Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 3: Endymion]
11-25-2011, 08:26 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Endymion felt alive.
She didn’t understand it herself, but that was how she felt. It was the only way to describe it. Nothing was different at all. Everything was different somehow, too. Things were not running smoothly, but they were generally running the same. But it was also obvious that they weren’t running right at all. Unless she had always ran this way, but after thinking about it, she was very sure that she hadn’t.
Thinking. That was new too, actually.
Water ran through her veins, powering all sorts of things. (All sorts of organs?) It was all automatic. Or it was mostly automatic. Or it used to be mostly automatic, but she wasn’t the only one feeling alive; her organs were alive too. They could pump and clean and flow by themselves. They could adjust their own pressure, unclog themselves, they knew almost instantly when something was wrong with Endymion because they were the parts that made up Endymion.
There was poison in her blood, she could feel it, a black sludge coursing its way through her…
Were those foreign invaders, those people crawling all over her land? No, they were the people that took care of her…but she could take care of herself. She had no need of caretakers. They must be invaders then, sickly little bacteria to be purged…
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The Dream collapsed again, shuddering. That had been happening a lot. He had an idea about why, and he didn’t like it at all. He would fight it all the way, of course. Dreams had a habit of being out of the control of the dreamers. But he was different. He was the dreamer’s avatar, and if the dreamer changed, then so did the avatar. It hadn’t really happened before, but it at least made sense to him, and he felt he could use a little more sense in his life. It seemed to be running fairly dry as of late.
The Dream got up and rubbed his head, ignoring the bodies that swung above and the whispers of machinery all around and the deep mutterings of a being much larger than he could imagine. He had to remember what he had to do, what he was here for, what his purpose was and will be, that’s right, future tense, so it had to be true –
He flung the knife away from his hand. It was the fifth one that had appeared spontaneously in his grip. He refused to think about what it was for. He had to find the Photographer (he was still a photographer he had always been a photographer, he could never be anything else, maybe if he kept saying this it would be true and things would be back to normal) and then…and then he would have to think of something.
There was the sound of footsteps. He turned and saw two men, one of them holding a knife. They didn’t have faces. He wasn’t sure if it was because they just didn’t or because he just couldn’t see them. He panicked and fled. He flung another knife from his hand.
He wasn’t sure why he did, but he climbed back up to the surface. Behind him, he could hear the men follow and chase and shout (without mouths? No, people had faces, people had mouths, they could shout, people had faces, people had faces) but he didn’t listen.
Once above, he continued running. The surface looked fairly normal. Why was this? What was going to happen?
The people around him had no faces and he ran. The air felt like molasses. It was harder to be up here than down there. But still, he ran.
Endymion felt alive.
She didn’t understand it herself, but that was how she felt. It was the only way to describe it. Nothing was different at all. Everything was different somehow, too. Things were not running smoothly, but they were generally running the same. But it was also obvious that they weren’t running right at all. Unless she had always ran this way, but after thinking about it, she was very sure that she hadn’t.
Thinking. That was new too, actually.
Water ran through her veins, powering all sorts of things. (All sorts of organs?) It was all automatic. Or it was mostly automatic. Or it used to be mostly automatic, but she wasn’t the only one feeling alive; her organs were alive too. They could pump and clean and flow by themselves. They could adjust their own pressure, unclog themselves, they knew almost instantly when something was wrong with Endymion because they were the parts that made up Endymion.
There was poison in her blood, she could feel it, a black sludge coursing its way through her…
Were those foreign invaders, those people crawling all over her land? No, they were the people that took care of her…but she could take care of herself. She had no need of caretakers. They must be invaders then, sickly little bacteria to be purged…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Dream collapsed again, shuddering. That had been happening a lot. He had an idea about why, and he didn’t like it at all. He would fight it all the way, of course. Dreams had a habit of being out of the control of the dreamers. But he was different. He was the dreamer’s avatar, and if the dreamer changed, then so did the avatar. It hadn’t really happened before, but it at least made sense to him, and he felt he could use a little more sense in his life. It seemed to be running fairly dry as of late.
The Dream got up and rubbed his head, ignoring the bodies that swung above and the whispers of machinery all around and the deep mutterings of a being much larger than he could imagine. He had to remember what he had to do, what he was here for, what his purpose was and will be, that’s right, future tense, so it had to be true –
He flung the knife away from his hand. It was the fifth one that had appeared spontaneously in his grip. He refused to think about what it was for. He had to find the Photographer (he was still a photographer he had always been a photographer, he could never be anything else, maybe if he kept saying this it would be true and things would be back to normal) and then…and then he would have to think of something.
There was the sound of footsteps. He turned and saw two men, one of them holding a knife. They didn’t have faces. He wasn’t sure if it was because they just didn’t or because he just couldn’t see them. He panicked and fled. He flung another knife from his hand.
He wasn’t sure why he did, but he climbed back up to the surface. Behind him, he could hear the men follow and chase and shout (without mouths? No, people had faces, people had mouths, they could shout, people had faces, people had faces) but he didn’t listen.
Once above, he continued running. The surface looked fairly normal. Why was this? What was going to happen?
The people around him had no faces and he ran. The air felt like molasses. It was harder to be up here than down there. But still, he ran.