Dove in the Basement (Dec. 2017)
It is the tendency of eleven year old girls with nothing to do to get into some mischief. Eleven year old girls without proper guardianship even more so.
At the present, a girl such as this is standing at the end of a staircase, gazing down into the depths of her house, a dark place she has never visited before. If she knew her mother, there would probably be copious amounts of alcohol at the base of these stairs, along with who knows what else. The girl wrinkles her nose in distaste at this thought, but decides that her house is much too large for a basement this size to only contain drinks.
Though, Dove does hope that there is at least a light switch down there.
The stairs themselves are made of old wood, and make a loud creaking noise as she takes her first slow step. She nervously glances behind her, but it seems that her mother is still busy (“busy”) on one of the upper floors of the house.
Dove hurries down the rest of the stairs, stepping as lightly as she can. Three years of ballet at the request of her mother assist in this effort to a great extent, as does being a small eleven-year-old. At the bottom of the stairs she turns to look up again, wondering if she should close the door to the kitchen. That would leave her blinded down here, until she found a lightswitch. But remembering the numerous Edgar Allen Poe novels she’d read makes her resolve to leave it open, letting the light from upstairs shine down.
She turns back to the darkness yawning in front of her, scanning the walls for signs of lighting. The house isn’t that old, it should be equipped with proper utilities. There’s nothing on either wall next to her. However, Dove does notice a faint, red glow further in.
Intrigued the girl wanders forwards in the direction of the soft light. After only a few steps her foot lands on something hard and round, throwing her feet out from under her. Dove lands on the ground propped on her elbows, glaring and feeling around with one hand for what tripped her.
Of course. Her hand lands onto the glass of a bottle, and Dove sits up to properly narrow her eyes at the unwelcome distraction, though it is still dark enough she can’t make out even its silhouette. As she had expected, her mother uses this basement to store her booze. Yet, that doesn’t explain the strange glow she can see.
Dove carefully puts the bottle down, and draws herself to her feet. She’s thankful now that she had chosen to wear some ballet flats to protect her feet from unseen shattered glass that surely litters the area. She brushes dirt off of her skirt. It’s filthy from the basement floor.
Once she is as tidy as she can get, Dove looks back to the glow and starts walking again. She drags her feet a bit, in order to test the ground in front of her for any more bottles.
At about the center of the expansive room, Dove encounters a lightswitch. She accomplishes this by walking into it, the metal beads dangling from the ceiling and smacking her near her eye. She spitefully wonders if her mother had designed this with intruders in mind, intent on keeping Dove out. Dove reaches up and tugs the cord, and a large light above her flickers on. The light itself is almost florescent, not pleasing to the eyes at all. But it provides Dove a real view of her surroundings.
The entire basement is concrete, no colors or embellishments to be seen. Therefore, there is nothing to distract her from the source of the red glow.
At first glance it appears to be a massive eye. It appears that way on second glance, as well. Dove can do nothing but conclude it is an eye, after three glances.
The eye seems to be alive, strangely enough. It seems to be looking around. And it seems to be looking at Dove, who has frozen in place under the lightswitch. She knows that her mother can be eccentric, but this a just a tad beyond that. The head-sized eye floats lazily in a tank of blue-tinted liquid that takes up a small portion of the wall, not connected to any sort of brain like basic biology says it should be. Perhaps it isn’t looking at her, but rather just forward?
Dove sidesteps, out of what she hopes was the eye’s line of sight. She very much hopes that it will not move, that it isn’t alive after all. What would her mother be doing with such a thing?
But to her horror, the eye follows her, pivoting slowly to stare directly at the girl. A chill runs up Dove’s spine. Dove considers that the eye is contained, that it cannot hurt her. She considers that she really, really wants to know what it is doing inside her house.
So, Dove walks towards it. As she gets closer the eye never wavers, still staring. She finds that the tank it floats in is about at her
eye level, and is about as long as she is tall. Over the top lays a heavy metal grate, accessed by a small set of stairs from the ground.
She scans the area for any clue as to what exactly this being is, but finds nothing. Empty bottles are strewn across the floor, one solitary upright one where Dove left it. A large liquor cabinet lines one wall of the basement, about half of its spaces vacant. She wrinkles her nose. Here she has more alcohol than she knows what to do with, and also an eye about the size of her head looking at her from a tank. What on earth is her mother doing down here?
She turns back to the tank, considering the eye. It is a dark black sphere, webbed with cracks as if bloodshot, with a red circle in the middle. That must be what causes the glow. It has a black pupil in the center, narrow and vertical like a snake’s, or a cat. In a perhaps unwise move, Dove strides forward to place her hand on the glass of the tank.
D̾o̊ͧ̐̏v̽͐̐̈̽e̚
Dove jumps, a squeaking sound escaping from her mouth in surprise. She pulls her hand back and spins in a fast circle, double checking that she is still alone in the basement. She is sure that she heard her name. It felt like a whisper, but it did not come through her ears.
