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micahrodney · 3 years

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Thread; Chapter 4 - Through The Looking Glass

The following is a commission for Matthew Caveat Zealot. The morning of the memorial service was especially bitter and cold. A slight drizzle had started which threatened to turn into lake-effect snow at a moment's notice. Kevin made his kids pack up everything just in case they couldn't make it back to the hotel, and the trunk had a fully stocked emergency kit. It was something of a Brown family tradition to prepare for the worst, but this quality had been more pronounced since the accident.

“How's this?” Neil asked, fiddling with the knot on his tie.

“I don't suppose you'd consider a clip-on?” Travis teased, moving in to correct the full-hearted but half-studied attempt at a Windsor knot.

“Can't tie a tie, little bro,” Dawn said, waggling a mock judgmental finger. “They aren't teaching you anything at that school.”

“You're just upset that I'm not in the psych ward,” Neil shot back, running a comb through his hair while Travis fiddled with his tie.

“Injustice of the century,” she smirked.

Kevin, Kim, and Rocky were already downstairs eating the continental breakfast and no doubt having “adult” conversation. Travis was still in the kid's group but only by virtue of sharing a room with Neil. Dawn had been dressed since 7 AM, but only because Kim woke her up by loudly dropping her make-up kit on the bathroom floor a half-hour prior.

She looked quite nice in a simple black dress with matching leggings, though Neil wondered what their mother would have said about the heeled boots that she wore with them. Combined with her unique hair coloration, the whole effect was very “Bride of Frankenstein”. But then Dawn had always been avant-garde in her fashion sense.

Travis was wearing a chocolate brown suit with a charcoal tie. It didn't quite match but then Travis didn't own much in the way of suits. Not that Neil could talk, he had only ever owned the black suit that his father bought for him for the funeral three years prior. Wearing it to every memorial service since probably did not help the mounting anxiety and grief. It was as though a bubble was forming in the pit of his stomach that threatened to consume him the moment he let his guard down. There was the choking sensation followed by the slight urge to vomit.

“There you go. Dad will be proud,” Travis announced, completing the adjustment to Neil's tie.

“Cool. Can you tell him I did it?” Neil joked, his stand-by for keeping the nerves in check.

“If you think he'll believe it,” Travis replied with a weak chuckle.

A moment followed, where the three youngest Brown children sat in uncomfortable silence. They knew what happened next and each was dealing with it in their own way. Dawn was aloof as she always was, but she wasn't drowning her senses in her electronics. There was a stillness to her mind that was a precursor to the waves of emotion that would inevitably hit her around the halfway point of the service. She had notably forgone mascara today, the easier to pretend she wasn't crying.

Travis felt compelled to “big brother” more, and Neil's clumsiness with his tie was a perfect opportunity to let him express that. He wanted to reclaim some of the control he felt he had lost in his life after their mother's death. This was especially potent considering his past addictions. Travis had been balancing on a tightrope across a chasm of chaos for so long, and this day was the hardest one of the year for him.

Neil was unsure how Kim was coping. She was the oldest, he was the youngest and their age gap meant she had been out of the house for most of his life. He had gained a portrait of his older sister in the family meetings and stories from Travis and their father. Still, it was fascinating how incomplete these recountings were. Humans were complicated but at least when you lived with somebody for a time you got to understand how they behaved. Without this context, everything else in their life was as shrouded in mystery as if they were a stranger, and carefully curated stories never did them justice. Sometimes it baffled him how little he really knew about somebody so close to him.

As for Neil, jokes, pointed asides, flippancy: these were his allies. It was not that he was going to try and avoid feeling sad. The pain would come and he would fully experience it, making no attempt to hide his tears when the time came. He just didn't want to cross the bridge yet. Things had to go according to a schedule. If he could contain the emotion, then he was in control of his emotions. Perhaps he and Travis were not so different.

“So,” Travis said, breaking the silence. “Breakfast?”

---

Saint Mary's was Colleen Brown's church as a child. It was just a few blocks from the river and had a rich history to it, about which Colleen could recite paragraphs at a moment's notice. It was founded in 1850 and much of the original foundation was still intact. While clearly weathered, the chapel was remarkably beautiful.

The centerpiece was, as always, Christ the Redeemer upon the cross just above the dais. He was flanked by John the Baptist and St. Peter. Further out on the walls adjacent to the stage were the Virgin Mother on the left and Joseph carrying a depiction of the baby Jesus on the right. As far as Catholic churches went, it was a fairly humble affair. There was just something inherently wholesome about the building which Neil found comforting.

The only people in attendance at this quiet ceremony were the Brown family, Rocky, and a couple of Colleen's friends about whom Neil knew very little. All in all, there were roughly ten people including the priest.

Father Dwight McMahon was a person who Neil had come to know, at least somewhat. He was a family friend long before he took to the cloth. Their mother had described him as an “inspiring young man”, though how they had initially met was unclear. However both Kevin and Colleen had taken a liking to the young man as though he were a foster son, and he had often attended any family occasion of note, at least for the past six years. It seemed only right that he, having joined the clergy around the time Colleen passed away, preside over the ceremony.

