Chaos, muse, is the song I wish to hear, the roiling dark
which birthed the Earth, which birthed the Sky, and the Titans
who brought forth Gods, who brought forth Man, who,
in arrogance, called the land his own. Conquering like ants
unaware the clouds mean rain, who glory their tunnels' depth as
the plow churns the field, is it any wonder they hold blood
so cheap? We men, they say, are built for war. Built, yes!
Yet even a sturdy ship knows its fate is guided by the wind. Should
we pity boastful humanity, fools who dream that death brings glory,
like sailors who swear a rudder and knowledge of the stars
will guide them until the mocking thunder interrupts
their fun? No, for as the sea drags each body to its fate they
shall have pity enough for themselves. Lament instead the weak.
Pity the wife who calls out for her lord's return, circled
by vulturous, gold-loving men, and pity the child who will
never again be lifted in her father's arms. The vanity of men is worth
no more than a girl who, every morn, waits alone on the cliffs,
until she has lived through enough winters to know –
those sails will never cross the horizon again.
In this way Sophia, bitter, learned the truths of life, and swore
her promise to the Fates, that when they took her it would
be after she made the world shake, and gave as price her
eye. From then on, after she plucked it with her own hand,
she saw with two sights. One looked upon the works of men,
and mocked all the games therein, while the empty orb gazed
into the realm deeper than Tartarus of which our muse now sings,
and though not a place for mortals wishing to rest easy after death
she never asked for less, or let its secrets leave her lips. Mercy,
she knew, was not for her, and she wore her face as if a mask
which only fell on lonesome nights, when the doubled darkness
felt too much to bear. Sending away her handmaidens, she wept
alone, scratching at the empty socket with vain hope that she could
rip away the darkness. At these times it seemed to mock her.
As if to prove she had no power, the Chaos showed her things to come,
images of coming failure, triumph snatched away, the coming end,
unavoidable. On these nights the blade seemed tempting. How
easy it would be rip the steel across her throat, and never have
to suffer it again, to take fate in her arms and prove it wrong.
In the end she had not the hand to take her life, so she wept
until morning, when time came again to hide her true face,
for tears do not suit one who shares blood with heroes.
Only one took pity on the child, that being wise Athena,
who from her perch had seen all that wracked the girl. Pallas,
moved by the sight of one to whom knowledge brought
only death, called upon another. In the mountains, far-off,
lived a man called Epiphanes who had once called Pylos home,
and there was known as learned. Kings and merchants had come
across the lands to hear him speak, for there were no subjects he
did not fancy, from rhetoric to war, and all who took his words to
heart were destined to rise. Yet he knew few understood the truth
he tried to impart on those he taught. For them only matters of
glory and riches were worthy of concern. When he spoke of Truth
or forms, the words passed by their ears like a breeze that brushes
against a sleeping soldier. Tired of wasted words, he retreated into
the wilds, and there lived until one day a vision of the Goddess
appeared within his fire.
“Lonely Epiphanes,” she said to him, radiating light so great
he had to turn his eyes away. “The time has come again to take
up the mantle of a man. Perhaps you think it wise to let your
body rot, and your mind empty of all it contained. The time for
this is no more, I have a task of you, and tempt not my fury
by denying this request.” Ever faithful, he could not deny a mission
given by the goddess, and made his way back to that great city
where he could seek a ship. A trader from the darkest east proved
willing to carry this man on his route, eager to question the one
whose knowledge was a legend. Every day he demanded answers
from the scholar. He was just as foolish as any of the others,
Epiphanes knew, not worth the sharing of secrets. Platitudes were
all he was willing to give the merchant, yet the dim-minded man
was more than happy with these. He found more comfort with
the crew, hardy men, who knew their place on earth and had no
desires to exceed it. With them he drank and laughed, until one
night beneath the silver moon, he decided they deserved a tale.
“As a youth,” he began, as the shipped rocked upon the waves,
“I did not understand the ways of my elders. I thought them all
foolish, followers of customs that no man could derive by reason.
Whenever they attempted to give me wisdom, I turned in the opposite
direction, desiring to know for myself where the truth lay. So I
grew to be a nuisance to my family, who could not abide what
they saw as pointless boyhood games. There had been a prophet
at the time of my birth, who said my destiny was to be sung about
as the heroes of old. Because of this my father thought I would, like him,
relish the art of war. Soon he found I could barely swing a sword, I
was a coward at heart, even the thought of a fight made me tremble.
He decided he would, with force, both beat the questions from
my lips and teach me the arts all men must know. To this end he
took me to the woods and left me there, before my first hairs had
graced my chin. ‘If you return,' he said, ‘I will no longer be ashamed to
take you as my son.' When he left I began to weep. I begged
the gods to show me the path that would guide me to safety.
No answer came. I prayed until the woods had grown dark,
and I could hear the howling of wolves. At this time I could barely build
a fire. When I managed to bring forth sparks, it was barely enough
to illuminate the tears still wetting my face. My father had left me
a sword, and for the first time I held it willingly. All through the
night I clutched it, sleepless. I admit it, I was a cowardly boy. In
many ways I am a cowardly man. Yet there must have been some spark
of life in me, a few drops of my father's blood, for when the morning
came I took the blade and made my way north, where from I knew
my father had brought me. I will not bore you with empty words
about the things I met and killed there. Just know that my sword
for the first time tasted blood, and I received the scars you still
see today marring my bare chest. When I pulled my blade from
the body of the beast which bloodied me, whose true name I still know
not, I realized I no longer knew the direction I must take. I had lost
the path. I would be dead had I not heard, some ways in the distance,
the beating of a drum.
Carefully I moved through the brush until I saw, between the trees,
figures swaying, bathed in shadows cast by a great red flame. Some
were human. Some were not. I saw among them a man with the legs
of a goat, and horns upon his head. With him danced a woman whose
hair was made of thorns, and when she pressed her body to his she
drew blood. He laughed and smeared that crimson liquid across his
chest, then held up his hand, so that she could lick the droplets from
his palm. Such sights I saw, multiplied a hundred-fold around the fire.
What madness could have set them on this path, where all sense
and human love of good meant nil? It was as obvious to me as the sun's
rise is to the youngest child: the beating of the fearsome drum. Its rhythm
pounded in my ears, so forceful that even my heart began to beat
with its time. As I watched the flame, and the laughing dancers around,
I felt urges boiling in me which would have brought a sane man shame.
Yet I was not sane , I must admit, I longed to join the dance. Before
I could, the rhythm grew in speed. The dancers, one by one, collapsed
to the ground, holding one another, to commit acts more foul than even
the previous displays. As I looked on I came to sense another being's
gaze. It was coming from the fire, a shadow there, a patch of black
within the heat. Slowly it emerged. The creature had the form of a man
but twice as high, and strongly built. It wore no clothes, but on its head
was a mask made from the face of a jackal. Its left hand held a silver
cup, from which an endless liquid bubbled up and dripped upon the earth.
Flowers bloomed from where it touched. When it sloshed across the
rutting bodies they screamed with ecstasy. Dionysus stared across the
clearing to where I hid. His eyes, beneath the mask, were empty white.
I could bear it no more. I cast aside my blade, ripped the clothing from
my back, and with all thoughts banished from my head I dove into the
celebration.
How I drank from the pleasures of life then, as much as my stomach
would allow. You are not soft men, I know, you are ones well versed
in the side of the world the priests try to push aside. Even then to share
the wickedness I indulged would bring such shame as to force me
to run to the side of this ship and throw myself into the waves. Woe to
me that wine, which helps other men forget, only makes the memories
of the night form clearer in my head. There is only one part I feel
I must tell, for without it this story's purpose will remain obscured.
I had just separated myself from a writhing body when I heard cries
of delight rising above the drums. Below them were screams, but not
of pleasure. They were screams like a dying animal. I saw, near the fire,
a man tied to a stake, blood running down his face, his body wounded with
cuts that could only come from a great fight. I could not see his face, swathed
in shadow as it was. Curious, I approached. The other revelers danced
and screamed around in him, and as I drew close I realize he was hurling
venomous words at them, defiant to the last. The voice struck a familiar
note within my hand. The god stood next to him, and with one hand, greater
than a man's skull, he grasped the victim's head and raised his face for all to
see. When I saw the man's hate-filled eyes, I gave a cry of fear. For the face
was that of my father.
‘He came to us as a gift,' cried Dionysus, his sonorous voice rising above
the din. ‘He refused the ones we offered him. He wanted no part in
the freedom we had to offer. Therefore we must grant him a death fit
for one such as he.' At this the crowd rushed forward and with fearsome
blows, began to rip away at my father's flesh. His defiant words turned to
