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numberonesnarkfan · 6 months

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This is the story of a being named The Narrator.

Many religions and spiritualities have invented concepts and nomenclature that closely describes the type of being The Narrator is. For a western listener to understand best, the closest definition would be that it is a type of ‘spirit’.

The Narrator, as you know it, is a spirit not bound by laws of physics as you are, but bound by laws that govern a realm invisible to humans. One of these laws that applies to The Narrator specifically, is that it cannot refer to itself with a name or pronoun that is not given to it by man. The Narrator never referred to itself at all for much of its life. Even ‘it’ is a new pronoun to it. It knew the pronouns ‘ham’ and ‘den’ from the ancient Vikings, ‘to’ and ‘afton’ from the even more ancient Greeks. ‘The Narrator’, too, is a new name, given to it only in the 1600s.

The last cult who discovered and committed themselves to it called it him, and named him Mikonaxas. The last cult of Mikonaxas was only formed ten years after the turn of the millennium. They operated for three years, dutifully serving the spirit. Mikonaxas told his cult that he embodied story. In ancient times, he would speak to bards and philosophers and tell them things that would change the course of history, if only they would appease him. In this age, Mikonaxas grew bored of his role as a spirit existing only to aid man and instead desired to join them in their feasting and revelry, and in their glory and toil. He wanted to feel firsthand the emotions and desires that he had studied closely, that could only be felt by one in a corporeal body.

“What type of body do you desire, Mikonaxas, my lord?” a member asked, bowing his head to the spirit, its form only visible as a dark cloud. Jim held his breath. He hoped truly that the being would not want for a body that matched his own. He dreaded what the spirit might do to him.

“I’m thinking…” Mikonaxas mused, “tall and fat, a symbol of my power and prestige. I want to appear old and wise, yet a youthful spark in my eyes, yes… Do you know of the appearance of the ancient daemon, Pan? Something like that. But I don’t want my body to be only human, heavens no. I must embody divinity, I must exist beyond the limitations of man. Perhaps endowed somehow with your new ‘recording’ technology, so that my stories can live forever. Can you do that for me? I’d love that.”

Jim released his breath. While he was getting old, his previous lifestyle had rendered him quite particularly gangly. He didn’t fit the bill. He glanced nervously around the near-empty ‘church’, which was in fact built in the basement of an abandoned house. There was one man who he knew fit Mikonaxas’ request.

This is the story of a man named Angelo.

Jim had known Angelo for a number of years. In fact, he had once had a relationship with him, before he had become Angelo when he transitioned to identifying as a man. He had cut ties with his family, who did not accept him anymore, and named himself after his great-great grandfather, who had also faced persecution for his identity. Angelo lived in a small suburban home, with no company other than his two cats. Angelo remained friends with Jim after their amicable break-up, when Jim admitted that, in respect of Angelo’s transition, he was no longer attracted to him. Angelo, rather than being angry, felt grateful to Jim for treating him truly as a man. Now, Angelo was a friend of the cult through Jim.

Jim felt a pit in his stomach. Among gods, or beings who were worshipped as gods, Mikonaxas could sometimes be cruel. He had an explosive temper. If Jim failed to deliver him his desires, Jim didn’t know what he might do to him, or to the cult at large. Jim bowed to Mikonaxas and turned to return to his quarters.

In the days following, Jim found himself faced with a ‘trolley problem’, of sorts. One potential loss of life, or the potential loss of the lives of the entire cult? In truth, Jim didn’t know what would happen to Angelo’s body if he were given to Mikonaxas. But if he had to augment it somehow to make it ‘exist beyond the limitations of man’, that couldn’t be good for Angelo’s general health.

That night, Jim made up his mind. He called the cult to a meeting and described to them Mikonaxas’ request. Stefan, a nurse, piped up that he may be able to help, as did Lucy, who was part of a team who built robots for work and fun. Over months, they devised a plan and built a prototype. They presented it to Mikonaxas, who liked it, but proposed a few changes. After more months, they had a final version.

They would harvest parts from a computer and a professional microphone to implant into Angelo’s body. Some of his organs would need to be removed or replaced. The replacements and the parts were ready, now only one part of the plan remained: Angelo himself.

Jim was dispatched to Angelo’s home a few nights later. They had agreed to have dinner there, simply as friends. Angelo had prepared a beautiful meal and Jim had supplied the wine, along with a certain secret ingredient.

Angelo greeted Jim and allowed him in, motioning for him to sit down at the table. Angelo was on the older and heavier side, with long silvery hair that was often tied in a bun, as it was tonight. He had thick black eyebrows, the only visible hair on him that hadn’t been turned grey by the test of time. He had a square jaw and pale skin, his fingers now rapping on the edge of the table. Jim sat across from him and smiled.