“Let us pray,” the Father began, as was his custom.

The attending lowered their heads respectfully and clasped their hands together.

“Most Holy and Gracious God. We meet before your sight this day in remembrance of your daughter Colleen Angelica Brown, who departed three years ago. We seek your guidance and comfort as we honor her memory and uphold the traditions of her family. We thank you for your blessings and tender mercy, for surely you are the light and the way. In humble gratitude, we pray. May our lives please you, oh Lord. Into your embrace, we offer ourselves. For what lies on the journey ahead, God only knows. Amen.”

Dawn swallowed hard. Travis's head was lowered. Their father could barely keep his eyes open. Kim was already openly weeping, and leaning on Rocky for support. As for Neil, he just felt empty. There was a pit where his heart should be. It was the same as every year. A horrible reminder of what he had lost. Neil forced himself to look up at the Reverend, to try and connect with the man who had begun reading off the life story of his mother.

He let out an audible gasp, perhaps mistaken as a sob for how Travis put a consoling arm around him. But it was not grief that overcame Neil, but terror.

McMahon had been wearing the standard black cassock, but now stood draped in off-color robes with a wide-brimmed hood. In that instant, the nightmares he had forgotten about came screaming back into his mind. The deep pit, the darkness, the pool of suffering, and the frozen temple in which gathered a black mass of robed skeletal figures.

“We all want to go home,” McMahon said, his voice now hollow and raspy. “We can never go home.”

“We just want to go home,” came a pale imitation of Dawn's voice from behind him.

“End our suffering,” Travis uttered, his bony hand now clasping itself around the back of Neil's neck.

Neil wanted to scream. He wanted to react in some manner, but it was as though every joint in his body had locked up.

“This is a nightmare,” Neil said to himself. “I've fallen asleep and this is sleep paralysis. That's all it is.”

Hail began to pelt against the windows of the chapel. A ferocious wind burst open the doors, wood crashing into brick with a loud crack.

“You cannot go home,” came a stern and familiar voice. “Because your home no longer exists.”

At once, Neil stood up, suddenly free of the grasp of terror that had consumed him. He turned to the figure who now stood in the doorway; purple translucent lines containing a field of glowing stars.

“Rem,” he choked. “Is that you?”

“It is us,” Rem replied simply. “The thread of this one is broken, difficult to follow. But we have finally found you. You must come with us. The Dreamer awaits.”

“Go where?” Neil asked, still processing the new reality. “I'm in the middle of my mother's memorial.”

“Are you? You are here. Your body's location is ultimately irrelevant for our purposes,” Rem explained.

“Am I... asleep?” Neil asked, desperate for more information.

“Approximately,” Rem replied, his voice growing sterner. “There are complications to that term, but it is perhaps the closest understanding you will grasp. At first.”

“Go home,” the phantom priest bellowed.

“Want home!” screamed the nightmare Dawn.

“Your thread is broken,” Rem explained again. “But you still exist. Were you any different, you would be as they. Lost in time and space, a shadow of your former self.”

The shades moved closer to Rem, their movements foul mimicry. It was as though they were marionettes with a few cut strings.

“Home!”

“We want to go home!”

Rem raised his hand. “Your homes are no more. You return to the Dreamer now.”

With a wave, the chapel and all of its inhabitants vanished. The fabric of reality melted away, revealing a field of stars in which the two now floated. The great planet on which Neil had spent several eventful hours in the prior dreams was directly beneath them, as was the iridescent star.

“You have seen this world as it once was. I will show you what has become of those who once dwelt upon it. Soon, you will understand, Neil Brown,” Rem announced.

Without warning, Rem placed his hand on Neil's forehead, covering his eyes in bright pulsing light from the stars within. His retinas burned, his head throbbed, and soon he felt nothing as the light overtook him.

---

Neil shook himself awake and leaned forward, gasping in shock as the sleep paralysis wore off. The dream had been especially vivid, and utterly horrible. But at last, it was over and Neil was in the safety of...

“Where the hell am I?” He exclaimed.

The young man was surrounded by stars, safely observed through translucent panes held in place by a silvery steel framework. He had been lying on one of several identical beds, though he appeared to be the only occupant, each raised high off the ground the better to appreciate the cosmic light show. The air was crisp and manufactured, the low hum of some alien technology thrummed somewhere beneath him.

This was not a dream.

“You are awake, Binder,” came Rem's rigid voice from just behind.

Neil turned to greet the figure once more, though he noticed that his would-be savior was now wearing a silvery robe which seemed far more opaque than the rest of him. His footsteps were a musical chime on the metallic floor.

“What is this place?” Neil asked, repeating his concern now that a supposedly sympathetic ear was present.

“We refer to it as The Cradle,” Rem explained. “Throne of the Dreamer and safe haven for the Somni.”

Neil tilted his head slightly. “I mean... could you start from the beginning?”