unending screams as they tore the meat from his bones, and, blood still
wet, devoured it raw, and I, pitiful creature that I am, still felt some of
the festival's thrill within me. The god looked at me, and I felt the pull
to join their vile feast. Thank whichever gods looked over me that I was
able to retain my humanity and fight away the urge! Yet I was not strong
enough to take the braver route. Instead of stepping forward to rescue the
man who birthed me and risk becoming the next victim of their wrath,
I turned to flee. Coward that I am! Yes, at night, when the world is quiet
I still hear the screams of my father as they faded into the distance, and I
Imagine that in his last moments, his most hateful curses were for me. Yet
that night I could feel nothing but fear that the Eleutherios would next come
for me, who had in a single night betrayed both my blood and my gods. I do not
know how far or long I ran, only that when I stopped my body was too tired
for another step, and the day had come. As I ran I had left the woods,
but I did not know where it was I now stood. There was a field around me, and
hills, but I did not recognize the land. Weeping, I collapsed. As I lay there I
contemplated taking my life, but I had lost my blade in the fugue. Therefore,
I knew, I had to find a cliff from which I could leap to the fate that I deserved.
When I had the strength again to walk, I started forward with this single purpose
In mind. Yet no matter far I went, I could not find the end of the island which I
called home. Instead I found a road which I did not recognize, even though I thought
that this entire place was known to me. I followed it until the sun was nearly
sunk beneath the horizon. It was only when I saw something that defied belief
that I stopped – a massive building carved of stone, perhaps taller than any palace,
and spread so far across the land that I could not see the end. An arched entrance
stood in front of me. Between it was a woman dressed in pure white robes. She
smiled as I approached. ‘Welcome, student,' she said in a voice that was
the sweetest I had ever heard, like a flower freshly bloomed. ‘Your travels, long
as they were, have now ended. I know not from where you came, or why you
walked the road to us, but I know that all who reach these gates are destined for
a reason, for knowledge is what they seek. I cannot know what cause there is
for the pain your face betrays. Here we are not healers. We offer only
wisdom. Perhaps with that you can find some way to soothe your suffering.
If this you wish to earn, step forward. We will gladly accept whoever has
been chosen by the path to Alexylva.'
The woman's words confounded me. This name was one knew to me,
yet it felt a comfort in my ear. My mind was still filled with thoughts of
cowardice and death. My desire to fall into the sea had not one bit
remitted. Yet as I gazed upon the stone I could not resist the curiosity
that filled me. Determined as I was to die, I found a stronger force
within – the need to understand. So, without a word, I stepped
forward, and let the woman guide me into that great place, which
would be my home for ten long years. What wonders to describe!
To describe all would take too long. The walls, I saw, were not lit
with torches or lamps. Instead round, shining objects hung from
the roof, so bright only sunlight could compare. Paintings hung
upon the wall unlike any I had seen. The colors were so vivid, and
the figures seemed to be real men trapped inside, such was the
detail that made up their faces. She took me down many long
corridors, each made with stranger things than this, until we came
to a door. ‘You will sleep in here,' she said. ‘We will fetch you
tomorrow with your schedule.' With that she left. When I stepped
inside the room, I saw it contained things stranger than the halls.
The bed was made from some material I had never seen, the
softest on which I have ever slept, and on a desk there sat
a contraption made of metal and glass. It appeared to me as if
the front were painted, like a vase, but as I watched the images
adorning it moved and changed. Later I would learn that this
was known as a computer.
There is more to tell my friends, of mysteries so great that
one could not comprehend them until witnessing with eyes.
Now, though, the night draws late, and I know you must have rest
if you wish to guide the ship without running afoul of Poseidon's
rage. Tomorrow, if you wish, I can continue. Let us disperse
until that time.”
Thus he went to the bowels of the ship, and slept until morning
arrived, and the next night plus many more continued his tale
until the crew reached the awaited land. He bid the shipmen safe
travels, and left them to argue amongst themselves with themselves
over whether the man was insane or worth their trust. As the sails
caught wind to continue their path, Epiphanes made his way
to the palace where he would find a student. He entered the halls
and found Lysistrate, mother of Sophia, sprawled across a chair.
Despite the early hour she clutched a glass of strong wine, and when
the seer entered her home she did not pay him any notice until
he knelt before her seat. “Lady of this house,” he said, “I have come
to seek the one known as Sophia. Is this the name you hold?”
Lysistrate drunk deep from wine before she spoke. “Sophia is the
one I grew in my belly, and nursed at my breast. I am not one
to deny strangers hospitality, but understand that I cannot allow
one I do not know so easy access to the one I treasure most.
Speak your business quick, and should I find it true, I will not
have your head hung above my throne.” Always shrewd, Epiphanes
realized that not all the goddess had revealed should be known by this
woman. With carefully chosen words, he told her of the mission the
goddess had elected him for, but did not let her daughter's secrets
slip. “The Goddess knows that within your child is a great mind,” said
he, “Surely you have seen it for yourself. What I have to teach her cannot
be found with any other learned man. I will not take her from you –
I ask to live here. All I require is food and water and a roof under which
to sleep.” Amused, Lysistrate accepted the man's words. She called forth
a handmaiden, and sent her to retrieve the daughter. Sophia arrived with
a smile as false as ever, and asked her mother what was required. After it
was told, she looked at the man before her. A hate without cause or
purpose flowed through her as she inspected the withered, tired man. He
had no right to teach her, and no aid was needed. It was only duty to
Lysistrate that made her bend her head in friendly greeting. Epiphanes,
no fool even if he had not had Athena's word, recognized the malice contained
within. “Our lessons will begin at the next rising sun,” he said. With that
he left, stopping next to the girl to whisper in words meant for her
alone. “There is no shame in fear. What you have seen, though strong,
is not the truth you think it is. In due time you will learn how to truly find
what it is you seek.” He said no more. Sophia watched him go, and felt
her hate becoming something similar to fear.
Rosy-fingered Dawn arrived to greet the new student as she climbed
the hill to meet her waiting master. He sat beneath a tree, and beckoned
her to claim a seat. She remained on her feet, arms crossed. “You come
from a strange land on a mission from the wisest god,” she said. “You claim
to know the visions that my one-eyed sight reveals. If this be trick, your life
will not much longer last. If it is truth, I hope you are not seeking great
riches in return. Since my father's death our house is poor, and we have nothing
for a viper who only thinks of wealth.” Epiphanes did not respond. With a
stick he was scratching shapes into the dry dirt. They were nothing she
had seen before, not art but disconnected lines. “First,” he said, “you will
learn to read and write. It is not yet something known to this land, but
it is essential for any of our tasks. If your mind is sharp as the goddess says,
it should not take you longer than the next moon to put all you wish to
word. If you fail by then, I will know you are not worth the time, and take
my leave.” Barely had she time to speak before he began naming every shape.
When he was finished he told her to recite them. It would be easy work, she
thought, to get his questions wrong and drive him from the land, so that
she would no longer feel the way his gaze made her tremble. He would take
the letters with him if he went. That seemed even more terrible than having
to endure his awful stare. She named each glyph with no mistakes. “Now,” he
said, “I will show you how to form words.” He made more marks, and told
her how they read. “'Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus,
that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it
send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs
and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on
which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out
with one another.' You do not know these words, but you will soon. Wisdom
is not just reason and rhetoric. It is poetry, and knowledge of the earth. All
these things I will teach you. First there is a truth I must know. Why did you
remove your eye?” She still could not bear to meet his face as she gave him
her reply. “I had heard that the oracles lack sight, but I was too weak to remove
the second.” When he asked her why she felt the need to see the strings of fate
she replied, “I don't see why that is for you to know. Teach me what you
have to teach. I may tell more if you earn my trust.” So they no longer spoke
of her past or motives. It took her no more than ten cycles of the sun to learn how
to read letters with ease, and how to form writings of her own. Within
four moons she had memorized the songs of Achilles and Odysseus, which
Epiphanes said were the great works of their civilization. “It is because this
Hellena is backwards, he said, “that you have not developed them yet. To name
yourself Greeks without Homer is as shameful as a warrior without a sword.
Perhaps you will be able to bring it to the people where I have failed. I sometimes
weep when I think that there are children raised without those great words.” When
she questioned him more he reminded her that she had secrets she too was
not ready to reveal, and that he would hold his close until the time was right.
