand of God. His hand. Brother Michael released his hold on the hair, and the abomination slumped into the dirt, quickly staining the ground around it a dark crimson. 

Reverend Callahan turned to his flock. “Tonight we celebrate a victory for heaven, my children!” Many in the group raised their hands in reverence and celebration. “We successfully eradicated a vessel of Satan’s army, this is another battle won for the soul of mankind!” 

He took in the sight of absolute devotion before him, then bowed his head. 

“Let us pray.”

*****

Elsewhere, a woman suddenly shot up in bed, chest burning and clutching at her stomach. 

She screamed. 

*****

[Secure Channel] — {Connection Established}

Sybil: Another one gone

Sybil: That’s 3 in 5 months

Kerberos: who

Sybil: Halo

Kerberos: shit 

Kerberos: im calling it 

Kerberos: tell Trace to send out an alert

Sybil: I will 

Sybil: And I think it’s finally time to reach out to them 

Sybil: They need to know if they’re in danger

Kerberos: agreed 

Kerberos: i'll make contact with them

Kerberos: then i’ll start looking into Halo

Sybil: Be safe

Kerberos: always 

[Secure Channel] — {Connection Terminated}

**************

Just started this story! Looking forward it! Follow it on Ao3 or FF if you want! My username is electricgreen13 on both. Hit me up if you’re interested in being the beta!

[wherestridestheworld-girdling]

The Composite Black ch.1

He crackles with such abominable laughter. Emblazoned on his mulish mask of tapered sinew, hate-hewn flesh folds caked with dust and brusque are wide swathes of topological erosion.  This is the dermatological attrition of ghouls and goblins, creatures of depravity and denizens of sacrilege, monsters whose skin weathers and bleaches in the divine of the daylight.  His garish façade is the embossment from a nightmare, a face that haunted the sculptor’s sleep, ensnared eternal in gothic stone gargoyles or the twisted grimace of an amputated stub adorning a tortured ashen oak.  His wrinkles purse like snake pleats, shivering subtly, coiled around his contemptuous orifices, intermittently blustered about by the intake of his olfactory snot-pits and wreathed around a rancid gyre of dental shards. Pan up but avoid the swallowing riptide of his gawk, those arrested by the shifting guise of his lunatic looking-glass eyes are often burnt asunder in smears of soot.  They are eyes of caged aggression, of molten wrath, volcano eyes that sear what they see.  The color of spent fuel, of cadaverous cinders, broken glass and smoke damage. Encircling this myopia is the crown-of-thorns of his brow, framing his persona like a band of spear-spiked dagger-tooth crags.  These are accelerated geologic processes, flexing tectonic plates which know not the placation of a tranquil lull; their beveled furrows exist in a duality of disgust and mockery.  Cast-iron rims lipping twin cauldrons, forever bubbling.  

This is a hardened, deadened man whose scars shroud his marred body and mind.  Each patch of discolored tissue that tattoos him tells tales, mostly violent and cruel. But the companion text is tenfold the volume, bedecking disfigured corpses strung about his travels.  Most he left horizontal but some he let vertical, a fate hardly better.  Those who walk the world mangled by the bite of his blade speak a bit softer, keep an eye at their backs, wake sweaty in the night.  He is the shade which haunts their periphery, cloaking uncertainty in fear and calling out to them from the shadows.  Just a winking remembrance causes the heart to race, the pupils to dilate, and the past superimposes the present.  A torture wheel of cyclical trauma, perpetual terror of a deathblow half inflicted.  His victims are many; they line cemeteries and bar stools, numb and cold to the touch. Almost as if he burned their spirits on the flaming alter of his own vehemence then let them frost over, a sacrifice to savagery, a vulgar display of power.      

No matter.  “Let the dead rot and the livin’ scorn,” blistering words from his blistered lips, shaky and sun-sick in the dry heat of the early morn.

“I dare say yer yella hide won’t last til’ noon. Those buzzards circlin’ up there won’t waste a horse’s fart before they’re on ya like the flies, pickin your eyes out, digging through your gizzard.  I bet even half past 11 you’ll look even more like a dimes worth of dog meat than your ugly mug does now.  Matter of fact maybe when your boots stop kickin I oughta cut you down from that tree and drag your sorry carcass through the mud into town so that the strays can each get a good meal from ya. It’ll be the only good thing you ever did for this town.”

Even as he said this, serrating his speech with disdain, the creases of the undertaker’s neck shook with fright.  He felt as he had as a little boy throwing rocks at tethered dogs, hoping that in their fury the stake anchoring them wouldn’t be snatched from the dirt.  The evil within this man seemed unnatural, impossible.  It was foreign to him, this relentless rage, foreign to this tiny town pitted on the outskirts of dusty emptiness.  This tiny town, where Main Street is the only street and whose primary riffraff are a few rough tough cattle rustlers, vagrant out-of-towners drawing from the herd come the fat flock of Spring time.  Enter this black frothing demon whose snide grin makes the white dressed church ladies sign the cross, a smirk which consumeth like hellfire, and paradise becomes pit.  Anubis had seen his share of atrocities, sights which may have maddened one of fragile temperament. He’d been a field medic in the Spanish war.  Seen, heard and sometimes felt the splatter of men being shredded into mincemeat, splayed inside out by scalding shards of metal. He’d repressed much of those wretched memories, loosing them on his past future, which even now harass every moment of absent rest.  And the days were not long passed when he’d been called on as the chief embalmer to clean up after a few of the Union’s scorched earth campaigns, burying massacred Hopi women and children, of all the vile things, in yellow-earthen mass graves usually after weeks of decay and carrion pick-throughs.  He’d even had to put down his only daughter when her body swelled up with gangrene, but the carnage left by this awful man, this brimstone beast, was the brutality of legend.  This was the monster before him, the twisted serpent of the apocalypse, Apep, fettered in maat by Osiris’ noose.