“Nox will give you a more thorough explanation. I am to take this one to her,” Rem replied. “Please accompany me.”

Rem gestured towards the center of the room, where a railed circular platform hovered a foot or two off the ground. Just above it was a tunnel through the ceiling which went up quite a ways. The lift could hold perhaps three of these Somni at once, but Neil barely took up a tenth of the space.

With a slight jolt, the lift began to rise. Neil almost lost his footing at the sudden momentum but was able to steady himself. After the initial shock, the rise was smooth and swift, rocketing the two of them up several hundred feet. The lift tunnel was illuminated by pure white rings of the light in even intervals. The effect was almost hypnotic, not that Neil felt any desire to sleep.

The lift finally reached its destination, placing the two of them on the rear wall of – there was no other term for it – a space station. The room was massive, at least ten times the circumference of the galactic dormitory they had just departed. The silvery steel framework branched out around the room creating a dome-like structure, offering a mostly unobstructed view of the cosmos. At ground level, a variety of holographic panels were erected, forming a semi-circle opposite the lift. Indecipherable glyphs relayed incomprehensible data at lightning speed, observed by a host of these Somni.

In the dead center of the room was one particularly large well-like structure, above which hovered a glowing cerulean orb, bound up in crisscrossing threads of white light. At varying intersections of the impossibly dense thread were tiny golden spheres. A horrible sense of deja vu overtook Neil as he beheld the gentle turning of this web.

“You behold the Threads of Fate,” said Nox, moving out from behind one of the holographic terminals on Neils' left.

She was adorned in a cerulean robe with golden pauldrons. There was a royal aura about her, and given the uniform attire of all the other Somni in attendance, it was clear that she was the one in charge.

“I,” Neil began, but words failed him. So much was happening so quickly. He had no idea where he was, what he was doing there, and what his family must be going through with him suddenly gone.

“This must be quite troubling for you,” Nox offered, grasping his shoulder in a comforting yet strangely hollow grip. It was as though he was being touched by a ghost.

“This is just so confusing,” Neil explained.

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning then,” Nox said.

She gestured to Rem who busied himself at the central well. With a few flourishes from him, the scene changed, and the cerulean gem in the center took on the appearance of a planet.

“Millions of years ago,” Nox began. “We Somni lived as you do. Mortals upon the blessed planet of Somnus. Ours was a paradise, and from our bountiful came a wealth of technology and hoarded knowledge. In time, we began to become aware of not only the existence of other planets throughout the universe which sustained life but entire planes of reality apart from our own.”

The planet's image changed slowly, with a number of the continents now covered in sheets of ice, while others succumbed to wildfires and volcanic eruptions.

“However this knowledge came at a terrible price. We suffered calamity after calamity, which we later discovered to be deliberate attempts to destroy us. The Somni had grown too powerful, and we were becoming a threat.”

“A threat to who?” Neil asked.

The image shifted once more, a black cloud now consuming the entire planet.

“We came to call it Kosmaro: the Nightmare. It is an entity as old as time itself, in constant combat with the Dreamer. One creates, the other destroys. As the final catastrophe rent our world asunder, the Dreamer reached out to a select few of us and granted us with these forms.”

Nox gestured to the room at large. Neil only noticed then that several of the Somni had gathered round to witness this retelling, starry gazes twinkling gently in the dim light.

“So,” Neil interjected delicately. “Why am I here?”

Nox let out an approving noise; a musical hum exhaled from her like a sigh. “For you are a Binder.”

“I've heard that term a lot lately,” Neil replied. “But I have no idea what it is.”

Nox turned her attention back to the well. “It comes down to the Threads of Fate. The history of our universe is one full of opportunity and choice. Yet several events are preordained and must occur according to the whim of the Dreamer. Their dream, their plan. Yet the incidental day-to-day interactions upon which new realities may come to exist are immaterial to them. No matter how many threads are created, all will eventually converge upon a Crossroad.”

Nox pointed to the bright golden stars floating around the threads. Neil could now notice in greater clarity that thousands of these strands all seemed to converge around every one of these points.

“This is a multiverse then,” Neil offered.

“This one is familiar with the theory,” Rem said almost approvingly, before returning to his usual stoicism. “Though their kind has barely begun to scratch the surface of the implications.”

“With a Binder in their midst, perhaps they will learn more,” Nox chastised. She then elaborated. “You see, Neil. Kosmaro has been attacking these Crossroads. And when a Crossroad is destroyed...”

With a wave of her sleeved arm, a single golden star flickered out of existence. The white strands that connected to it floated about aimlessly for a moment, connecting to nothing and seemingly adrift in the void. Another wave and a second Crossroad vanished. Now those few threads which had been connected at both points faded from existence.

Neil swallowed hard, as he remembered the desperate cries of those phantoms.

We want to go home.

And what had Rem said?

You can't.

“My family,” Neil sputtered. “Are they dead?”

Rem, frank as ever, immediately responded. “A few thousand variations of this one's family have been lost to the phenomena, but they number among several quintillion lives. It is of little consequence one way or the other as far as you are concerned.”