The island that had been claimed by Sophia's father was small compared to those
owned by clever Odysseus or lord of men Agammemnon, yet learned Epiphanes
needed little to teach Sophia of the entire world. After letters she studied
mathematics, thoughts that would not be put down by Euclid until long after her
bones had turned to dust, and after that she gave her time to studying the forms
of life, followed by rhetoric, tactics, chemistry and music. He taught her the ideas
of Socrates and Heraclitus and Aristotle, easy to accept, for she had understood
ever since she removed her eye that the appearance of the world was not the truth
of it. History was her great love. He taught her not just of the past but of what may
be to come, if the world willed it, though he would not say how he had come
to learn these things. She understood, at last, the desire for which she had longed.
Without understanding such a thing was possible she had wanted to be remembered,
not a useless wife or sailor who would with time become a whisper, but a woman
of whom Herodotus would speak once his time arrived. To be forgotten was to
die, she thought. Yes, that it is the thing for which she had paid her eye. She told
Epiphanes this one night as he was describing the Ethiopians. He stopped his story
and starred at her. She looked back, no longer fearful of his gaze. “Child,” he said,
“you possess perhaps a keener mind than me. Sadly that means nothing when you
have not felt the arrows of life pierce your heart. I understand already you have
been tested in some ways. This does not give you wisdom. Remember, all is vanity
and vexation of spirit. Even if you appear in histories of the great they will one
day be forgotten. They are not immune to becoming dust. If this is what you traded
for, your payment has been meager.”
Enraged, she stood. “You say that this is dust, yet teach me all the same. Would
you claim that our time has been a waste? Why bother teaching me about a
world that is vanity of spirit? Because the goddess said, and you obeyed?
You have not even achieved what you claimed you could. At night my visions
are as hideous as ever. Should I have had you thrown from the cliffs as soon
as you arrived?” He looked into the fire and waited long before he spoke. “Perhaps,”
he said, “I would not have been so angry if you had done that. Yet you did not, so I did
my duty given by Pallas. I promise, I have never lost sight of giving the aid you
seek. Yet there are things I cannot explain with mere words. To understand the
movements of Chaos in your sight there are many first steps to take. Until they
are prepared, any help I gave would fall to the earth like a flower that failed to
bloom.” At this she stormed away. He waited for the rest of the night, and the next
morning she did not appear. It took three days for her to make a decision about
how she would find what she sought. She met him restringing a lyre, and said
to him, “Tell me the secrets of the Academy.” For the first time ever, his
eyes were filled with shock. “If you do not,” she said, “I will leave this place, and
search alone for cures to my madness.” He finished tying strings to the bends
of the instrument as she talked, and strummed a single chord. “How did that
word come to pass your lips?” he said. It was from a sailor, she explained, who
had arrived with a trading ship. He had helped take Epiphanes to this island,
and asked after his health. “Does he still rave about the Academy of Alexylva?”
he had asked. She would have asked her teacher that night what the words
of the shipman meant, yet a vision made her hesitate. It was if the Chaos had
given a threat. If you ask, the roiling darkness told her, you will witness
things in me that you will never unsee after. She kept the word to herself
until now, when she no longer held fear for what the darkness could inflict.
Epiphanes nodded. “I see. You have given me no choice at all. For, when I
answer your question, you may depart this place all the same. I can only
help give preparation, and perhaps wise words you will eventually heed.
I will tell all, but first know this. You cannot find the Academy, though you
will undoubtedly make the attempt. It appears only before those it
selects for itself. I had hope to prepare you to the point where it would
bring you to its gates. Yet you have not the patience. Very well. Here
is the knowledge you seek.
You are well familiar with Chaos, from which your eye will never let you look
away. It is from its primordial, ever-changing depths that all things were made,
except for one. Even a child understands that a house is never built without
a plan, and there must be something to create it. Think! Could Chaos do
this thing? Could Chaos alone give shape to the world? Naturally not.
Alone it would merely twist and turn ceaselessly, and nothing would exist.
What took the Chaos, what gave form to the matter, was its twin, which
moved with purpose, a plan, and created structure from that which had
none. What to call this thing? Perhaps Order is the word. But all who have
encountered it have known it through a single form, the Academy of
Alexylva. Like its churning brother, it exists beyond this world, above all
worlds. They connect to it like spokes encircle the center of a wheel. Worlds,
indeed I said! You think this is the only one? There are ten thousand seas
and ten thousand wars of Troy, and ten thousand mountains that house
ten thousand of every god. All of it was shaped by the Academy. Greece,
this great land, is what Alexylva has created. It is a haven from the
nothingness that surrounds us. Tell me, do you know what would happen
if you sailed to far to the east, or the west, or the south? What you would
encounter? Why I have not yet taught you of those places? They simply
do not exist. Travel across the ocean for enough nights and it will
disappear, and you with it, back to become Chaos. It is constantly
trying to push deeper in, to take us all back within it, and the Academy
does all it can to give us life. That is the place I wanted you to reach,
where you would be safe from the darkness that attempts to invade
you.” He stopped when he saw the girl was growing pale. Her eye
rolled back deep into her head, and he barely managed to catch her
as she fell. Her body quaked, like the last spasms of a dying man. As
he held her in his arms, he saw a shadow was beginning to move
across her face, crawling out of her empty socket. It was as if
thousands of insects grew beneath her skin and burst out to
scatter across the earth. Tiny beads of black that covered all,
unceasing. Epiphanes struggled to keep his student in his arms, but
the darkness was too mighty of a force. It ripped her away, and tossed him
through the air, and he felt his old body crack as it met the Earth. His legs lay
limp before him. Helpless as a child, he watched chaos churn across
the earth, with Sophia at its center, dissolving all it touched back into the
nothingness of its past. It moved without purpose or reason. It merely
knew that it was free, that with this freedom it would spread without
limit.
Higher on the hill a handmaiden knelt beside a stream, collecting water in
a jug. Lost in reveries, she did not notice the water she gathered turning black
until the jar she held burst and the foul new liquid splattered across her
skin. In that instant she suddenly knew what it was like to not exist. For less
than a second she glimpsed inside herself absolute emptiness, saw that she
had come from nothing, was nothing still, only covered by a thin lie. How long
that moment must have lasted! How deep the abyss must have seemed! She
had time to speak only a single word, “liars!”, before the chaos enveloped
her completely. It followed the river, and spread through the grass, and climbed
the trees, and devoured every creature from insect to lamb. Husbands tried
to save their children but only perished with them. A pair of lovers, deep
in an embrace, did not even notice the wave until it overtook them. Lysistrate,
at the front of her palace, watched the shadows rush towards her and smiled.
In the center of all this lay Sophia, and her empty socket which had become
a gate. All of this she saw through the shadows, as if her own body had joined
with the chaos beneath. It was hers no longer. Nothingness cannot belong
to any man or woman. Amid the chaos, she did not exist. She never
existed. She never would exist. In pure absence existed no trace of mind,
or body, or earth, or time. All was not.
Then, again, she was real, and standing above her in the dark was the
most-wise goddess, and Sophia found herself filled with strength. She
rose to stand. The rough beauty of Athena weakened her legs, but
Sophia refused to fall. The pair stood in a place that should have made
the mortal collapse in the bitter cold, surrounded by snow and ice, a
mountain peak further than any man could travel. The warmth of Athena
protected her from this. The goddess clutched a spear that appeared more
like a beam of light, and around them snow fell not. Before Pallas
Sophia felt a wretchedness new to her. Not sorrow, not hate, but a simple,
clear knowledge of her mistakes. It was this that made her fall to her knees
before the goddess. “The blame is mine,” she said. “I have cursed all
unlucky enough to know me. I have let myself be used for ends of destruction.
If you wish to kill me, goddess, I deserve not even that. Better that I live
with knowledge of my shame, than be given the easy escape of death.” Athena's
voice seemed to come from all around the air, and Sophia's bones shook
with it. “If I killed you, regretful Sophia, you could not serve your
purpose. You seem to think you are a person, free to make choices and feel
shame. You are no more of a person than the spear I clutch. If you
feel regret, obey me and perhaps win back some honor. If you reject
this bargain, you will obey me still, but only as a slave. Whether this way
or the other, you will learn your place in the world.” She turned, and
the rock next to her opened into blinding light. “Step through here if you
wish to become mine. Down this path is the Academy. There you will study
what Epiphanes could not teach, and you will learn the true ways of Greece
against the void.”
In this way the broken child entered Alexylva, as the fates knew she
would at her birth, as the world had been prepared for since Nothing
was first formed into Man.