Then the shark put away his sawtooth bouquet, pivoting his rope burned neck in the guillotine of the hangman’s hoop, directing his vociferous focus on another individual from the small crowd of the witnesses who’d climbed the hill to watch this dreadful man’s death.  The old Indian woman Xmucane met his fiery craters with her own cataracted pupils, a challenge in defiance, adversaries horn-locked on the battlefield of all space and time.  Their concentrated beams of perception met and clashed, smoldering with static energy.  

The words rose out of him and blew toward their mark like a waft of chemical death, “Have you come to tell my fortune grandmother? I should hope that even a blind ol’ witch like you could see the signs of my fate today.  Or maybe you’re just so disoriented and confused you just wandered up here on this hill like the geriatric ol’ hag you are.  Too..” his lips began to leak a rotten-colored mucus foam as they flapped and pursed and sneered.  Spurts punctuated his rabid barks as the muscles in his whole body contracted in spasms of steaming rage.  His carapace turned a furious shade of boiled red. “young to die and too old to screw! I’ve seen moldy cow pies that…” a gruff fit of gravelly coughing seized the doomed man so that any further curses became just choking hoarse gasps.  Minutes passed and the hacking only worsened until only a few caustic spasms and the muted gurgling of air being forced through thick fluid remained.  Suddenly within the leather of the man, the smoke-blackened corridors of his body flooded with sludge, his air passages became expulsion channels for emergency discharge.  Prison-food regurgitation geysered up the tunnel of his throat and waterfalled out of the cave mouth.  The gastrointestinal flow sizzled down his jailbird stripes in chunks of grey dribble as eyes, nose and gob spurted like drainage faucets.  At last, when the conniption ceased, the muscles holding him ridged loosed limp, letting his weight dangle from the rope collaring him for a moment. Coated in perspiration and exhaustion, all that was left of him was the furnace of his anger and a heaving breath.  Air pressure writhed against the pressure of the lariat strangling his airway, lungs bursting in heft.  

Xmucane was already halfway down the hill, strutting slowly and steadily, never looking back, never uttering a word; she just continued driving her cane into the dry earth followed up by each hoary shuffle step. This repeated in rhythmic synchronicity as her short precise movements churned the declining distance back to town, through glades and gullies, past rockslides and embankments, hugging the curvature of the trail and moving like the passing minutes.  Somewhere, there amongst the bramble, a whisking river resided as an auditory undercurrent, a rivulet which had conveyed sediment from distant mountains for hundreds of thousands of years.  This is the sculptor who carved Hangman’s Hill from bare plane. It reached out from within the drape of the trees at a spot perpendicular with the crook in the trail of the advancing ancient seer, Xmucane, greeting her with roaring thunder from the mountains.  She continued on past the Road to Xibalba, with her descended her daughter-in-law the waning moon, fading into the light of day.  

“In nomine Iesu Christi, Deus et Dominus noster, Immaculatae Virginis intercessione ab ipsis Maria..”

In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the immaculate Virgin Mary..

Back atop Hangman’s Hill, at the seat of the execution of this nameless man, the preceding spectacle of grotesque behaviors attracted like moth to flame the mercy of god’s instrument on earth, the surrogate of Papal presence, the local orthodoxical authority of godliness, the Catholic missionary Ruggieri degli Ubaldini.  With the bluff as his sandy pulpit he exercised training he’d received in the seminary as a youth.  Vocal muscle memory and gospel rigmarole drilled ad nauseam under the oratorical tutelage of the Head Father at the rocky coastline church of San Miguel.  He fondly recalled praying to the Blessed Virgin those many years ago on bent knee, tightly gripping the Bible and rosary his parents had given to him, trembling with righteousness in that stuffy old adobe chapel as chartreuse swells of spray crashed against the rocks. There were times of distant recollection when the word of god resound within his mind like vivid hanging melodic lines of Gregorian monks bounding out of mass halls and cathedrals.  But with the melting years his faith had become by jaded by dour funeral processions and exorbitant church politics.  He clutched his indented Holy Book in one crinkled hand and the other pressed palm forward, shaking with a bit of the hall-hallowed vindication he’d once felt but mostly just the fear of an excruciating death at the hands of this tenuously bound hellion.  He prayed as if blacksmithing a suit of armor.  

“Mother of God, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beatis apostolis tuis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus sanctis auctoritate officii nostri potentem..”

Mother of God, of blessed Michael the archangel, of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul and all the saints and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry..

“suscipere fidenter impetus propulsare insidias diabolic..”

we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil..

