Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 4: Static]
12-27-2012, 02:20 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Ur jumped backwards, grinning in a way that had no relation to happiness whatsoever.
“Still some fight in you, then. Don’t worry. We’ll fix that soon.”
It wasn’t hard to put two and two together when staring at a clearly evil duplicate of yourself, and Amala did so in an instant; it took only an instant longer than that for the horror of the situation set in.
“No… You were supposed to be gone! I removed you. Got rid of you. You were never even real.”
“I’m realer than you could ever be. Look at yourself: a new name, new memories, another new flock. Stealing the face of some long-dead spirit to hide behind, pretend you’re not just a ghost of a ghost.”
The crone moved closer, slowly circling her armed doppelganger. “You can feel them leaving you even now, forgetting you, lying about you. Like they always have before. Like they always will. You’re a figment of your own imagination, and it won’t be long before you stop daydreaming. Even she’s realer than you are, and barely anything of her even exists.”
Amala narrowed her eyes, hesitantly raising the sword she’d vivisected herself with. “I should destroy you. I should finish what I started and purge you from existence.”
“You should. I’ve been so greedy, been so ungrateful. Give me life, give me death. Give me food, give me happiness. Mother Amala, Mother Amala, save me from myself. Let me turn my back on you. Let me forget you, let me curse your name.”
By now she was so close that Amala could feel hot, hateful breath on her face with each word she hissed. “But you can’t, and you never could. Everything you’ll ever do will turn out wrong. Look what you did to your children, look what you did to yourself. She’s just a husk and she’s filled with your failure, crying to itself in the dark. And you’re not even that.”
With a blur too fast to see and a crack like a bullwhip, Ur backhanded her; she crumpled to the ground, staring up at herself in horror and on the verge of tears. “You’re a fool. You’re a lie that told itself, but even you don’t believe it. You know what you are, what you’ve done. You know that as long as you exist, your children will know nothing but an eternity of narcissistic suffering. And you know what I am. Only I can save you. Only I can save them, give them what they deserve. Existence is a curse, yours doubly so. I can break it. And I will. Give me the sword and accept the death that’s so long eluded you.”
Amala’s eyes darted back and forth helplessly. She seemed nearly ready to hand the blade over when something in her snapped and she lashed out with a kick. As her tormentor fell, she righted herself and hovered threateningly over the old woman.
“No. You’re wrong. About everything. I can fix what’s been broken. You left scars across a hundred worlds, not me, but I can heal them.” She snapped, and a bark scabbard wove itself around Crow’s sword; she hung it on her belt before continuing. “And I choose to let you live, because I will not be an avatar of death and chaos.”
Ur snarled; she knew she couldn’t overpower Amala as long as the deluded idiots on the Plateau venerated her, remembered her every day as they tended to the tree she had given them. As long as her connection to their universe persisted, she’d always have the upper hand. It was impossible to know when and if that connection might fade, and it would be impossible to break it herself. She would have to make the deluded idiot destroy herself, or convince her to hand over the weapon.
But that shouldn't be too hard. Not if she remembered who she was.
---
The bee. Of course. For the second time in as many hours, it had saved him; this time, he didn't even have the excuse of not knowing what it could do to justify not thinking of it sooner. It was as bad as not remembering he could turn off his hearing to shut out the ridiculous prattle of those idiots with the machines. No, it was worse than that because it had nearly cost him his life this time.
Cole gave a little mental shrug and attempted to stop berating himself; it was just a manifestation of his frustration with the whole nonsensical, violent situation, and it wouldn't get him anywhere but stressed. As many insects as he'd collected with as many talents as they had, anyone was bound to let a few possibilities slip through the cracks from time to time. It'd take a computer or a god to recall them all at once, and if there were two things he'd never be, it was those. At least his body had had the sense to take advantage of what he could do, when he needed to do it; self-preservation was one of evolution's finest works.
It wasn't long before he realized he couldn't hide himself in his thoughts forever: for one thing, that was incredibly foolish and self-indulgent during a battle to the death, regardless of how asinine and infuriating everything was and how tempting it was to just ignore it all; for another, there were voices nearby, and it would be best to pay at least a little bit of attention, if only to figure out which way to run and how fast. A pair of antennae burst out of his forehead while a series of tympanal slits opened across his arms and torso; in the end, it was all a bit overkill: the voices were coming from almost directly behind him.