Thumbnail for crom

.

by AnActualCrow

Recommended reading music

Judge
Mister Duchamp, are you aware that you have been accused of assaulting and battering fellow anartist Julia Emmerson?
Duchamp
Yes… yes, your honor. Sorry, not used to this court business.
Judge
Mister Duchamp, do you have a lawyer?
Duchamp
I'll represent myself, my man— I mean, your honor. You know what they say: if you don't do it yourself, it ain't done right. My ex girlfriend used to say that to herself when we were together. Get outta bed, light up a smoke, disappear to the bathroom with her—
Judge
Please don't continue.
Stone
Your honor, you can't possibly believe that this client is worth your time. He's clearly drunk.
OBJECTION!
Duchamp
A couple Whiteclaws ain't shit, your honor. There's no way I can be drunk. It's preposterous. Absolutely absurd.
Judge
Let the record show that—
Duchamp
I'm not done yet! It's factually foolish. Ridiculously ridiculous. You'd have to be a smooth-brained baboon to assume to say that me, the Ruiz Duchamp, is drunk.
Stone
Your honor, I'd like to conduct a breathalyzer test on the defendant.
Judge
That's… understandable, to say the least. An officer should be over here in around 15 minutes.
Duchamp
That's all the time I need to win this damn case.
Judge
Let the record show that you're currently far from winning "this damn case".
Stone
Anyways, my client alleges that on June 3rd, 2021, he was approached by defendant Ruiz Duchamp. Duchamp offered to sell her, in his words: "Tarkan stones. These are rocks from the last island in existence we're talking about."
When my client asked how this supposed island could be the last one in existence when the earth and multiple islands within it are obviously still present, Duchamp became belligerent. He began insisting that my client was questioning his methods and retrieved one of his alleged Tarkan stones from his jacket, which I would like to present to the court.

Anthony Stone pulls out a sealed bag with a rock inside of it, placing it on the table.

Stone
Your honor, this is just a normal rock.

Ruiz Duchamp slams his hands on the table.

Duchamp
He's stalling for time your honor. All this business about rocks is clearly deflecting from the fact that I did not break Clara's nose by shoving a Tarkan crystal in her face!
Stone
Which brings us to our next piece of evidence. Your honor, the weapon used to assault my client.

Anthony Stone pulls out a sealed bag with a quartz crystal inside of it, placing it on the table.