A light breeze swept the hillcrest. Misty dew-laden air whisped up in thermal currents as the freshly angled sun warmed the valleys of wildflowers and sod below, cycling moisture.  The breeze ruffled multicolored swatches of deciduous leaves stapled onto the fronds and twigs of the circular band of white oaks which surrounded the site of the hanging.  Then the breeze tousled the silent crowd, flexing hat brims, swaying ties, brushing skirt tails, flapping pant-legs, bringing dusty tears to dry eyes behind the veil of handkerchiefs.  Finally the wind rippled into the ganglion of the scene stirring its focal subject.   The man’s limp unconscious body swiveled slightly in the stirrup of the noose strung from the single low-hanging splintered branch of the lone dead tree.  However most of his inanimate weight remained planted to the earth, supported by locked knees atop an aged fruit box, its paint flecking.  A crystalline snail of spittle oozed from the gape of his mouth and was blown and whipped around by the current around the side of his head, seeping into one of the few remaining haggard tufts of bristle on the back of his desiccated scalp.  

“Deus oritur; inimici ejus dispersus est et qui oderunt eum, a facie ejus, secundum impellere fumum..”

God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away..

“ita pulsi sunt; sicut exustio ignis tabescerent, sic animam meam in conspectu Domini. Ecce crucem Dómini..”

So are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God. Behold the Cross of the Lord..

“fugite inimicorum. Leo de tribu Iuda, radix David, qui vicit. Fiat misericordia tua, Domine, super nos quanta speravimus in te..”

Flee bands of enemies. The Lion of the tribe of Juda, the offspring of David, hath conquered. May thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us as great as our hope in thee..

The diminutive old man paused after that line for a dangling moment, taking a rasped breath and wiping the sweat dripping down his forehead with a cross-embroidered handkerchief produced from within the folds of his black vestments.  A few syllables still hung in the air, echoes of Medieval Latin ricocheting off canyon cathedrals, saguaro shrines, stain glass mirage.  But the point of omni-ocular convergence remained the captive.  The small crowd of tense observers were fixated, captivated by the captive, as if the depth of their focus was his only restraints.  It had to be unequivocal, this man’s extinction; if even an iota of irresolute distress remained it would be catastrophic to these quiet people and their small agrestic community.  It had to be confirmed, the light leaving his eyes, so they could live once again in their accustomed peace.  Ruggieri continued..

“Adjutorium nostrum in nobis, quicumque haec legis, Et spiritus immundi, omnis satanica viribus, omnes invadentes infernali, omnia impium legiones, et coetus sectis..”

We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects..

“In nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi et eius virtute, ut sit Deus et effugare ab ecclesia et ab animabus ad imaginem et similitudinem Dei, divini agni sanguine redemisti. Serpens callidissime..”

In the Name and by the power of our lord Jesus Christ, may you be snatched away and driven from the church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the precious blood of the divine lamb. Most cunning serpent..

“YEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?!!  You do well to utter such flattery but this meagre title leaves much to be desired by my parched discrimination.  My sapless ear has reached but a fractional portion of its full satiation and demons these days just don’t grovel as they did in those glorious days of old, the Fall anew, when plague shadows of locusts and immortal armies of darkness smote the world under my blood blackened banner. Abbadon? Lucifer? Perhaps Wicked One? Or Deciever? Appolyon is what the Greeks called me or maybe you’re feeling particularly biblical, in that case the classic Hebrew is utter elation.  Bleed your tribute and yield your dignity, lay paltry and prostrate before the infamous Beelzbub.  Nothing says ‘Prince of Darkness’ like a black winged monster that manipulates buzzing clouds of ravenous flying insects.  Although my personal favorite is good ol’ Satan, doesn’t the word just remind you of pagan blood orgies and violent fertility sacrifices cast under occult torchlight? Ssssaaataann.  It rolls off the tongue, or hisses off if yours is forked I suppose.  Let’s all say it together! Saaataan… Saaaaatan…”

“Decipere humanum genus ultra audeas, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum..”

You shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God's elect and sift them as wheat..

“Imperat tibi Deus altissimus, he, cui in magna tua superbia te similem haberi adhuc præsumis. Imperat tibi Deus Pater..”

The most high God commands you, He with whom, in your great insolence, you still claim to be equal. God the father commands you..

“Imperat tibi Deus Filius. Imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus.  Christus Dei Verbum caro factum, imperat”

God the son commands you. God the holy ghost commands you. Christ, God's word made flesh, commands you..

“Your feeble crusader dogma and moral avarice is fetid muck pilled high by sociopathic old men, deceptively arranged to countervail their own perverted chastity and empathetic ineptitude.  The theologic doctrines to which you egregiously prescribe, and to which you presume supremacy are just the bones and bits, carrion detritus, convenient canon leftovers that you have culturally appropriated and reconfigured from semi-legitimate religious heritages into a hypocritical, racist and sexist, anthropocentric cult of personality and fanaticism.  The tyranny, genocide and mass subjugation performed by the filthy, bloodstained tentacles of your Holy Catholic Apostolic Church and all its puppet entities and dummy financial institutions is as heinous an act of malign villainy as has ever been committed, and it occurs in the light of day, applauded by boisterous mobs of enraptured subjects. It’s commendable, it really is.  Such blood-draining callousness, such wanton barbarism, such murked wickedness.  We are brothers you and I, legionnaires of death. Don’t you remember? We cut ourselves out from the same womb.  Don’t waste your breathe Padre, let us entwine our barbed fingers, for together we can concoct such exquisite chaos and mouthwatering malcontent.”      