“And I choose to let you live, because I will not be an avatar of death and chaos.”
That sounded... Bad. And familiar, which was worse. He slowly turned around, willing the universe to arrange itself in a way other than the one he expected. In a way, it did. In a terrible, terrible way.
He hadn't been the only one to notice the presence of others; the voices' sources had been turning to look at him even as he'd been hoping – if not praying – for them to be anyone else. When he came face to amorphous bug-plastered face with three times as many pairs as he'd ever hoped to see of those eyes, it was all he could do not to fly and run and teleport until his legs and wings and bugs failed him; only one thing held him transfixed, his faceted gaze focusing on the hip of one of the doppelgangers of the thing he hated most in this battle.
Forgotten was the mystery of why there were three of her. Forgotten were questions of how the bee worked, or whether he was still on the Plateau. Forgotten were even the basic reflex actions that had saved him only moments ago. All those concerns melted away as he recognized the hilt swaddled in cloth and bark. She had the weapon.
Before Cole could set his mind straight or even decide on what to do in the shortest of terms, the goddess on the ground scrambled up and glided towards him, whatever her conversation had been now ignored as a wicked grin slithered across her loose features.
"Ohhh," she breathed through an ophidian smirk. "Look who we have here! The scientist, he is. Too good for gods, no need for gods. Given everything he has by divine hands and mortal womb, guided by the mind made in the image of some benevolent or creative little overdeity, watched as he sleeps by countless genii."
Cole sneered and made as though to respond, but the haggard version of the creatrix raised a clenched fist and he felt his mandibles weld themselves shut with his own will. She circled him a few times before shoving him roughly in the back towards her sisters or duplicates or whatever they were.
"Look at his affrontery! Cursed directly by the hand of a god, he denies their power. Shown his worthlessness, he believes himself stronger than ever. Taste his thoughts, taste his memories. Everything about him is a portrait of why he deserves death, why they all do, painted in broad strokes of flesh and bone and hate and self-interest. He's a worm that dreams it is the Earth it swims in, spiting the mother that spawned it, devouring her even as she nurtures him."
She shoved him again, her bony claws like ice and apparently impervious to the shocks that he couldn't stop himself giving her. He stumbled and fell to his knees, finding he couldn't force himself to rise. She cackled.
"And look at him now. He will only prostrate himself if whipped, if forced. He is loyal only to the lump of fat that moves him and the lump of muscle that sustains him. So convinced of his deification that he denies it. Denies yours. Rejects the god that brought him into being, rejects you. Has done nothing since being shown proof of divinity but plotted to bring it down. Had the gall to require that proof! Rejects it still!"
She leveled a swift, stinging kick at the back of his head that left him kowtowing to the goddess with the sword on her hip and seeing nothing but soil and stars.
"They are all like this pathetic piece of meat. They worship themselves, in the end. They all will. Taste his memories." She pointed at the muttering image of herself. "Taste theirs, and remember."
The one with the sword – although it was harder and harder to focus on the sword in favor of the gaping chest wound that was slowly knitting itself together as the shock of finding it wore off – finally spoke. Her face was hardened and passionate, but her voice cracked almost imperceptibly as though she wasn't sure she believed herself. "A gift willingly given is still a gift even in the absence of gratitude."
"Then you think you can save him, save every mortal like him? You tell yourself you can mend what I've broken, but I never broke this one. Never broke your children. They break themselves. To spite you. They're built to last, to love, but they refuse even that."
"I don't need... Don't need to save him, or anyone like him. Even if he is not one of my children, he was given the gift of choice just as they were. I– I don't have to love the choices they make, only to love them."
"Then love him."
Cole was hauled up by the scruff of his neck and pushed forward again, this time finding his limbs responding.
"Love him, and love his hatred. Love him and the way he eyes that sword. Love him as he plans to murder you, to end the symbol of what gave him his very existence. Love his selfishness and hypocrisy and rapaciousness. Love him as you loved them, and love him as he turns on you as they did."