“Rem,” Nox warned, her tone approaching annoyed while still retaining its ethereal quality. “The thread from which you originate has not been lost. However, it and many other adjacent threads remain in jeopardy. It is fortunate that we discovered you when we did.”

The image above the well zoomed in on a small section of the web, Two Crossroads were now enlarged, with the threads between them more easily distinguishable. What Neil had once taken for a few hundred were in fact several thousand.

“Binders are Somni who are able to traverse the Threads of Fate to repair the damage done. Kosmaro is as old as time itself, and thus the strain on our universe is an inevitable part of it. Some day in the future, Kosmaro shall, eventually, win the battle. But Binders do their part to delay that unhappy hour as long as possible,” Nox explained.

One of the golden lights dimmed into a dull grey, and the threads were once again floating about in tatters, loosely connected to the other. It looked like a badly frayed knot.

“And to do that, Binders must enter these Crossroads and set the actions right. Things must play out according to the will of the Dreamer. If they are successful,” Nox touched the dimmed Crossroad once more and its light returned, setting the strands right again. “Balance is restored.”

Neil was doing all he could to keep his head straight. In summary, there was a multiverse full of temporal weak points, and these strange alien beings were saying he was one of a select few capable of repairing it.

“How?” Neil spluttered out finally. “How am I supposed to fix those? I've never seen anything like this before.”

“It is better to show you rather than tell you,” Nox said. “But for now, you should return to the world from whence you came. Rem shall be in contact with you, and will come for you when the time is right.”

“Rem?” Neil asked nervously. The stern specter had not done much in their brief interactions to inspire a sense of camaraderie in him. “Can't it be you?”

“Nox is the Voice of the Dreamer. She has matters well beyond the scope of managing this one,” Rem sighed. “I shall serve as overseer and – if the need arises – protector.”

“Take heart, Neil,” Nox said soothingly. “It is a long road you have ahead of you, but we shall be your allies every step of the way.”

With a popping sound, all the lights on the station dimmed. The room slipped away to darkness, and Neil Brown felt himself falling once more into nothingness.

#writing #cosmichorror #commissionwriting #shortfic

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micahrodney · 3 years

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Thread; Chapter 8 - The Strings Which Make Us Dance

This is a commission piece for Matthew Caveat Zealot.

---

Neil was, once again, lying in his bed in his dorm room. He was rather tired of being dumped off here whenever the universe was done with him. Immediate disorientation set in. Where was established, but when was the big question.

Fortunately, his alarm clock offered him a glimpse of the time, 9 AM. Scrambling off the side of his bed he noticed his wall calendar, assuming it was up-to-date, read Sunday.

The concerning thing was that a week seemed to have passed since his misadventure at the Levant Residence.

"Rem, if you're there, we need to talk," Neil said.

Rem was silent.

The knocking resumed and once again came the once melodic and now mildly alarming voice of Erica.

The old flame had burnt out a few weeks prior. But to Neil – who was presently a hostage to the whim of time – it felt as though it had only been a handful of days. The wounds were still fresh, and he could not imagine what she wanted.

He took a quick look at himself. A tiny bit of peach fuzz on his face, and he was only wearing plaid boxers. A fine state he was in. Reaching towards the nearest clean-ish t-shirt, Neil made a mental note to keep up with his laundry. He slipped the neon blue gym shirt over himself, saw that there was a very noticeable pasta stain on it, and shrugged.

Well, it's not like I'm trying to impress her anymore.

He opened the door and saw her. At once he wished he had taken a moment to find a clean shirt. She was as beautiful as the day she shattered his heart.

Perfect blonde hair, trimmed fashionably to her neck. She wore what could only be described as high society attire, a white blouse and black skirt that went down to her knees, with a pearl necklace and matching alexandrite earrings.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were already awake," Erica said, scanning him with the tiniest hint of disapproval. "Would you like to take a moment to get dressed?"

"Depends on how long the conversation will be," Neil answered flatly.

There were a number of things he wanted to say right now. All of them felt childish and petty compared to the fate of the universe and considering he had just made a very powerful enemy of at least one person, he wasn't feeling terribly charitable. He hated her and he loved her. He wanted to invite her into his apartment and make love to her until the next time Rem dragged him out of reality, and he wanted to instruct her on where precisely she could stick her goddamn pearls.

This wasn't his Erica. This was some… socialite who happened to share her face and name.

This was the kind of girl his father wanted him to fall for. That was the thought that hurt the most. The realization that this phantom of his old flame was… not better, but definitely more socially acceptable.

Erica pressed herself against the door frame as if attempting to prevent Neil from slamming the door on her. A smart move as he was fighting the urge even as they spoke.

"I just… I don't know, I've been rethinking some things in my life and I think I might have been a bit," Erica made a rhythmic hand-waving gesture as though she were fumbling to cast a spell. "Hasty?"

"Ending our relationship was you being 'hasty'?" Neil clarified, putting his hand on the door and moving closer to block the entrance to his room.