“Qui pro salute generis nostri tua invidia perditi, humiliavit semetipsum factus oboediens usque ad mortem..”

He who to save our race outdone through your envy, humbled Himself, becoming obedient even unto death..

“Qui Ecclesiam suam ædificavit supra firmam petram, et portas inferi non praevalebunt adversus eam, cum ea ipse permansurus omnibus diebus usque ad consummationem saeculi..”

He who has built His church on the firm rock and declared that the gates of hell shall not prevail against Her, because He will dwell with Her all days even to the end of the world..

“Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te per Deum vivum, per Deum verum, per Deum sanctum..”

Thus, cursed dragon, and you, diabolical legions, we adjure you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God..

“Per Deum, qui sic dilexit mundum, ut Filium suum unigenitum daret, ut omnes qui credit in eum, non pereat, sed habeat vitam aeternam..”

By the God who so loved the world that he gave up his only son, that every soul believing in him might not perish but have life everlasting..

“Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum eis; desine Ecclesiæ nocere, et ejus libertati..”

Stop deceiving human creatures and pouring out to them the poison of eternal damnation; stop harming the church and hindering her liberty..

“Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis..”

Be gone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation..

Explosively vaulted across the physical and virtuous distance between these two men was a putrid projectile, an expulsion of contempt, a gust its coconspirator.  The coagulated salivary squirt was a conglomerate of gastric ebullition, nostril slop, fermented dental scum and various caramel colored pusses and oozes from infected teeth, gums and cold sores.  The noxious cocktail erupted in a sticky spray that coated the clandestine breeze, commodiously transporting the range strike to its unsuspecting target. A toxic cloud of insolence and filth assaulted the castigating old man, penetrating his saintly demeanor.  It splattered in tobacco tinged splashes across his gold rimmed spectacles, a bit of the acrid pitch inflamed the sensitive peripheral creases of his naked eyes.  While most of the foul fluid doused his sun-spotted forehead and drooping cheeks, lathering them in slime, a portion cemented to his short lampshade mustache while another equitable fraction spewed into his articulating mouth via direct oral transmission.  Vomiting ensued and part of the crowd rushed over to aid the collapsing Ruggieri until he waved them off, wildly swaying up from his knees with his bible clenched under his arm.  The brown old skeleton doggedly rose to his feet and continued the exorcism, shaking in his robes, sweat pouring down the troughs in his face.  The nameless man just laughed and laughed, a rapping sound like a fissure tearing open the ground or a mammoth wave slapping a stone shore or a shimmering bolt of lightning shredding the clouds, low pitched and decrepitating.    

“Da locum Christo, in quo nihil invenisti de operibus tuis; da locum unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam, quam Christus acquisivit Sanguine suo pretio..”

Give place to Christ in whom you have found none of your works; give place to the one, holy, Catholic and apostolic church acquired by Christ at the price of His blood..

“Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine Jesu, quem inferi tremunt..”

Stoop beneath the all-powerful hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the holy and terrible name of Jesus, this name which causes hell to tremble..

“Cui Virtutes nomen istud et Potestates et Dominationes subjectæ sunt caeli, hoc indesinenter quem Cherubim et Seraphim..”

This name to which the virtues, powers and dominations of heaven are humbly submissive, this name which the cherubim and seraphim praise unceasingly..

“Dicentes: Sanctus Sanctus, Sanctus..”

Repeating: holy, holy, holy..

“HAAAHAHA HEHE AHHHHAAAAAAAAHAHA HEHE!.....”

“Better save your prayers for decent folk, Padre. This one here is just a few heel clicks away from feeding the worms at the bottom of an unmarked grave.  I don’t reckon we’ll hear his sorry squawks when he’s buried six feet under being dragged to hell by goblins and ghouls. Why don’t you give it a rest son? What would your momma say, seein’ you up there spittin’ an’ laughing like a mad-man, carrying on so shamefully, right before you meet your maker?”

“Oh I don’t know if my mother would have much to say in the matter.  She sort of lost her voice when I was born, as well as a heap of internal organs. What can I say; I was a very needy, grabby infant.  But I’m sure it made for an eventful day for the country doctor at the county courthouse, a birth certificate and a death certificate all in one wagon ride!”

“That’s enough young man.  No sense in speakin’ ill of the dearly departed now that my gavel’s swung and your noose fitted.  The big judge sittin’ up there in the sky probably has enough scorned testimony marked against your spoiled soul as it is.”