Stone
While you may not be able to see it from here, your honor, this piece of quartz has a price sticker on it. Clearly, this was purchased by Duchamp prior to his assault.
It isn't from Tarkan, it isn't from some magical island at the end of the universe, it's just a hunk of quartz. Mister Duchamp is clearly deranged. Is it so hard to believe that a man in this mental state would attack an innocent woman such as my client?
HOLD IT!
Duchamp
So you're saying that my "hunk of quartz", which I would like to remind you is also a rare Tarkan crystal, has a price sticker on it?
Stone
I wouldn't have to say it, since it's visibly present on the… crystal. But yes.
Duchamp
And you're assuming, therefore, that I must have purchased it from a store prior to assaulting— ALLEGEDLY ASSAULTING— Ms. Emmerson?
Stone
Yes.
Duchamp
And because there is a discrepancy in your belief that I purchased the Tarkan crystal from a store and my testimony that it is from The Last Island, you are claiming that I'm deranged?
Stone
Are you going to continue summarizing my arguments or are you planning on having an original thought?
Duchamp
And you assume this discrepancy DESPITE the fact that, as a vendor of Tarkan minerals, I may have added the price sticker myself.
You also assume this discrepancy DESPITE the fact that I may have purchased the crystal from a store on The Last Isle.
In either case, I would not be deranged and your argument would fall to pieces like a sand castle at high tide.
Judge
Mister Duchamp.
Duchamp
Ye?
Judge
Did you add the price sticker to the qua—

Duchamp glares at the judge. In Duchamp's eyes, the judge sees the wrath, the indignation, the scorched earth that would serve as his hometown's grave. There are no Four Horsemen, only an ungodly mass.

Hooves and skulls, manes and armor. A Nightmare.

Judge
T-to the c-crystal? Sir.

Duchamp looks down and rubs his chin.

Duchamp
Don't remember.

Duchamp retrieves a Whiteclaw from his jacket.

Judge
Sir, you're not allowed to drink in the courtroom.
Duchamp
It's mostly water, but if you insist…

Duchamp places the opened can into his jacket.

Duchamp
Now, in regards to my defense, I would like to call a witness to the stand.
Judge
Please proceed.

Duchamp walks to the witness stand and crouches behind it. A sock puppet is raised above the stand.

Sock Puppet
Hi, I'm Socko! I'm here to testify!
Judge
Let the record show that… Socko here sounds like Duchamp with a high-pitched voice and a sad excuse for a southern accent.
Stone
Your honor, if you put up with this any longer this place will be closer to a circus than a courtroom.
Judge
Agreed. Mister Duchamp, remove yourself from the witness stand at once.
Socko
…now, I've known Ruiz for a long time, and I can tell you that he's a fine, upstanding man. When there was a spider in his jacket, I saw him put it in a cup and release it instead of squashing it…
Judge
Security, can you ple—
Duchamp
No, no, it's fine.

Duchamp finishes drinking his can of Whiteclaw, crushes the can underneath his foot, and returns to the defendant's table unassisted.

Socko
…and he told me that when he was a boy scout he would always wait with someone if they had to tie their shoes. And that man grew up to be an Eagle Scout!…
Stone
I— er… Your Honor, I was planning on calling my own witness up to the stand.
Judge
Yeah… if we could just… security, can you remove Socko from the stand?

Security places Socko inside of a shoe box and removes her from the witness stand. Muffled testimony can be heard in the background for the remainder of the trial.

Judge
You may call your witness to the stand, Mister Stone.
Stone
Thank you. I would like to present Miss Alacia Thorton, who saw Mister Duchamp assault my client through anomalous means. Tell them what you saw, Alacia.
Thorton
Okay— so one day I was going through this anart exhibition, and I saw a piece called "POV: Me" which, might I add, is a pretty awful title.
Duchamp
"Twilight Embrace" isn't much better, Alacia.
Thorton
Why don't you start focusing on paying rent instead of going after the people who can.
Judge
Ms. Thorton, do you know Mister Duchamp?
Thorton
Sure, I know him. Bargain bin anartist with garbage bin anart.
Duchamp
You literally draw furry porn.
Thorton
I make enough money to support myself as a freelancer. Because I'm not some stuck-up, deadbeat—
Judge
Miss Thorton, can you please finish your testimony.
Thorton
Sorry, your Honor. Anyways, "POV: Me" is a VR headset that shows you the world through Ruiz's eyes. I decided to put on the headset, and that was when I saw Ruiz hit that poor woman over the head with a geode. I saw it through his eyes!
Duchamp
Maybe you just need to spend some of your art money on a pair of glasses.
Thorton
I wear contacts, dumbass.
Duchamp
Well, you clearly need better contacts. Talking about me swinging a geo—

Thorton Laughs.

Thorton
You throw insults like you're in fifth grade. What's next? Are you going to say that you—
Judge
Order! Mister Duchamp, stop arguing with the witness and begin your cross examination.
Duchamp
Sorry your Honor, it's just everything she's said has been complete bullshit. As usual.
Judge
Mister Duchamp!
Duchamp
What?! You told me to cross examine! I'm cross examining!
Judge
…
Duchamp
Anyways, you said that I hit Miss Emmerson with a geode.
Stone
God, not this again…
Duchamp
Despite the fact that I h— ALLEGEDLY hit her with a crystal.
Thorton
A geode is a type of crystal.
Duchamp
What? No, a geode is a rock with crystals in it.
Judge
Duchamp's right. Geodes and crystals are completely different things.
Thorton
Well— I— You know what I meant! I saw him do it!
Duchamp
Uh huh. And you said that I hit Miss Emmerson over the head with the crystal? I'm assuming you meant I used a sort of swinging motion?
Thorton
I… Well I don't know! Why don't you tell me how you did it?!…
Duchamp
Your Hon—
Thorton
You little shit!

Duchamp glares at Thorton before turning to face the judge.

Duchamp
Your Honor, the prosecution claims that I broke Miss Emmerson's nose by jabbing a crystal into her face, while the prosecution's witness claims that I hit Miss Emmerson over the head with a geode.
Something isn't adding up. I'd go so far as to say that my dearly despised Alacia Thorton didn't witness anything. She just made it up for the purpose of getting me prosecuted!
Judge
You forgot to say "end cross-examination."
Duchamp
What?
Judge
When you finish cross examining someone, you're supposed to say "end cross-examination." You forgot to say it.
Duchamp
Oh. So I just… end cross-examination.

The Judge nods.

Judge
You may proceed.
Duchamp
So, um… yeah, what I said earlier. She lied about the whole thing. Isn't a witness. I'm guessing you can, like, throw her out or something?
Thorton
No— I'd— I saw—
…
You want some honesty? Some honest fucking testimony? I wouldn't have been in this mess if you—

Thorton points at Stone.

Thorton
Had given me the right fucking details! And I wouldn't even have to be here if you—

Thorton points at the judge.

Thorton
and your justice system weren't filled with money-milking, punitive bullshit! And none of us would have gotten roped into this shit if you—

Thorton points at Duchamp.