"I understand that's not a great answer," Erica replied, backing away slightly. "Look, I've been having a tough time adjusting to college and my mom's new friends. You know how overbearing she can be. She has me canvasing for some church thing she's involved with."

"Your mom always seemed to like me," Neil noted, softening slightly.

"Uh-huh. What were her words exactly?" Erica tilted her head upwards in mock straining. "Ah yes, she told me that you were fine, and I quote, 'for a high school boyfriend'."

"And that's why you dumped me?" Neil asked.

Erica bristled slightly and folded her arms. "Not just that. There were other reasons. We don't need to rehash them, I hope."

"You did a pretty damn thorough job listing all of my failings at our last meeting," Neil scoffed.

"I don't have time for this."

Erica put her hand on the door as Neil made to close it. The two were now inches apart in the negative space between his dormitory and the hallway.

"I messed up, okay?" Erica spat out. "I was letting all of the stress get to me and I didn't give you a fair chance. Is that what you want?"

"What I wanted was to know why. Now I do.

I'm not good enough for you," Neil retorted.

"Oh, Neil, come on," Erica sighed in frustration. "That's exceptionally childish, even for you."

"It's been, what, three weeks since we broke up and you've decided now, out of the blue, that I'm worth sticking around as long as I fix myself for you?" Neil asked.

"Yes, there are things I think you need to work on," Erica replied, bluntly. He couldn't even fault her; she was technically right about that.

"But I also have things I need to work on too. I don't want to lose you over a fight."

Neil let go of the door and dropped his arms to his sides. "Do you love me?"

Erica seemed lost in thought for a moment. This was a sentiment she had difficulty expressing lately. He had noticed a turn in her. She was right, he had some faults he needed to work on. But the confirmation that his failure had led to their relationship ending was torture. Almost as bad as knowing his stubbornness might ruin his chance at reconciliation.

"I don't know," Erica expressed, settling on honesty. "I'm not sure I really know what that is. What I do know is that I care about you, and I want to be with you and maybe we can figure that out together."

Neil wasn't sure how to answer that. It was so damned reasonable. He had been entertaining the possibility that this was some nightmarish extension of the Crossroads. Something Levant had cooked up to distract him. Or that perhaps he had been deposited in some alternate timeline. Levant had made the suggestion that Neil could visit another world where Erica "worshipped" him. But this was not that.

She was different.

She had grown up. The more he thought on it, the more he realized that Erica's tastes had been changing ever since they left high school. The sudden change had been Neil no longer fitting into her life. Erica was right, he had things he needed to work on. But was changing who he was healthy? Was it fair to him? Or her for that matter?

"I need time to think, Erica," Neil replied.

Erica sighed. "I guess that's fair. I took a few weeks myself."

She chuckled softly, an awkward attempt at levity that made her seem more like the old Erica than any of her words. It was patient, understanding, and deeply human; reasonability in the face of one's childish and impatient desires for a speedy resolution.

"I have your number," Neil nodded, moving the door slightly.

Erica took the hint and backed into the hallway. "I'll be waiting."

--- When Neil finally decided he was ready to face the day, he had half-expected Erica to be still waiting right outside his door, hoping for an answer. This foolishness was not rewarded with her presence, and he felt silly even thinking about it. A shower and clean clothes definitely made him feel better, but a proper meal would go a long way. His usual haunt seemed the best choice. Besides, he was hoping Angie could help him recover some of his lost time.

He had tried to call Damien several times, but the usually attentive friend was not picking up the phone. He tried the house phone as well, but the answering machine was full; his father was a very popular man.

And a megalomaniac bent on universal destruction.

Ah, there it was. How was he supposed to have that conversation? He supposed he would have to try and bring it up at some point. But would Levant let him get that close? Was that the reason Damien was not answering the phone? There were too many questions, few answers, and the only reliable source of information that he had access to was Angie.

He arrived at half-past noon, a bit late in the day for breakfast food even if your sleep schedule was that of a lay-about college student. The blond boy behind the counter was unfamiliar to him and the "Trainee" name badge he wore was not encouraging.

"Uh, is Angie in?"

Neil asked.

"Sorry, no I think she had to leave early. Wasn't feeling so good. Can I get you something?" The boy replied.

He couldn't have been more than seventeen, and probably younger by the look of him. Perhaps a high school kid looking to save up for college.

Neil greatly missed when those were the height of his pressing concerns.

"Uh, just coffee I guess, room for cream. And uh, do you have any muffins left?"

"Apple walnut is all I have left. We're on lunch right now."

Neil sighed, glanced at the lunch menu – he'd never had an opportunity to thoroughly inspect it before – and decided stale familiarity was better than fresh and unproven.

"Yeah, I'll take it," he grunted, perhaps a bit more rudely than he meant. The kid would live.

"Coming right up, sir."

Sir. Yeah, that's great. I'm a "sir" now. A sir who has nobody. Not even the damned voice in my head, Neil fumed silently, taking a seat in an open booth and staring out the window.