What perfunctory sympathy he usually felt for those he’d sentenced to capital annihilation had completely eroded within the judge at this point, soured in his gut like green meat.  This man was nothing to him, horse-shit stuck to the heel of his boot, malted hogwash foaming in the sun.  Yet how could ultimate justice still feel so inequitable? Tragic pawns, passive hosts of death reproducing itself.  Putting down vile men for vile acts leaves their stench on you, their skin under your fingernails, their curses echoing your ears.  After being the eminent lawman, judge and jury with a chrome peacekeeper for nearly twenty years in this township, ghosts with bullet holes in their heads followed Yama around.  If he looked over his shoulder he knew he’d see them standing there, garbed in caked blood and charnel dirt, forgotten children grown up.  “Another for the spooks,” he’d tell the barkeep each night.  With whiskey on his breath he’d sing to the sunrise, silky phantoms surrounding him. “There's blood on the saddle and blood on the ground, and a great great big puddle of blood all around; a cowboy lay in it, all covered with gore, and he never will ride any broncos no more..”

The sun beat down, acquiescing its focal zenith, heightening the midday heat.  Its rays dissolved the gruesome gaggle’s shadows like the razing eye of god, whitewashing the hillcrest in solar bleach.  High noon aproacheth, the awful hour of death.  A brazen beam struck Yama’s copper badge, ricocheting off into the prisoner’s soggy iris, branding it like a blacksmith’s white-hot nail. The scorch only magnified as the lawman took limped steps towards the disheveled captive, his spurs and leather speaking softly.  Nameless and noosed, the damned man recoiled at the brilliant bright, squirming in his chains, insulating himself under clinched eyelids.  

“The time is nigh, boy.”

From behind the wiry judge approached the town doctor, a shriveled cob pipe pinned under his icicle white mustache and a hand restraining his charcoal bowler against the pull of the wind.  His slacks brushed through the ankle-high wildgrass until the accused hinged faintly within arm’s length. Dhanvantari, the wizened backcountry surgeon, reached up as he had at countless executions to examine the machine of death.  In a far off lifetime, or only what seemed to have been, Dhanvantari was a merchant ship’s doctor, operating on deck with rusty instruments in turbulent seas, pulling the captain’s teeth by crinkling wicks of sperm oil lanterns, sweeping puddles of blood into the sea.  Those decades spent marinering the open ocean made his fingers as fluent with knots and lashings as he was with the braids of the spine or with tensile ligament musculature. This man had lost many lifetimes to the sea, swallowed by brine, swept overboard by swells, but somehow it always spat him back out, after due restitution.  How many times had he thought he’d seen the sun for the last time as the waves closed around him and the surface fell away?  Six? Seven?  Perhaps he was still there now, drifting to the salty bottom and this, an illusion in the last rays of light, an eternity in an escaping air bubble.  Regardless he thumbed the noose knot, testing its competence, ignorant of the murdering intimidation ensnared within it.  He examined the loop, stretching it across the man’s Adam’s apple in strangulation simulation.  By his determination death should be nearly instantaneous with the fracturing of the epistropheus.  Dhanvantari removed his hands.

“Whaddaya say Doc? Humane?”

“Too humane.”

“Oh I wish that was up to me, hell I’d have him drawn and quartered already, each arm and leg’d be draggin’ through the desert in opposite directions by streakin’ stallions by now.  But I suppose a bullet in the temple would get the job done too. No time to waste with slaphappy daydreams, we’ve got to adhere to the distinguished code established by our competent elect, those Washington monkeys and their executive goon.  Is it whats-his-name Rutherford or wha-cha-ya ma-call-it Garfield after the last one of their confounded dog-and-pony-show elections? God only knows.. How’s about we get on with it?  Next the accused is to be read their offenses but I’m sure all of us gathered here and now can well attest to the horrendous acts of brutality this man has committed.  No sense in speakin’ of such evil since his deplorable deeds will undoubtedly torment our waking hours forever.  But I won’t deny the prisoner his last words.  Even an infernal devil can sequester some semblance of penitence from the Lord in his last hour if his voice holds even an ounce of goodness. What say you, rogue? Bless thy tongue and utter thy last words.”  

“I have nothing to say to you people or your forlorn humanity.  I was birthed among you but sever our kinship thereafter.  Your bastard race of mutant hominids is the scourge of existence. You ungraciously tout your dubiously predominant intellect with one arm raised in self-admiration while the other quashes down your stricken brother, stepping on his pleading face and bruised throat.  You feed each other into the teeth of the meat grinder for a few pieces of silver, sealing the audacity with a smile and a kiss.  You’ve the blood of your father Ares and the fury of your mother Lyssa. Such horrific worm-like abominations of filth, I want no part of you unless you’re disinfected, dismembered, dissected and freeze-dried.  But you have taught me much, much barbarity.  Because of your imprint I am what I am, the distilled essence of your misanthropy, hate tincture.  I am the anti-soul, the maneater, the devourer of fire and light, the siren of the necropolis, the falling reaper, Death’s dragoon.  I am the one to whom the wolves howl and in my company volts of vultures and cackles of hyenas.  Draped in my cape of babies’ bones and crown of thorns I have blistered the nightmares of the fearful since the dawn of man.   In my wake spite suicides and human husks, desolation and brimstone. You cannot kill me, I am already dead.”