Ur jumped backwards, grinning in a way that had no relation to happiness whatsoever.
“Still some fight in you, then. Don’t worry. We’ll fix that soon.”
It wasn’t hard to put two and two together when staring at a clearly evil duplicate of yourself, and Amala did so in an instant; it took only an instant longer than that for the horror of the situation set in.
“No… You were supposed to be gone! I removed you. Got rid of you. You were never even real.”
“I’m realer than you could ever be. Look at yourself: a new name, new memories, another new flock. Stealing the face of some long-dead spirit to hide behind, pretend you’re not just a ghost of a ghost.”
The crone moved closer, slowly circling her armed doppelganger. “You can feel them leaving you even now, forgetting you, lying about you. Like they always have before. Like they always will. You’re a figment of your own imagination, and it won’t be long before you stop daydreaming. Even she’s realer than you are, and barely anything of her even exists.”
Amala narrowed her eyes, hesitantly raising the sword she’d vivisected herself with. “I should destroy you. I should finish what I started and purge you from existence.”
“You should. I’ve been so greedy, been so ungrateful. Give me life, give me death. Give me food, give me happiness. Mother Amala, Mother Amala, save me from myself. Let me turn my back on you. Let me forget you, let me curse your name.”
By now she was so close that Amala could feel hot, hateful breath on her face with each word she hissed. “But you can’t, and you never could. Everything you’ll ever do will turn out wrong. Look what you did to your children, look what you did to yourself. She’s just a husk and she’s filled with your failure, crying to itself in the dark. And you’re not even that.”
With a blur too fast to see and a crack like a bullwhip, Ur backhanded her; she crumpled to the ground, staring up at herself in horror and on the verge of tears. “You’re a fool. You’re a lie that told itself, but even you don’t believe it. You know what you are, what you’ve done. You know that as long as you exist, your children will know nothing but an eternity of narcissistic suffering. And you know what I am. Only I can save you. Only I can save them, give them what they deserve. Existence is a curse, yours doubly so. I can break it. And I will. Give me the sword and accept the death that’s so long eluded you.”
Amala’s eyes darted back and forth helplessly. She seemed nearly ready to hand the blade over when something in her snapped and she lashed out with a kick. As her tormentor fell, she righted herself and hovered threateningly over the old woman.
“No. You’re wrong. About everything. I can fix what’s been broken. You left scars across a hundred worlds, not me, but I can heal them.” She snapped, and a bark scabbard wove itself around Crow’s sword; she hung it on her belt before continuing. “And I choose to let you live, because I will not be an avatar of death and chaos.”
Ur snarled; she knew she couldn’t overpower Amala as long as the deluded idiots on the Plateau venerated her, remembered her every day as they tended to the tree she had given them. As long as her connection to their universe persisted, she’d always have the upper hand. It was impossible to know when and if that connection might fade, and it would be impossible to break it herself. She would have to make the deluded idiot destroy herself, or convince her to hand over the weapon.
But that shouldn't be too hard. Not if she remembered who she was.
---
The bee. Of course. For the second time in as many hours, it had saved him; this time, he didn't even have the excuse of not knowing what it could do to justify not thinking of it sooner. It was as bad as not remembering he could turn off his hearing to shut out the ridiculous prattle of those idiots with the machines. No, it was worse than that because it had nearly cost him his life this time.
Cole gave a little mental shrug and attempted to stop berating himself; it was just a manifestation of his frustration with the whole nonsensical, violent situation, and it wouldn't get him anywhere but stressed. As many insects as he'd collected with as many talents as they had, anyone was bound to let a few possibilities slip through the cracks from time to time. It'd take a computer or a god to recall them all at once, and if there were two things he'd never be, it was those. At least his body had had the sense to take advantage of what he could do, when he needed to do it; self-preservation was one of evolution's finest works.
It wasn't long before he realized he couldn't hide himself in his thoughts forever: for one thing, that was incredibly foolish and self-indulgent during a battle to the death, regardless of how asinine and infuriating everything was and how tempting it was to just ignore it all; for another, there were voices nearby, and it would be best to pay at least a little bit of attention, if only to figure out which way to run and how fast. A pair of antennae burst out of his forehead while a series of tympanal slits opened across his arms and torso; in the end, it was all a bit overkill: the voices were coming from almost directly behind him.
