Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 4: Static]
11-04-2012, 12:28 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
"How tragic, that everything should come to destruction like this."
She looked over the destroyed cityscape from her perch on a charred billboard, the decaying decaying buildings only cast into more tragic light by the occasional reconstructed ones that dotted the carnage. Nevertheless, the city and its unkown inhabitants weren't the only things on her mind, nor were they all she had meant: images of the collapsing sunball stadium and the bodies of fallen warriors and her own son's blood staining the soil still danced behind her eyes. Unbidden, memories that seemed to be hers but could not be summoned up a flying city that burned as it fell, of a house that collapsed in the rain, of otherworldly static that threatened to devour everything.
How appropriate, that everything should come to destruction like this.
Everything seemed to waver. It was harder to continue being Amala, here. Harder without her children gazing at her, harder after they'd seen her relish the assault on the stadium. Harder in this strange world. Harder because she was not Amala, was never Amala; this foolish delusion would die a death of nonexistence like the rest of them.
"No!"
The shout echoed across the desolation, denial permeating the air and repeating itself more feebly with each iteration. A fitting metaphor for your gradual descent into nothing. Fade like your voice as they forget you, as they deny you, and as you disappear, realize what they deserve.
It was impossible to argue, because it wasn't someone else saying it. It was her, some part of her that had never existed before. Perhaps the void had nested itself in her heart as she had passed thought it... She blinked behind what remained of her mask. That didn't make sense. Had she ever passed through a void? She sank back against the crumbling signage, trying to collect her fleeing thoughts and assemble a coherent personal narrative out of the conflicting memories that she had. It was all... wrong. Something was wrong. Something inside her was wrong.
She straightened back up, hovering steadfastly above the city that mirrored her mind. If there was something wrong inside of her, then she would remove it. She would pull it out of herself, and then she'd... Well, it wouldn't be part of her anymore. What happened after that would just have to make itself clear.
Even as she resolved to separate whatever was causing her destructive internal monologue, though, she was overcome by a feeling of despair and futility. She'd tried this before, hadn't she? Tried something like it. Tried to destroy what she had hated, tried to fix herself and the world around her, and it had... What had it done? What had happened? She couldn't think, she couldn't remember, and in her ears and in her mind a wheedling, bloody voice lead a chorous of thousands of millions, uncountable whispers of hate and anger and betrayal and–
She screamed. It was enough! She was losing herself, couldn't think, couldn't remember. She had to act now, before she couldn't act at all. She reached for her sickle, but... There was a sword already in her hand. A sword, stained with blood, that hummed quietly to itself with power and promise. She blinked again, and recalled what she had done with it. Killed a man, killed her own son, he had deserved to die, they all did. It was an evil thing, a glorious thing, and she'd shed her own blood with it the way she had shed his. Penitence and recompense in one act.
Hands shaking, struggling to overpower herself and shut out the voices that every second threatened more to overtake her consciousness, she raised the sword. It glinted briefly in the dull light, flashing grey and red, before she plunged it into her chest.
She screamed, louder and longer than ever before, but didn't stop. Bloodless knuckles even whiter than they ever had been threatened to snap with the force of her self-inflicted violence; there was a sickening series of splintering noises as her sternum yielded before her wrists did, and she began to drag the blade downwards. Ribs split and broke more easily than the breastbone had, and Crow's blade made sure that the flesh didn't immediately knit itself back together. As the sword finally cleared the ribcage and sliced indelicately through her gut, she let her arms go limp. It was harder than ever, especially with an enormous hole gaping in her torso, to think, but now more than ever she couldn't afford to lose herself before finishing her work. The blade dangled loosely from one hand, but the other shakingly rose itself to the widest part of the gash.
Weeping and shrieking, she plunged her fingers into her own chest, brushing aside skin and fat and bone; after what felt like hours, her fingertips found their prize, and she grabbed it roughly. What was visible of her face contorted into an even more ghastly rictus of pain and fear, and she pulled. Tendon and vein fought hard, but gradually they snapped, and with the last of her strength, she pulled a cancerous, pulsating lump out of her chest.