His taunt a command, Yama reduced him to mindless thrashing with a decisive toe-kick to the fruit box, sending it tumbling off before stepping back and affirming his capital judgement.  Gasps ran through the crowd as the knot was tested for capacity for the first time, the charred branch held strong under the burden of the man’s now disintegrating ego.  He expended his life force in feral flounders of wild muscle contractions, as if parasitic monsters within him wrestled to escape from their host’s diminishing body, spinning himself around haphazardly like a broken whirligig despite his wrist and ankle restraints.  Clearly his movements were involuntary, spastic seizures of shocked nerve endings triggered by raging lightning storms of neuronal firing as distressed organ systems desperately faced shut down and annihilation.  His already unsightly appearance became even more revolting in the absence of mental dispensation.  Cloudy eyes pinched in their sockets, bulging outward in masses of crimson jelly as the blood vessels ruptured around flaked lids. Indeterminate sloughs of foamy fluids composed of various pasty consistencies, textures and hues leaked from his orifices, drooling off the dripping points on his face like subterranean stalactites.  A scarred sliver of grey tongue draped from within his chapped lips.  Eventually the jittery agitation ceased and the stillness was broken only by the swivels of his vacant body.  His grizzled neck was crumpled in the noose, disjointed disks of irregular vertebrae pressed asymmetrically against the inner walls of his skin in nauseating bulges of obvious malformation.  

In the crowd a woman began to wail, her immediate elicit reaction to the majority of external stimuli after such loss as befitting a victim who had been made widow by the now deceased bane.  She pulled her black bonnet down over her eyes and reached for her threadbare handkerchief.  Now what? A question she posed to herself, the fates, townsfolk, anyone who’d listen to her bereaved sobs.  Her maternity scars and her wedding ring were the only remaining evidence of her curriculum vitae, her frontier family and their homestead ambition; stolen like the breath from her lungs.  Somewhere along the wagon trail, abandoned in the gutter like a roadside attraction were the charred remains of her Manifest Destiny, a monument of torched wagon frame and scattered skulls. The thought of which drove her to nihilism. But revenge was an opportune emotional departure from the tragedy her faculties refuted as preposterous, incorrigible, a night terror to be expunged by the waking mind and the ascending sun. But confound it!  There it was! That dastardly conflagration, a gleaming confirmation of calamity, the boiling skies its diabolic domain and drenched in its glow she simmered in survivor’s grief.  Niobe willed the hellmouth open, to stride between its chasmal jaws.  Her ample offerings of woe lured the rabid devils and unclean spirits from their untold ethereal realms but on upon arrival she was already of stone.  A brooding destitute, an aimless golem of flesh and bone and tears.

From within the congregation Anubis stepped forth to dress and prepare the body for burial, a process which his coarse muscles and tired joints knew well.  They were creased by the contour of the embalming tools, sculpted by a mortician’s toil; grave dirt under his cuticles from the raw tomb shoveled out this morning.  He unsheathed a blade from his belt, feet advancing, to cut down the inert cadaver from its moored swing.  Behind him his comrades held the reins of a bridled burro which had ferried the bound prisoner to this hill in life and would now from it in death.  It shifted listlessly in its halter, braying nervously with whipping tail.  He approached the hanged man serenely, detached, his mind distanced by the habitual funerary ritual he’d undergone so frequently this past fortnight with so many hideously slaughtered.  But at rest his morbid vocation invaded the asylum of his slumber.  Within the dreamscape he donned the suit of a jackal breathlessly devouring grisly messes strewn about by Death himself, scavenging meat morsels from innocents slain.  But it was over now, the beast was vanquished and this would be his final burial.  He extended his arms, blade in hand, to cleave the noose when the whiskers on his scruff spiked straight up.    

The dead man frenzied into rampage by the scent of slaughter, riving the lull, summoned to survive by his colleague in chaos the razor blade.  The tumultuous details of the next few moments can scarcely be spoken of, saturated with skirmish vectors and martial artistry but if one simply follows the slashes of the edge, its perforatory operation can be fluently plotted.  In one swift motion his blueish corpse-hand swaddled the knife’s pommel, enveloping Anubis’.  It then yanked upwards, burying the tip just underneath the undertaker’s chin, tickling his brain like a lobotomist.  The next instantaneous flash of dynamism was the stiletto’s evacuation from his greymatter.  It whistled as it arced through the air, tearing into the fiend’s own death-paled shatter-boned neck, sinking in and carving in a radial orbit around its circumference.  In a splitting second the ruined mort had accomplished a series of obscene acts totally unforeseen, completely against the natural laws while still bound in chains, and as such, the throng was baffled immobile.  Aghast with gaped mouth and opaque eyes before such ruthlessness, the man holding the burro’s reins barely noticed as it bolted off. Yama’s hand lunged for his holstered pistol as Anubis finally dropped to his knees.

As the last degree of girth was rent, gravity bisected the possessed’s brainstem, sending his feet to tread the earth and his dislodged cranium to roll it, unencumbering the blood-sprayed noose loop.  At this point fright overtook the cluster and fugue became imperative.  They trampled each other to flee this undead waif, careening down the hillside, never mind the trail with evil nipping at the heels. But one gallant soul delayed, familiar with the company of demons.  Yama leveled his revolver at the headless monster loosing three rounds before it was upon him, lopping off his gun hand, hacking through his throat and spilling open his intestines in one mercurial, clockwise arm rotation of serpentine laceration.  Like a tornado it bucked off Yama’s dead shoulders after trailing fingers relieved the weapon from his amputated grip, tumbling acrobatically through the gap between its next kill.  