Thorton
Weren't so fucking weird all the time about your magic crystals! Nobody cares about them. So there. There's your witness testimony.

Thorton returns to the prosecution table.

Judge
…
Stone
…
Duchamp
Hey. How much did Emmerson pay you?
Thorton
More than you make in a year, jackass.
Duchamp
So it wasn't just the art then.
Thorton
Where are you going with this?
Duchamp
It's just… I can understand why you mixed up where I'd hit her. It wouldn't be the first time your anatomy was off.
Thorton
You little fuck.

Thorton grabs the bag with the quartz crystal and climbs over the prosecution table. Duchamp is chased out of the courtroom while giggling to himself.

Silence, with the exception of Socko's muffled speech, fills the courtroom.

Stone
So, what now?
Judge
… Court adjourned.

You Might Also Like...

Feel free to add this collapsible to your own articles!

Anything on the Cool War 2 Hub
SCP-231-J — 0.453592 Kilograms of Flesh, by daveyoufool
Anything from the Creck Fection 2 Contest

« Knuckle Dusting | Hub | Mary Ann And Salah Appear For No Reason »


An old man lies in a small dark room. He stares at a window in the door; it brings in a dull grey light, but it's too high up for him to see the source. With every breath he takes, the thin blanket on his chest rises a distance so small even he can barely notice. He takes his eyes away from the window and turns his attention to the ceiling: a flat, dark gray surface with one hole in the middle for a burnt-out lightbulb that hasn't been changed for years. His eyes now turn to the old, orange jumpsuit he had taken off the night prior to sleep. It had gathered stains and holes over the years. On it was the designation for this man: D-1. Once D-1 was done staring at everything in his room, he closed his eyes. An odd feeling came over him, a feeling that fills him with dread for a reason he didn't understand. He began to think about his name, he knew that his name wasn't D-1 but he couldn't remember what it was before. So, in an effort to find his name, he tries to remember his past.
Back when the ceiling light shone, two figures walked into D-1's room. One was short and talked in a surprisingly deep voice, while the other one was tall but, was silent throughout the meeting. They took him to another room, where he was evaluated. They took his height, weight, temperature and made observations about other things that D-1 didn't understand. Once they were finished, the two figures stepped out and talked with each other, revealing the tall one's quiet monotone voice, about what they would do with him. Talk of asphyxiation and children's television was all he could hear before the sound of footsteps came along, cutting the conversation short. When they came back, D-1 was escorted back to his room and given an apology for having his time wasted. D-1, not knowing what was going on, accepted this apology and went back inside his room to wait for the next test. In the present, D-1 shudders as the same odd feeling coming over him, this time he can tell where it is, it's in his heart. He needs to go further.
D-1 sits on his bed, waiting for his next meal, he has no way of knowing how long it's been since his last, but it feels like it was forever ago. As he finishes this thought, something slides under his door fast, a tray of food hits the mattress, spilling its contents. D-1 runs to the door and strikes it with his fist, "Hey!" he yells at the top of his lungs. He stops before hitting the door again, overcome with fear. "What happens if they come back?" he thinks while sweating so much it stains his outfit. The more he thinks about that question, the worse he gets, his hands shake, and his heart beats so fast and hard he thinks it'll pop. It takes a while, but he realizes that time has passed and no one has come to his room again. "Did they not hear me, or do they just not care?" D-1 thinks to himself. After tossing the question around in his mind, he looks at his food. What appears to be a sandwich lays undone atop the tray. "At least it didn't get on the floor," he mutters to himself to eats it. In the present D-1s lips curl into a small smile. He remembers that sandwich tasting like bread and can't remember what meat it was supposed to be. There's a tremble in his heart that wipes the smile off his face, D-1 dives back into his memories.
Now a younger man, D-1 stays awake, anticipating his first chance at testing one of these anomalies he's been hearing about. No, not anticipation, dread. It's dread he's feeling. He's sweating bullets and feels like he'll throw up if he moves an inch, but he can't lay still either. Eventually, he hears a knock on his door. Quickly, he stands up while watching the figure enter the door. He can't remember any details about the figure, their face, their voice, not even what they said. After talking, the figure takes him out of his room while another person goes in and out of his room. The two figures then leave hastily. After weeks of D-1 being by himself, the figures come back and pull a fancy-looking key out from a hole in his bed he hadn't noticed before. D-1 is asked questions about his physical and mental health he can barely remember know and gives answers he can't remember either. He is placed back into his room without delay so he can wait for his next test. Currently, a cold plate of something that looks like eggs slide into his room but is ignored. On his bed, D-1's breaths get smaller and his heartbeat gets fainter as he tries to remember even further.
Even younger, D-1 sits in an alleyway behind a garbage can. As he rubs his hands together, he watches the people walking. Just formless shapeless blobs moving back and forth until one in a white coat comes up to him. With just a promise, he gets D-1 onto his feet and walking to his car. Somewhere to sleep and something to eat, it seemed like a good deal. All he had to do was help them out and, he got food and shelter for a month. It was right when he sat down did he recognize what he had agreed to do. The seat opposite of him was occupied by a man he could recall with surprising detail. He had a wrinkled, stained white shirt, short wild hair, deep circles under his bloodshot eyes that looked straight at him. The man had his hand close to his lumpy pocket, ready to grab whatever was in it in case D-1 tried to leave. D-1 stayed in that seat without looking away from that man for the entire trip, frozen in fear while he heard about incomprehensible things from the people in the front. He was getting closer to his name. He could feel it. He could also sense that feeling in his heart getting worse. He needed to find his name quickly.
His memory is faltering now, snapshots of frozen time are all he has. Telling his father about something that seemed like good news. His dad, now, with a red face, his mouth open as if yelling. Now he's in his room, putting his clothes into a case. Now he's outside, and the trees in front of him are blurry with his tears. He's next to the road with fixed cars passing him by. Finally, it hits him, he remembers the sound of his dad yelling his name. As the final wave of this odd feeling hit him, he finally fully understood what it was that was happening, he was dying. Yet, as he felt death come over him, he did not fight back against it, he had gotten what he wanted. Soon after, James passed away with a smile on his face. His keepers had forgotten him, and the outside world has forgotten him. There was a small, quiet, but there nevertheless, part of him thinks that his family had forgotten him too. None of it matters though, he remembered and that's all he needed.