The muffin was stale but palatable. The coffee was flat but stimulating. The physical effects of the food were noted and then set aside, without so much as a drop of dopamine to reward him. He was hardly a loner, but he generally enjoyed his solitude. He enjoyed having time to himself; moments to clear his head. Especially after mom…

Neil rubbed his forehead and considered his options. He was lonely, miserable, and watching what were meant to be the best years of his life slipping away a few days at a time.

Powerless.

That was the primary source of his ennui. Nothing he had wanted that day had come to pass. None of his friends were available, he had no answers, he wasn't entirely certain he was even in his own timeline, and the nagging question of what to do with Erica lingered.

Levant had said that he was powerful. That he had potential he had barely begun to tap.

"Well doctor," Neil mumbled to himself, draining the last few dregs out of his coffee cup before crumpling the styrofoam in his hand. "There. That's all the power I have. I'm not fucking special. Hell, I don't even know what I am anymore, but it's not powerful."

"Oh! Neil," came an all-too-familiar voice.

Neil turned to see her standing in the doorway to The Junction. She had changed in the past few hours and was now in far more familiar attire. Light jeans, her Vans, and a t-shirt with the album art for Pink Floyd's "The Wall". She still had on her pearl earrings, but this was far more familiar to the girl he knew. Maybe she had been out for a job interview or something.

"Erica," Neil nodded curtly.

"Come on, pull up a booth."

What the hell, Neil thought, embracing the chaotic wind that had swept through his life. I'll ride the current for a while.

"Oh, are you su-"

"You want to get back together," Neil stated. "I say we start with lunch and see where the day takes us."

"That's… incredibly forward of you," Erica noted, but taking a seat nonetheless. "I take it you had a good think back at your dorm?"

"No," Neil answered honestly. "I stopped thinking." ---

Before he knew what was happening, Erica was dragging Neil by his shirt collar through the door of her dormitory. It was considerably cleaner, and she had the privilege of having a room all to herself.

There was a second bed, but it was unoccupied. Neil vaguely remembered her mentioning that her roommate had transferred earlier in the semester when she moved. This was somewhere during his afternoon that had since been blotted out by an overpowering fog of lust.

He could vaguely make out the surroundings, stereo, TV, mid-range personal computer, and walls absolutely covered floor to ceiling in posters that would make his sister seem utterly out-of-touch with the music scene. Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, KISS, she had a taste for classic rock. But interspersed, almost as gap-fillers, were alternative choices such as Green Day, Ace of Base, and some new band called Goldfinger.

That poster featured a woman with ebony hair and bright red lipstick wearing a cheesy retro-style astronaut suit, and the band's name in electric yellow font with red outline. "Here In Your Bedroom", the name of their single, was both present on the lime green album art as well as playing on the stereo when Erica pinned Neil down on her queen-sized mattress and started removing his shirt. By the time John Feldmann belted out his last refrain, they were both bare, limbs entangled and, as the song suggested, minds turned off. ---

Neil must have passed out. Because he woke in Hell.

There was a loud claxon sound piercing his skull and echoing through the vast chamber he found himself in.

Specifically, he and around fifty other people were tightly packed in a cage designed to hold maybe ten, writhing together as a mass of flesh as they tried to attain their freedom. The steel of the bars was rusted and blackened from heat.

They were underground, wherever they were, with a great chasm right beside their cage that sunk down several hundred feet into a void, from which a hideous green glow emanated.

Above them was a looming and fathomless high ceiling of the void, encased by the rock walls that surrounded it. The walls were oddly slick, with fresh-running streams of fluid which Neil recognized from their stench alone to be blood and offal.

There was an explosion of sound to his left as a great burly jailer wearing a black hood and nothing else cracked a leather whip against the cage bars. Neil was pressed against this frame with no protection and the next strike hit its mark, stinging his cheek and causing blood to pool just under his right eye.

The din was unbearable, with screaming, crying, and howling rising in chorus with the sound of that terrible alarm.

Home, Neil thought.

It was all he could think as his body protested the horrid conditions. The heat, the pain, the crushing sensation of his organs being pulverized. Home.

I want to go home.

Another crack hit the person beside him, an elderly woman who, rather than reacting to the pain, simply let out a sigh. The pain was familiar to her. It probably didn't even sting at this point. And he knew looking into her eyes, that would be his fate. He would be in this cage for the rest of eternity until his body was as broken and useless as hers. His torment would be unending, his life meaningless and his worthless carcass good for nothing more than target practice for the monster on the other side of these bars.

Oh yes. Levant had seen a Hell alright. And Neil was here.

The whip came towards Neil's face once more, and in desperation, he reached his hands through the narrow gap in the bars and caught the head of the whip. Neil felt a strange pulling sensation from within, one that coursed through him like a sudden rush of blood to an open wound.

As he held the striking end, the leather softened to insular black rubber, and the toughness a millimeter beneath it revealed the innards to be made of wound metal. His tormenter seemed unable to move; unable to let go.