“And I choose to let you live, because I will not be an avatar of death and chaos.”
That sounded... Bad. And familiar, which was worse. He slowly turned around, willing the universe to arrange itself in a way other than the one he expected. In a way, it did. In a terrible, terrible way.
He hadn't been the only one to notice the presence of others; the voices' sources had been turning to look at him even as he'd been hoping – if not praying – for them to be anyone else. When he came face to amorphous bug-plastered face with three times as many pairs as he'd ever hoped to see of those eyes, it was all he could do not to fly and run and teleport until his legs and wings and bugs failed him; only one thing held him transfixed, his faceted gaze focusing on the hip of one of the doppelgangers of the thing he hated most in this battle.
Forgotten was the mystery of why there were three of her. Forgotten were questions of how the bee worked, or whether he was still on the Plateau. Forgotten were even the basic reflex actions that had saved him only moments ago. All those concerns melted away as he recognized the hilt swaddled in cloth and bark. She had the weapon.
Before Cole could set his mind straight or even decide on what to do in the shortest of terms, the goddess on the ground scrambled up and glided towards him, whatever her conversation had been now ignored as a wicked grin slithered across her loose features.
"Ohhh," she breathed through an ophidian smirk. "Look who we have here! The scientist, he is. Too good for gods, no need for gods. Given everything he has by divine hands and mortal womb, guided by the mind made in the image of some benevolent or creative little overdeity, watched as he sleeps by countless genii."
Cole sneered and made as though to respond, but the haggard version of the creatrix raised a clenched fist and he felt his mandibles weld themselves shut with his own will. She circled him a few times before shoving him roughly in the back towards her sisters or duplicates or whatever they were.
"Look at his affrontery! Cursed directly by the hand of a god, he denies their power. Shown his worthlessness, he believes himself stronger than ever. Taste his thoughts, taste his memories. Everything about him is a portrait of why he deserves death, why they all do, painted in broad strokes of flesh and bone and hate and self-interest. He's a worm that dreams it is the Earth it swims in, spiting the mother that spawned it, devouring her even as she nurtures him."
She shoved him again, her bony claws like ice and apparently impervious to the shocks that he couldn't stop himself giving her. He stumbled and fell to his knees, finding he couldn't force himself to rise. She cackled.
"And look at him now. He will only prostrate himself if whipped, if forced. He is loyal only to the lump of fat that moves him and the lump of muscle that sustains him. So convinced of his deification that he denies it. Denies yours. Rejects the god that brought him into being, rejects you. Has done nothing since being shown proof of divinity but plotted to bring it down. Had the gall to require that proof! Rejects it still!"
She leveled a swift, stinging kick at the back of his head that left him kowtowing to the goddess with the sword on her hip and seeing nothing but soil and stars.
"They are all like this pathetic piece of meat. They worship themselves, in the end. They all will. Taste his memories." She pointed at the muttering image of herself. "Taste theirs, and remember."
The one with the sword – although it was harder and harder to focus on the sword in favor of the gaping chest wound that was slowly knitting itself together as the shock of finding it wore off – finally spoke. Her face was hardened and passionate, but her voice cracked almost imperceptibly as though she wasn't sure she believed herself. "A gift willingly given is still a gift even in the absence of gratitude."
"Then you think you can save him, save every mortal like him? You tell yourself you can mend what I've broken, but I never broke this one. Never broke your children. They break themselves. To spite you. They're built to last, to love, but they refuse even that."
"I don't need... Don't need to save him, or anyone like him. Even if he is not one of my children, he was given the gift of choice just as they were. I– I don't have to love the choices they make, only to love them."
"Then love him."
Cole was hauled up by the scruff of his neck and pushed forward again, this time finding his limbs responding.
"Love him, and love his hatred. Love him and the way he eyes that sword. Love him as he plans to murder you, to end the symbol of what gave him his very existence. Love his selfishness and hypocrisy and rapaciousness. Love him as you loved them, and love him as he turns on you as they did."