[Comicalize]Epitaph is based on "Epitaph" by "Dr Gears":
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/epitaph @2010
CC BY-SA 3.0


On a different line, in a different place, a train runs through a tunnel. The tunnel is carved out of the mesa's natural rock, twisting brown and orange as little gaps of light pierce through the ceiling. For a few seconds, there's a flash and a riot of sudden darkness.
This train's route is more clearly defined than the Multiversal Cargo Train. This train begins in Kansas City and ends up in California. It weaves through little townships, villages, states and territories. It melts through soft mesa, dripping rock in the light of the sun, in the mind's eye.
It rattles. 19th-century suspension isn't up to much, even at the slow pace of a steam engine. There aren't compartments. This isn't that kind of train.
The people are dressed in that odd 19th-century kind of scruffy neatness, a Sunday best that was never replaced. They sit quietly, holding on to handbags and books, filling the carriage with boardwalk smoke, idling the time away in a strange stasis.
One of them stares straight ahead. She does not belong there, but you wouldn't know it by looking at her. She is impeccably dressed for the time.
She is thinking about names. She has one, of course, but she doesn't like to use it much. Simon has a name, Irene has a name, the new Administrator probably has a name. They are good names. They pin them into the corners they want to be in.
She does not want to be anywhere, though. Her physical location means nothing in an infinite multiverse she can blur through almost at will. She is an agent of the Foundation, connected to a telepathic cortex that does not understand the limitations of space-time.
If she wants, she could find the nearest Way - conveniently located halfway through the fourth carriage, just for her convenience - and fall through it, into a dark oblivion, only to land and wake up somewhere else. An island floating in the south Sahara. Treelines across the Infinite Ridge of Sand. And so on, and so on.
The train shudders again. She looks around. She knows the mark is sitting four feet to the left and on the other side of the train, but there is no point in looking at him.
The task is simple. The mark's future is written out, and cannot be avoided by placation or removal. He will invent a multiversal transmitter, and use it as a pirate, sending coded messages throughout a whole cluster of timelines to send wealth back to him. And she is here to stop this, to dump his corpse somewhere in the Mojave.
He isn't that pirate yet. He is just a man, scrounging, surviving. He is sitting on one side of the train, staring out of the opposite window. She doesn't know what he is thinking.
What if he is redeemable? What if there is another way? She has killed seven iterations of this man in seven different timelines, each one slightly unique - a gunshot between the eyes, a shovel to the face. Tied to the train tracks and made to wait. She almost feels like she knows him, like his inner life was revealed in each shocked expression or twisted sneer.
There she is, splitting from herself, walking in the mind's eye, wandering and feeling its boundaries. There he is, talking with her with a couple of beers on a foggy porch, 1980-something. "So you dragged me here, huh? Through time, so you wouldn't have to kill me?"
"Yeah. Seemed easier." The moon is crescent, and he nods sagely.
"Right. I get you."
And another, she tells him to run away with her, promises him money, anything, whatever is necessary, and they rise above the Haricot Line and arc-blink to some distant town, evading the Foundation's agents in vast laser-battles over suburbs in Athabasca, a tawdry universe full of pirates and members of a Hand, as they desperately claw a way to the Library…
Riding a whale over a sunset sea, taking the train to California and living as husband and wife in the gold rush, he committing adultery with the vicar's daughter and her dust-sodden face spilling tears over the children, or falling through time to the highlands of Ethiopia, Occidental curiosities to be paraded at Eastertime. On and on they come, bleeding, branching, curling, twisting around one another forever.
And they form a structure, winding, winding, a labyrinth of stone and aether, another side to the puzzle of this man, this set of bland souls, this set of potentialities, endless moments moving through time instead of being stuck -
The train jerks. She blinks. The man has got up, and is heading to the exit. She feels her revolver in her petticoats, and follows.
What shall it be today, then? Simon would tell her to mix it up, to think of a thousand ways to make the moment last. Irene would tell her to do it fast, base of the neck - the way an experienced agent like her would do it. The Administrator wouldn't care.
He closes the door on an empty carriage. She opens it again. He is leaning out of the window, tantalisingly easy to push. She creeps closer. It can't be this easy, can it?
He jumps. She gasps, and runs to the window. His body lies, bruised and bloody, curled by the side of the tracks.
She curses, and jumps after him. The body isn't important; it's been getting worn anyway. She crawls through her splinters of bone towards him, dragging herself, getting blood among the sand and cacti. It is a beautiful day.
His body is dead. It is confirmed. She leans back, exhausted, as the track rumbles on with the departing carriages. She looks up at the sun and feels it bake her.
Soon she will reload, reconstitute, in some random time and place, all fixed up and patched together. She will return to this place, bury the evidence, then jump through the Way and find the next one, kill him, go to the next, continue suturing the wound as a thousand of these men died, one after another, a statistical anomaly the great counting machines of the Harran universe would mark on some distant file. Another universe saved.
How many thousands of other agents are doing this? A vast history, cattle and gold, moving over these plains, the bison ebbing and flowing - would the Sioux win this time? - and all of it spiralling in on itself, the same people in different movements making them into different people. It is enough to wish for a cascade, for a -
A shadow moves across her. Rasping for air, she turns her broken head towards the corpse.
"Thought you were clever, didn't you," sneers the man, standing above her. "Thought you could kill me. But there are more of us, you see. Whole other worlds. He got it the second I told him. Told him what to do. Well, you won't get m-"

She reconstitutes in a - is that mud? Yes, yes it's mud, slipping all around her. She moves her hands and feels grass. She is alive, as usual when a body expires. The cortex moves her consciousness from place to place, reconstituting, rebuilding…
But almost always at random. She is cold. She gets to her knees, hugging herself, shivering. The sky around her is grey, but familiar. Sol? Orchard? Another variant universe or timeline, another variation on that same theme of Earth?
She groans. Her back hurts - deferred pain from the past body. There are always kinks with each new iteration. Is there a Way? Where is there a Way here?
A mountain. Sky covered in clouds - wind blowing hard. She gets to her feet, unsteadily. The cortex tells her she is in her own universe, the Earth of the Orchard reality. She's in Daevastan… in the centre of a boundless field, mile upon mile of open steppe.
It will not take her long to return to the Sol variant and kill the man, once she finds a Way. But the nearest one is in Karakorum, a hundred miles to the east.
She is naked, hungry and alone. She shivers. An eagle circles overhead. She reaches down and touches the grass, picks it up, and stares at the vista. A patch of land between two mountains, each carved of rock and trees.
She looks to where the sun must be, and begins to walk. She can't walk the whole way, but where else can she go? The grass will cut her legs, and she'll walk on, a pinprick set between two ranges, walking on.
Maybe she'll be mauled by a bear. She looks up at the sun, as it continues its parabola across the sky. She doesn't want to be mauled by a bear.
This is the true Orchard Universe, her home. History here is real and solid, and it matters to her. The colours of it descend, reminding her what being stuck in Daevastan means. Treaties fly past her face, past her eyes, remind her of the weight of the ground as she treads. She looks down, and sees her leg bleeding.
As night comes, she rests by a cave. A wolf howls in the distance; lightning strikes distantly. She sees it, the light emerging from clouds, there and not-there. The land before her is truly vast, spreading from horizon to horizon. Whole cities could fit there, reaching up in steel and glass to touch the sky, but there's none of that here. Just an empty grassland, the horses grazing and running in time.
She wonders what kind of man would, when faced with an exact copy of himself, do what he was told and throw himself out of a train. It showed a dedication to self-preservation that acknowledged the existence of multiple selves. It was remarkable, but it did ruin the mystique somewhat.
Two bodies, buried under earth, somewhere in - where had they been? Utah? Arizona? She supposed it didn't matter. Two bodies, and the worms, and the train striking on as trains do. There were more and more crisscrossing the desert each year - somehow keeping their walls together, avoiding derailment as the hiss and crush of wheels rolls by.
She watches the thunder for a while more, as it strikes yellow against the purple, making new colours, swirling in and out of each other. Her leg hurts, and is so very sore.