Scrambling to escape was Ruggieri degli Ubaldini, sprawling over his tailored robes, clawing the muck for leverage with gold ringed fingers. A cone of destructive force interrupted the priest’s bumbling with a tremendous boom of sound shattering.  The slug pierced his temporal lobe just behind the ear, exploding from the other side in a plume of gore and smoke.  Padre crumpled in the dust but his soul soared skybound on angel wings while cherubim and seraphim beckoned him from their hammocks, the clouds.  Another righteous crusader of light skewered on the flames of evil and so sealed was his heavenly reward, obedient even in martyrdom to the cult he worshipped.   The gates of St. Peter were thrown open upon on his winged approach, the celestial scene frescoed immortal by Nuvolone’s Milanese masterpiece.  But the earth claimed his body, to the victor the spoils.

Twin claps of corkscrewing thunder plowed two more inconsequentials, their flaccid constitution summersaulted down an embankment in snaps of branches, dousing the underbrush with their blood.  The doctor, Dhanvantari afforded a precarious over-the-shoulder peak at the proximate commotion between labored footfalls, just long enough to see Death’s skeleton-hand reach for his face.  And then he was dragged to the frothy underbelly, towed from the shallows to breathless leagues of darkness, to the frigid depths, the domain of the leviathan and its swimming monsters.  His cob pipe floated up to the surface like an epitaph.  

Last alive was the half-hearted Niobe, tailed by her shadow of mourning.  She fled on instinct alone, lusting for a peaceful deathbed to lay her head.  She mused macabre that she’d be visited by twinkling visions of her loved ones, at last reunited in paradise after they carried her from her sepulchral bedstead, off and away into the white light. Her wits were unraveled by the poison of this unfulfilled conclusion, drunk with adrenaline at concept of such unimaginable pain of an undoubtedly savage mutilation.  The tree line broke and a valley of Spring-bloomed wildflowers carpeted her clambering passage with purple street signs of knapweed and rushpink, golden sidewalks of butterfly weed and bahia, creamy bushels of loveroot and turkeypea. She sprinted through their syrupy bells with hiked dress and tapping laced leather boots, soon slathered with aromatic pollen.  Their perfume seeped into her psyche, fumed by her exhausted inhalations, tousling her antediluvian reptilian cortex, the cerebral seat of fear and flight.  The flowers drenched her in a calm, resonant bliss which relaxed her gait.  Suddenly she stopped.  Her shadow had dissipated and she found herself on the embanked edge of the lily field, below a river’s bellowing whitewater scrapped against huge agate boulders.  A slight draft swept through the valley, undulating the buttercups and the tassels of her braided hair.  Where had she lost her bonnet?  She peered down and found it tangled in spines of sagebrush but her reach was interrupted by a blindsiding death.  The monstrosity shoulder tackled her while her weight was unbalanced, tossing them both off the ledge of the cliff.  It stabbed her repeatedly while falling, madly puncturing her face down to her abdomen with glossy lesions.

The white dashing crests of alpine water slapped the hurtling pair, bowing under their load and momentum.  The sacred stream drew them into its clutches, buffeting their languid corpses with jagged rapids succeeding in the thorough pulverization of their now unrecognizable meat mishmash.  Hunks of homogenous human peripherals floated downstream like the foodstuffs conveyer belt in a packing plant.  A few flesh pocked bones flipped and twisted, arrested by the current as its skeletal companions swept by the festivities, a sanguine parade.  Soon they were utterly mired on an outcropping of some rocks, the fisherman’s net of an eddy.  Passing nearby Anubis’ knife head embedded itself in the iridescent quartz-spackled river bottom.  Fast in pursuit, bouncing and bobbing like lost baubles in the whitewater, the two handcuffed fists of the nameless man inexplicably threaded a chain-link with the marooned blade.  That duplicity of hand dangled there for years; shackled, shriveled rotten flesh, palpitating so near the portal to Xibalba.  The subterranean aqueduct portion of the road’s journey began only a few hundred yards downriver, where the river water surged under the foot of the mountain.  Underground, within its cavernous limestone bowels, the freshwater runoff engaged green, salty aquafers from the distant sea.  An apparitional estuary, the nether-door to the underworld.  

Unseeing eyes parted on the decapitated head of the desperado, pealing open the world.  Though his awareness was distressingly limited, somehow the slurred outlines of shape and form came to mean something to him.  A bush.  An uncomfortable bush with prickly thorns and homely desert flowers, this was likely his setting, the bramble hemmed the borders of his peripherals like a picture frame.  Central to his porthole of vision was the simple sky, an impressionist composition of sowed blots of buttercream and torpid sheets of blue.  It was all too much, too weighty, too involved; it swam and swooned before him like a rocking bowl of water, filling him up, pressing him into the earth with its gravity.  From his phantom body, he felt each toe, each patch of skin.  Though he knew it missing, the nervous signals must’ve disseminated from a source, some sensory connection, or his brain seemed to believe so.  The invisible air squeezed his surface area.  Tightened tourniquets burdened him like a full body straightjacket or a collapsing cast.  “A mountain must have fallen on me,” he spoke without lips a sparse cognition.  The clouds seemed to descend from the sky, fused and swirled in milky stripes of fog and spewed into the man’s mouth, nose and ears.  It retarded his lucidity and reason, soon laden with dusty dunes of bewilderment. The world was a mirage of dancing light.