Neil had no idea how he was doing it, but it washim enacting the change. He had just wanted to get out somehow. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his friends again, to be in bed with Erica, to just be a regular college student once more. But above all else, as the whip came close to his face, one thought rose to the front of his anguished, panicked and exhausted mind.

I want to kill that son of a bitch.

And now what was once the handle of the whip morphed into bare exposed wire, whose end frayed, with each separate spindly coil wrapping themselves around the jailer like snakes.

They bound his whole body leaving harsh red marks in his skin, tightly lashing about him, cutting off blood flow, and around his neck cutting off his airway. The black hood fell off of his tormentor, and Neil saw the face.

He was a man, bald with deep gash wounds in every exposed bit of skin. Burn marks and gashes revealed the true nature of the formerly irredeemable torturer. He was just another prisoner here. Neil felt pity and in the last moment, he tried to amend his desire.

Not dead. Not dead, don't kill him.

And, as though he had uttered a word of command, the wires around his neck loosened, and he remained bound, but alive, on the rocky floor of the prison. The way was clear, at least for now. Bolstered by his unexpected success, Neil decided to push his luck. With the same free hand that once held the end of the whip, he now managed to wrap a few fingers around the rusty bars of the cage.

Disappear.

Nothing happened. The bars were as they had ever been. He almost gave up hope, until he took a desperate moment to consider what had happened. The whip hadn't vanished, it had been transmogrified.

Okay… melt.

At once the metal became scalding to the touch, and there was a cry from the people gathered within the cage. Just a quick startled gasp, however, as in the very next second, the cage cooled and solidified as a puddle beneath them and in some cases, draped over them in thin, parallel lines. They fell out, all over the ground before them. A few had taken a tumble over the edge of the cliff but were clinging to it, upper bodies holding on for dear life.

Some fled at once, without bothering to stay with the group. Some helped the others regain their footing, others still tended to injuries.

As for Neil, he took a moment to thoroughly inspect the nightmare he had fallen into. The path before the cage split off into two directions and down opposite corridors into unknown chambers. The platform he was on stood at the top of a great stone pillar. With the cage removed, the chamber he was in was about thirty feet in diameter at its widest point. He figured he had better pick a direction and start running when his plans were interrupted.

"Neil Ryder Brown," came a voice echoing through the blackness, temporarily replacing the claxon. It spoke in a bland but booming officious monotone. "Age twenty. Occupation:

Disappointment. Crime: Meddling with the multiverse, and now a prison break. Sentence: Eternal Damnation."

There was a sound of marching footsteps, and down each of his two options came a squad of hooded men wearing blackened steel armor over grey weave that looked almost like Kevlar. There were twelve in total, each of them carrying a forked pikestaff made from the same material as the cage. Suddenly, in front of Neil, there was a dramatic but oddly fake-looking puff of smoke that rose in a grandiose plume, before dissipating to reveal Anders Levant.

"Is this more to your liking?" He grinned.

He was wearing tacky red pajamas, and a dollar store set of plushy red devil horns. The crimson cape and plastic tail really completed the effect he was going for. Once again, the man was toying with Neil.

"You spared this one.

How kind of you," Levant grunted, pointing down at the bound torturer. "Ever the hero."

With a wave of his hand, the bound man slid along the floor just past Neil and over the edge of the cliff.

The bound soul didn't even scream on his way down.

"What the hell is this?!" Neil demanded.

"Call it basic training," Levant replied, playing with his tail and spinning it like a whip.

"Desperation yields quick results.

You've done this a time or two before without realizing it, but I think you're starting to understand what you're capable of."

"Thanks for the lesson," Neil replied, feeling his insides quiver and his heart sink. He shook repressed fear. If they were about to battle, he was going to lose.

"Clearly it was insufficient. If you don't nut up and start defending yourself, you're going to die out here," Levant explained. "Go ahead, be a hero. Save all of them, if you can."

The guards, in unison, raised their tridents, pointed them straight at Neil, and began to slowly advance. He backed up the few feet he had, but eventually, his left heel found nothing beneath him. If anything, Neil was even more frantic and disoriented than he was in the cage.

There was nothing here. Was touch a mandatory component of his powers or not?

Was there anything he could get hold of?

What if this was all just an illusion?

Should he just dive over the cliffs and be done with it?

Give me something, damn it.

The puddle of cooled metal rose between him and the guards, resolidifying and then expanding to create a wall slightly higher than Neil's head.

"Not a bad start," Levant whispered in his ear.

With a start, Neil turned to his right. Levant had ditched the fake-looking costume and was now in a blood-red three-piece suit with a black tie and patent-leather shoes.

"The fuck," Neil gasped in exasperation.

"Do you think they know we're in here?" Levant asked, mockingly.

In a moment the business end of a trident pierced through the wall, stopping inches from Neil's eyes.

The rusty black metal was now positively oozing with fresh blood.

"What's the matter, don't wanna kill me yourself?" Neil asked.