She looked down on her own heart, sight blurring from tears and pain and the trauma of what she'd inflicted on herself. Truth be told, it wasn't even really a heart in the singular; two organs seemed wrapped around each other, one seeming healthy but dessicated, while the other was slimy and bloated and blackened.
"This must be..." She swallowed and struggled to breathe. "This must have been what plagued me."
She tossed the pair of hearts down to the ground below, intent on watching them smash and splatter on the hard ground; before they'd even made it halfway, though, her eyes simply gave up and shut. She fell forward, the cacophony finally silent, and crashed to the ground only moments after her purged hearts.
Time passed, and it was only luck – and the Rebuilders' preoccupation with other Outsiders – that kept her from discovery. Whether it was lucky for her or for those that might have stumbled on her was hard to say.
As time continued its march, a pair of shadows eventually fell across her body. The beings casting them might have been duplicates of her, save for their ages and demeanor: the first seemed ancient, her skin hanging off her skeleton like a shroud, her hair and clothing tattered and yellowed, her eyes locked in a hateful scowl; the other was younger, slender, and might have been beautiful if she didn't seem to have just escaped from being imprisoned in a dark room for years.
The older one smirked at the downed figure. "So weak. A fitting first death for the end of everything."
The younger one didn't say anything, or at least didn't respond; she was constantly muttering, but didn't seem to be doing so towards any meaningful end. Her eyes were downcast as she babbled, one hand clutched tightly to her breast and the other tugging constantly at a lock of brittle hair.
"Hmph." The older figure bent to reach for the god-killing sword. "I don't know if it would be better to save you for last or just gut you after her. You deserve to watch everything burn, know it's your fault."
Before she could grab the blade, though, Amala's eyes slammed open. Without thinking, she swung it at the crone, whose fingers were only saved by lightning-fast reflexes and superhuman speed.
"No!"
"How tragic, that everything should come to destruction like this."
She looked over the destroyed cityscape from her perch on a charred billboard, the decaying decaying buildings only cast into more tragic light by the occasional reconstructed ones that dotted the carnage. Nevertheless, the city and its unkown inhabitants weren't the only things on her mind, nor were they all she had meant: images of the collapsing sunball stadium and the bodies of fallen warriors and her own son's blood staining the soil still danced behind her eyes. Unbidden, memories that seemed to be hers but could not be summoned up a flying city that burned as it fell, of a house that collapsed in the rain, of otherworldly static that threatened to devour everything.
How appropriate, that everything should come to destruction like this.
Everything seemed to waver. It was harder to continue being Amala, here. Harder without her children gazing at her, harder after they'd seen her relish the assault on the stadium. Harder in this strange world. Harder because she was not Amala, was never Amala; this foolish delusion would die a death of nonexistence like the rest of them.
"No!"
The shout echoed across the desolation, denial permeating the air and repeating itself more feebly with each iteration. A fitting metaphor for your gradual descent into nothing. Fade like your voice as they forget you, as they deny you, and as you disappear, realize what they deserve.
It was impossible to argue, because it wasn't someone else saying it. It was her, some part of her that had never existed before. Perhaps the void had nested itself in her heart as she had passed thought it... She blinked behind what remained of her mask. That didn't make sense. Had she ever passed through a void? She sank back against the crumbling signage, trying to collect her fleeing thoughts and assemble a coherent personal narrative out of the conflicting memories that she had. It was all... wrong. Something was wrong. Something inside her was wrong.
She straightened back up, hovering steadfastly above the city that mirrored her mind. If there was something wrong inside of her, then she would remove it. She would pull it out of herself, and then she'd... Well, it wouldn't be part of her anymore. What happened after that would just have to make itself clear.