Then the dam began to crack.  He felt crooked fissures snaking across his skull and body like spreading vines, soon he would rupture and there was nothing to be done. Sure enough the bleeding cracks started to sweat the liquids from his body; blood, bile and lymph, and as they leaked they whispered a static hiss. Gushhhhhhhhh.  The noise vibrated through him and up to his ears, he heard it as though underwater; berating, omnidirectional and boisterous.  The gashes grew thick in sinuous ropes of entanglement, infesting ostensibly the extent of his being.  And through them breached torrents of life-water overflow.  The crevices poured out the viscous distillation with the cacophony of a thousand teeming waterfalls.  There was nothing but the thunder, no room for anything else. Its density rose past any measure of volume until it overcame him, overtaking his presence by force of will. Suddenly it crescendoed and was gone, dissolving in a fizzle of diffuse ringing.  The drainage had stopped as well, he was now presumably empty.  He cried out from the hollow of his head but was not heard, his hearing had left him.  What reverberated instead however was fear; a ping of hysteria.  In absent mannerism he desperately reached for his face and found just ruined fragments, quivering lumps of lips and chin, like crushed scraps of a Mardi Gras mask.  Hunks snapped off as his fingertips probed for a landmark, an eye socket, a cheekbone, something familiar to enshrine his ego but there was barely anything left.  He broke his pointer finger off at the knuckle scouring a caved in nostril cavity in his mania.  “Hell, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.  What do I care?” his internal thoughts illumed apathetically, for his speech facilities were in white corroded shambles.  From his powdered granules of ravaged carnage a breath of smoke arose, the rubble dust twirled up towards the void, suctioned into the lofty abyss where it surveyed from above.  

Then flames reared up like pillars of plasmic light, engorged by the heat of combustion.  Jagged tongues lapped hungrily at the abraded man whose consciousness was amorphous and unsensing, only dimly cognizant of self-presence. An incendiary holocaust raged sensation away.  Every ounce of feeling was expunged in a deliberate eradication, neuronal overstimulation to excess until the connectivity wore through and the atomic structure crumbled in fatigue.  The heap of blanched biologic matter was scarified to complete tactile stupefaction, unrecognizing even neighboring cells.  Then the conflagration expired having extracted the last of its nourishment and his botch of body cooled off.  

First the warmth left the deteriorated boneyard of his extremities, vanishing into ice like the last warm days of Autumn, blanketing the plaster hunks of disintegrating anatomy in inches of snow. Next to succumb to anesthesia was his chest of decrepit organs, frozen solid in their collapsed disrepair, forgotten now in the advancing permafrost of numbness. Last was his mess of frostbitten face, abandoned in paralysis, left to entropy.  A nearly bare mindscape was the man’s totality now, devoid of light and motion, vibration and sound, texture and touch.  His being was only tethered to locality by lingering senses of smell and taste which now dominated his concern.  Driving columns of bellowed air churned in opposite directions within lungs and sinuses that he knew were imaginary figments, apparitional muscle memories, repackaged experiential data.  Astral nostrils flecked with astral ether intake, sifting its contents. Each unlikely breath was a kaleidoscope of pungent samples comingled from various lifetimes and experiential encounters: a fresh peeled apple, steam off quenched metal, damp mattress body odor, a musty draft from the root cellar, miscellaneous tails of perfume on a street corner, etc.  Soon faded had the aromas’ potency, gradually sojourning elsewhere.  The circulations of invisible current also ceased and without its tidal oscillation there was stillness.  But before its last drags a cloudburst of amber sparks, an eruption of fireflies to festoon the sparse canvas of nothingness.  “Where do you lead, oh wavering stars? Abridge this inked abyss.”

That was when an even more extensive purgatory of nothingness descended on his bleak reality of senseless ambivalence.  Abandoned in a crawlspace of the universe, dreary anathema, doldrums of inaction, his operative reality was staggeringly reduced to a naked impression of existing, as if lingering on the threshold of non-being.  His lifeline was taste; last vestige of a world that had all but forgotten him.  His formless presence diffused into the surrounding unknown at uncontrolled random, performing its forsaken duty because the possibility of anything else did not exist.  Stimuli drifted in and out of his localized perception like a filter feeder’s chum, exotic glimpses of a fully realized world beyond this low dimension, rationale for perseverance.  This continued for an imperceptible interval, perhaps ten thousand years, perhaps a hummingbird’s heartbeat.  Over time the meaninglessness came to mean even less to the erratic coagulation of man, now only a remote ancestor of his worldly persona devolved and inbred.  It tongued the grey brittle of its immediacy, probing the filth and cobwebs of its hermitage for traces of vim, for even a hint of neurological input or residual aftertaste, anything to subdue the mental paralysis.  “I’ve no business left here.  Take from me what you will but don’t leave me in this hall of mirrors.” And at long last the candle flame was extinguished, leaving the smoke to dissipate and disseminate throughout the universe, replenishing omission, stuffing lack, becoming again.    

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