For an hour, they talked. Angelo asked about the cult and Mikonaxas and Jim assured him that everything was going fine. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Partway through their meeting, Angelo excused himself to the bathroom and Jim dropped his ‘secret ingredient’ into Angelo’s wine: a powerful sedative.

Angelo returned from the bathroom and took a sip of his wine, none the wiser. It didn’t take long for the drug to take effect. Angelo didn’t want to be rude to his guest, so he fought to keep his eyes open. Around half an hour later, though, he told Jim that he was awfully sorry, but something must be wrong. Jim responded that he could take Angelo to the hospital if he wanted, but Angelo insisted he would just sleep it off. When he could barely get up from his chair, however, Jim insisted and took him out to his car. Angelo didn’t fight as Jim strapped him into the passenger seat and got in the driver’s seat. Jim started the car and watched as Angelo started to fall asleep.

Angelo didn’t wake up even when he was dragged out of the car and into the basement of the cult’s house, or when he was hoisted onto the table, or when he was tied down, stripped and duct tape gagged. Only when Stefan started to cut, did he wake up. He surely would have fought to escape, had he not been thoroughly tied down. Jim felt his heart sink as Angelo’s wide and teary eyes landed on him.

Stefan, though he was a nurse, was not at all qualified for a surgery of this type. Mikonaxas lended some aid through some kind of mysterious magic, allowing wires and parts to be laid in Angelo’s body, along with a vessel for himself, a small jar in Angelo’s midsection. Even still, when his eyes stopped moving, Jim knew that Angelo was dead. Mikonaxas instructed them to continue, though, and so they did. The final touch was the large microphone stand that protruded from his back, arching up over his head to dangle a recording mic in front of his face.

Finally, Angelo was reclothed and laid down, rigor mortis beginning to set in. Jim held his breath as Mikonaxas lowered himself into Angelo’s now vacant body. He watched as the last slivers of his dark, smoky form disappeared through the skin. All was silent for a moment, before Jim heard a sound like a computer whirring to life. Angelo’s eyes shot open, his irises now bright yellow, split by a slit pupil.

With Mikonaxas’ deep, bassy voice, he spoke;

“N-no. This isn’t right.”

Blood began to dribble from his mouth as he got up from the table on shaky legs. He stumbled, then turned to face the cult.

“This isn’t–” Angelo - or rather, both of them, doubled over in pain as Mikonaxas rammed at the walls of his vessel, trying to get out. Wounds began to reopen, blood quickly seeping through his bandages and reddening his clothes.

Wind started to whip and howl at the house, threatening its structure. Jim heard wood creaking before the sudden smash of a window upstairs. The cult members began to panic, but Jim’s eyes stayed on Angelo.

Jim watched in horror as a black cloud exploded out of Angelo. It filled the room quickly. It felt like burning and freezing at the same time. It felt like falling and rising, like being turned to dust.

This is the story of two beings, known together as The Narrator.

The Narrator felt the dark explosion trickle back inside of him. He slowly stood up straight and looked around the room. The walls and floor were blackened and everything that had been in the room - the table, the altar, and the humans, had been reduced to dust, or perhaps soot. He felt the life draining from him again. Something inside him roused; a deep-set human instinct. For the first time in his life, he feared death. He refused to die.

The Narrator forced himself to move, stumbling through the room and up the stairs. The wind still whipped at the house, the support beams creaking. He limped out of the door, now ripped off of its hinges by the storm. He stepped out into the wind and rain and headed slowly for the closest building. It was a large office complex. The moon was nearly full, the office was the only building with its lights on in an immediate radius.

It felt like hours he was forcing himself to walk. His strength was waning as he pulled himself through the door. The receptionist didn’t appear to be present, so he stumbled through the building, tracking blood all over the carpet. He stopped occasionally to lean on a wall and throw up blood as he searched for signs of human life. The implants in his skin were starting to threaten to fall back out. His vision was blurring.

Finally, he came across an office with the sound of typing coming from inside. He pushed the door open. A man turned to face him as he entered, his face whitening in fear and shock. He was tall and lanky, with brown hair and arched eyebrows, with matching brown eyes. He appeared frozen to his chair in shock as The Narrator approached him.

The Narrator grabbed Stanley by the shoulders. He didn’t say anything, there was too much blood in his mouth for that, which at this moment was dripping onto Stanley’s legs. A horrible crack and a spark came from him before all of the lights in the complex went out.

Stanley opened his mouth to yell.

The Narrator screamed over him as a black cloud exploded out of him.

Then, the cloud began to whirl and implode. The wind picked up hard enough for trees to be pulled over outside. It was like a black hole. It was a black hole. Stanley was sucked in first, before it grew, taking more and more of the offices with it, then the entire building, before, in a flash of light, it suddenly vanished.

…

The Narrator cleared his throat,

“This is the story of a man named Stanley.”