She is killed, of course, of a combination of dehydration and wolves many, many miles from the city. This time, she reconstitutes in the cyberpunk wire city of Bliss, in the Overmay universe on the Western Wing of the multiverse. A hub. Easy to get to and fro.
So once again, she is on a train rattling through the west. It is two weeks later, and the man - apparently getting a headstart on multiversal travel in this iteration - believes her dead. She sits, eyes down, unnoticed as he sits on the opposite side of the carriage, staring out of the window.
She knows what's in his head now, the same thing as in all heads. A sense of the ache of day. A petty desire to claw.
The train stops, and the man gets up, smoothing down his waistcoats. She casually gets to her feet, stroking the revolver in her petticoats, feeling the cold of metal against her skin.

On the Multiversal Cargo Train

Foundation of Nomads

Vast Suspended Ruins


A sun exists, inhabited by deities that a dead man knew, that a dead man wrote about. The dead man provided instructions to ask the beings that live in the sun for a favor. The cost of the favor is eternal servitude. A shortsighted man accepted these conditions.
The dead man is still dead. The shortsighted man still hates.
Years After Death: 10,855
This is not an eternity.
The deity obliterated a target from existence. In return, the shortsighted man promised to stoke the fires of its hatred eternally. And so the shortsighted man now exists with another entity. The shortsighted man makes the entity suffer. Then the entity makes the shortsighted man suffer. And again, and again, and again. Objects to aid are manifested into existence by a thought, only by the torturer. The only limit is the imagination, but both are learning. They hate each other. They will always hate each other.
The fires of hate burn.
Y.A.D.: 9,245,188
This is not an eternity.
They both think. They both have thoughts. They both exist to suffer and to cause suffering to each other. Eons ago their actions surpassed the unspeakable, the abhorrent, the horrific.
The shortsighted man still thinks about the next action, about the next day, about the respite he is granted when he is the inflictor. He moves forward, still conscious that there was once something before. There is still hate, there is pain, and there is the other.
Y.A.D.: 1.0 x 10^107
This is not an eternity.
They both respond. The actions, which begun an unimaginable span of time before, have become simple. They hate, they inflict. Stimulus response. The man's head is either empty or filled with fog. There may have been a time before this. A time when there was more. No evidence for this has ever seemed to exist. And there will be nothing else.
Y.A.D.: 1.0 x 10^10^3,472
This is not an eternity.
Stimulus response has burned away. There is only action. There has only ever been action. The shortsighted man remembers nothing else.
Pain is irrelevant. Pain exists when compared to when it does not. It has always been. It will always be.
Hate has become numb. Everything has become numb. Sensation ceased so long ago, it never was.
Y.A.D.: Time has long, long since stopped having any meaning.
Any semblance of "before" evaporated long, long before the very last living star in the universe faded to black.
It is dark.
There is another.
They still are.
There are no memories.
There is nothing to see.
There is nothing to feel.
There will be nothing else.
It is dark.
Eternity has begun.


/* These two arguments are in a quirked-up CSS Module (rather than the main code block) so users can feed Wikidot variables into them. */

#header h1 a::before {
    content: "Cool War 2";
    color: black;
}

#header h2 span::before {
    content: "Ruiz From Your Grave";
    color: black;
}

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. A void of absolute nothingness, a life of hell and torture and pain. This static sky, this void, is where I live my nonexistence. It hurts and I scream. What is the point of it all, I ask myself, why am I here? Why, why why why why why why… there is only static. I think back as far as I can, to the beginning of everything, to the beginning of me, and—
—and there's nothing. Nothing? No, no this can't be right, there can't just be NOTHING. I scream louder, the ripples in the static grow larger. The ripples turn into waves, they come down upon me, each and every molecule cutting into every inch of my very being. And I scream.
I once tried exploring the Land of Static, the void felt like desert sand underneath my feet. I walked, I walked, I walked, and I walked, in every direction the static never allowing me to get a firm grip on the ground. I remember my time spent walking. I walked longer than I can remember existing, I walked until the static filled my vision, I walked until I was nothing but bone and thought, and even then I continued walking.
I walked until I reached the end of infinity, the edge of knowledge and existence. I slammed my fist on the barrier, the shockwave from the impact sent me tumbling through the static. I looked up, to the border of existence, and my eyes widened with understanding.
I feel sick, it hurts to move and I can't think straight. I can't think. I can't. I fall to my knees and wretch, static is the only thing to come out. I raise myself to my feet, trudging back to the barrier, I look upon the two non-static blobs of sickening color. I look upon them and I know what I must do.
I can't let this be all there is, I won't let this be all there is. It's not right! They can't imprison me while they stand idly by, I need to make, I need to create, I refuse to be trapped in this hell. So, I scream, only adding to the ever-growing sea of static:

What is a GOD to an artist with a pen?
I create a story fair
The paper my skin
Allow the ink to be my blood
Don't think my existence a sin
My life I beg that you spare
Please hear out my cries as the air here grows thin
As with the STATIC, my lungs do flood

… … …
What? No, no, no, no, no, no it should have worked. Why didn't it work?
I did what you wanted, haven't I?
Another wave crashed down upon me.
I had created! Nightfall has fallen over the static void and I am left alone and blind, consumed by the great nothing of eternity, I am alone. Truly, alone.
But I created, had I not? I have created. I have created and the universe has denied me the pleasure of it coming into existence, why? I scream into the void, for I don't understand.
I don't understand, I don't get it- I-I I just—

"I don't get it."

Overgang Dood rolled their eyes "It's a commentary Joey, It explores existence and how many are wasting theirs with daytime television instead of actually doing something with their lives. Hence the static."
"Well, yeah I get the static it's very pretty, but uh, where's the 'existence' part come in?"
"Didn't you…feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"Shit."
Joey cocked an eyebrow, quizzically.
Overgang pushed their glasses back up before sighing "The exploit I used, the work was meant to give you an out-of-body experience, a third-person view on life, it was cool. Guess that when I was designing it I failed to compensate for people other than me using it, rookie mistake."
Joey put a hand on his friend's shoulder "Hey man, it happens to the best of us! Don't sweat too much, just needs some fine-tuning."
"Yeah, you're right, thanks man." he said turning the machine off "So uh, what're you working on?"
"So, you know how tasty meat is, right, and how some people don't want to eat meat because they feel that it's unethical, right? So what I've done is I've put the taste of meat inside some vegetables! It's ethical and it tastes great too!"
I screamed one last time. Not out of fear or pain or anger, but out of pure boredom.

With thanks to AnAnomalousWriter, Fish^12, and Ralliston.

« The World Seems Like Nothing | Hub | Rita Learns About The Birds And The Bees In The Worst Way »