"I am," Levant replied, matter-of-factly. "You don't think those guards out there are real people, do you?"

"Oh," Neil nodded, with sudden realization.

Okay, let's see if this works.

The trident retracted from the wall, leaving three evenly spaced holes to peek through. Soon more came, chipping away at Neil's dubious protection in a rapid but rhythmic flurry of strikes. The Binder took his chance, placing a free hand on the wall in front of him. He had meant to try pushing the wall back to knock them off the other side of the cliff, but at the last moment, one of the great spiked tips gouged straight through his palm. He lost control and, in his anger, his energy and thoughts were redirected.

Burn them all.

Once more the metal was white-hot, even scalding Neil again. He pushed forward and it became a raging field of fire that swept across the entire platform. When the bright flame cleared, all that was left was thirteen charred skeletons, six to a side, and a smaller one right in front of him.

Neil dropped to his knees, the spike of the trident still embedded in his palm. He tugged the pike out and the wound began to bleed for just a moment before his palm began to mend itself.

"You can do without the stigmata, kid," Levant smirked. "You already think you're some grand savior. But one who clearly understands so little about the power you possess."

"Next time I'll burn you," Neil growled furiously. He was enraged, still in agony from the pain despite the wound being healed, and ready to end it all here.

"Yeah, I suspect you will," Levant chuckled. "And you'll probably get me in the end. But then as chaotic and unrefined as your power is, you'll do an awful lot of collateral damage."

He walked over to the small skeleton in the middle, pointing a solemn finger down to a spot just beyond its outstretched hand. With a small pop, a blackened plush figure rematerialized; a small teddy bear.

"Poor thing. She came back to get her toy. Such loyalty children have to their imaginary friends. Like you and Rem, I suppose," Levant noted.

"What are you…"

But Neil knew what Levant was getting at. This was one of his fellow prisoners. A girl, maybe seven years old. And Neil had killed her.

"I have a daughter about that age. Little Talia, you met her," Levant went on, as casually as if he was discussing the weather. "Has this little toy Dino, you know that purple dinosaur from the Flintstones?

She carries him everywhere. I've had to replace him a few times, but to her, it's the same one she got when she was… four or five, I can't remember exactly."

"You're making that up.

She's not real," Neil said, though his mind was filled with doubt.

"I assure you my daughter is real. I wasn't there when she was born, mind you, but I-" Levant paused in mock revelation.

"Oh, you mean this little one."

He started as if seeing her for the first time. "Poor thing is all bones!"

With malice glee, he kicked her skull off the edge of the cliff.

"Stop it, you bastard!" Neil shouted taking a few steps forward. The remaining bones suddenly grew ten-fold into great spikes, surrounding Levant in a cage of marrow.

Levant looked at him through the gap in the rib bones and gave him an extended, melodramatic eye roll.

He snapped and in an instant was outside the cage, standing directly in front of Neil.

"You might have killed me if you thought about it hard enough. But you don't have the stomach for it. This is one little girl you killed by accident. Think about all of the Threads that depend on you and the timelines that your mistakes will end. If you can't handle one accidental death, then you are grossly underprepared for the task that the Somni have for you."

"I didn't mean to kill her," Neil shouted, defensively.

"So what, Neil?!" Levant shouted, dropping his air of superiority so suddenly that Neil fell back. His hands found no purchase but fortunately, most of his lower body was still on the rock.

"Do you think that will matter to the kid's parents?" Levant went on. "Do you think you can just magic away your mistakes with good intentions?

Do you think you get to look at the universe and go 'I'm sorry I ruined everything, don't blame me, I'm just a kid!'"

"Then what about you?!" Neil shouted, incensed. He felt the urge to strike out at Levant. Maybe he could kill him. Maybe.

But what would happen if he did?

Who would he hurt next time?

"I told you," Levant said, calming down. If ever he spoke true to Neil, it was clearly in this moment. "I'm not interested in destroying this universe. I rather like it. I want to save it. But I'll be damned if I let the madness continue."

"So what? You set yourself up as some kind of God?" Neil asked.

"Hey, better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven, am I right?" Levant smirked. "Sure, some self-righteous types like you will call me an oppressor, but in reality, I'm liberating the universe from the mad whims of both extremes. But there will be people like you, and like your grandfather, who think it's better to kill the 'bad guy' no matter how many kids they sacrifice to do it."

"My grandfather?" Neil asked.

"Ask your old man," Levant smiled. "Now, let me leave you with a little something to remember me by."

Intense, searing pain pierced through Neil's neck and upwards towards his brain. His face was on fire and the veins on his face turned from bright blue to pitch black. He couldn't think. He couldn't form words. Neil Brown was going to die then and there, and there was nothing he could do to save himself.

"You need to get with the picture, Neil," Levant said darkly. "I promise you, if you keep fucking with me, you will wish you were still in my Hell."

Neil screamed and screamed.

And when he opened his eyes, he saw Erica once more.

#writing #commissionwriting #cosmichorror #thread matthewcaveatzealot commission

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