Even as she resolved to separate whatever was causing her destructive internal monologue, though, she was overcome by a feeling of despair and futility. She'd tried this before, hadn't she? Tried something like it. Tried to destroy what she had hated, tried to fix herself and the world around her, and it had... What had it done? What had happened? She couldn't think, she couldn't remember, and in her ears and in her mind a wheedling, bloody voice lead a chorous of thousands of millions, uncountable whispers of hate and anger and betrayal and–
She screamed. It was enough! She was losing herself, couldn't think, couldn't remember. She had to act now, before she couldn't act at all. She reached for her sickle, but... There was a sword already in her hand. A sword, stained with blood, that hummed quietly to itself with power and promise. She blinked again, and recalled what she had done with it. Killed a man, killed her own son, he had deserved to die, they all did. It was an evil thing, a glorious thing, and she'd shed her own blood with it the way she had shed his. Penitence and recompense in one act.
Hands shaking, struggling to overpower herself and shut out the voices that every second threatened more to overtake her consciousness, she raised the sword. It glinted briefly in the dull light, flashing grey and red, before she plunged it into her chest.
She screamed, louder and longer than ever before, but didn't stop. Bloodless knuckles even whiter than they ever had been threatened to snap with the force of her self-inflicted violence; there was a sickening series of splintering noises as her sternum yielded before her wrists did, and she began to drag the blade downwards. Ribs split and broke more easily than the breastbone had, and Crow's blade made sure that the flesh didn't immediately knit itself back together. As the sword finally cleared the ribcage and sliced indelicately through her gut, she let her arms go limp. It was harder than ever, especially with an enormous hole gaping in her torso, to think, but now more than ever she couldn't afford to lose herself before finishing her work. The blade dangled loosely from one hand, but the other shakingly rose itself to the widest part of the gash.
Weeping and shrieking, she plunged her fingers into her own chest, brushing aside skin and fat and bone; after what felt like hours, her fingertips found their prize, and she grabbed it roughly. What was visible of her face contorted into an even more ghastly rictus of pain and fear, and she pulled. Tendon and vein fought hard, but gradually they snapped, and with the last of her strength, she pulled a cancerous, pulsating lump out of her chest.
She looked down on her own heart, sight blurring from tears and pain and the trauma of what she'd inflicted on herself. Truth be told, it wasn't even really a heart in the singular; two organs seemed wrapped around each other, one seeming healthy but dessicated, while the other was slimy and bloated and blackened.
"This must be..." She swallowed and struggled to breathe. "This must have been what plagued me."
She tossed the pair of hearts down to the ground below, intent on watching them smash and splatter on the hard ground; before they'd even made it halfway, though, her eyes simply gave up and shut. She fell forward, the cacophony finally silent, and crashed to the ground only moments after her purged hearts.
Time passed, and it was only luck – and the Rebuilders' preoccupation with other Outsiders – that kept her from discovery. Whether it was lucky for her or for those that might have stumbled on her was hard to say.
As time continued its march, a pair of shadows eventually fell across her body. The beings casting them might have been duplicates of her, save for their ages and demeanor: the first seemed ancient, her skin hanging off her skeleton like a shroud, her hair and clothing tattered and yellowed, her eyes locked in a hateful scowl; the other was younger, slender, and might have been beautiful if she didn't seem to have just escaped from being imprisoned in a dark room for years.
The older one smirked at the downed figure. "So weak. A fitting first death for the end of everything."
The younger one didn't say anything, or at least didn't respond; she was constantly muttering, but didn't seem to be doing so towards any meaningful end. Her eyes were downcast as she babbled, one hand clutched tightly to her breast and the other tugging constantly at a lock of brittle hair.
"Hmph." The older figure bent to reach for the god-killing sword. "I don't know if it would be better to save you for last or just gut you after her. You deserve to watch everything burn, know it's your fault."
Before she could grab the blade, though, Amala's eyes slammed open. Without thinking, she swung it at the crone, whose fingers were only saved by lightning-fast reflexes and superhuman speed.
"No!"