D̈́̿̅oͤͬ̂vͩ͂͒eͦ͂̃̅̎̀ i͐̈́̒s̏ͮ͊ ̈̾̂ͣ̃yo̾͒uͮ̊̐͑͗rͦͤ͗͋ nͯ̍̌ͭa̾͒̔̓m̉͐̆ë̂ͯ̂̚.
...It is the eye. Dove knows it is the eye. Its voice is deep and rough, and it almost hurts to head. She reluctantly looks at it again, making the most intense eye contact of her life. She takes a step back, and takes a deep breath. It would be rude not to respond.
“Yes, my name is Dove,” She says, as confidently as she can. “And… What is your name?”
I̍ ̽͗̄aͦ̆ͧͨm̽̈́ ͧ̇ͦ̌č͋ͯ͐aͩ̒ͨ̑lle̒ͣͪ̇d͑̅͐͊̏ ͂̾H̑ͮ̈́ä́͒l̔ͣx͛ͭuͦͦâ̍b̓̉̊͑́uͦͬ͑h̅̇̑̍r.ͥ
“Halxuabuhr,” Dove repeats, struggling to pronounce the complex syllables. She hadn’t expected it to have a name at all. Dove checks the door again, aware that it outwardly appears she is talking to herself. “What are you, Halxuabuhr?” She asks.
Iͯ́̏ ăm̒̋̎̀̓ ̔͂͌ả͑ ͆̾̈́̇b͛e͂ͣ͑̃i̒͌̚nͭ̓̐g ůńͭfaͪth́̅͆̊̄o͆ͬm̎͛ȁ̓͗b̒lͬ́e͒̐̚ tͥǒ̔͛̏ ̿͐̊t̿̄̓̔h̏̔eͪ̐̒ ͩͬͩliͤk͐es̀̒ͩ o͐͋ͩf͋̏ͣ ̐̉̚yo͋̅ͣu͂̓͌.ͫ̒̊̋
Now that she’s listening closer, Dove can make out a faint hum as the being speaks, the only outward expression that it is communicating. Meanwhile on the inside of her head, Dove is starting to experience a headache. This is surely a side result of having an ‘unfathomable’ being speaking through one’s mind.
“And how did you become… an eye?” Dove asks hesitantly. She isn’t sure what boundaries she could be overstepping, speaking to this creature. Was that a rude thing to ask?
A faint wave of heat like a fire rolls over Dove, giving her the sense that the eye is angry. She takes a small step back, worrying that she really has unintentionally offended it.
Y̓̃̅͑ȏͦu͂̊r̊͊.͂̑ͧ̆͑.̈ͣ. M̎̋ͤ̐ō͆̑̂̊́t̉̽h̓͐͌̆e͛ͦrͥͤ͂. ͐S̔͑́h̋̐è̏͛̽̈́ hͯ̄̅ͬaͣͧ̽sͨ̓ͨ͂̋ dͣ̂ͮoͤ̓n̂̆̌̌e͂͛ ̄tͬ̐͐h̑ͮ͐̋ȋ̃͛ͥs̑ͪ̓ ͐t̀͛̄̌ỏ͗̌̎ ̈́m͐̉ͣ͆e͛̑̑.̎̋͗
Dove winces and puts a hand to her head, it is no longer a hoarse whisper. Now she can make out what seems to be many voices speaking at once, overlapping and twisting around each other.
“My mother took out your eye?” Dove clarifies in a soft voice. Harmless though it may seem, Dove senses a great and ancient power emanating from the massive red iris, and it seems to hold a grudge against her, personally.
Sh̄̋ͬ͐̀̋e͐̃ͧ ̒̌su̿̆mͨm̽̂ͦon̄e͋̂̊̇̽d̒ͦ͂̎ m͒̀͒̐ĕ̒ ù̍͌̇̐p͆̈͌͐ ̌t̎͛o̾͋ͮ ̆t́̈́̇ͫḧ́̾i̾ͨ͊̅sͯ̑ ̓ẃ̔̂́oͯ͌͊̽r̽l͒̃d̀ͫ,̀ ̽ͣsh̀̓eͬ̒ͫ ̏̾tͣ̓raͤͥpͧ̎p͐e͋̓ͪdͫ̈́ͫ̓ ͊mͤͯ̅̈́e͂ͮ̓ͪ͆ ͒ͬ̈́ḧ͐ẽͥřͧͣê,ͥ̏̎ͭ sͫͨ́̉͛̈hͥ̈́̅eͨͤ͋͗ bā͛͑̀̿ṅͨͫ̐is͋ͥͪhͤ̃̚eͬ͂̀̆̽̊dͤ̆͂̌ t͌ḣe̚ ̓͗̏̋r̋̍ͣ͊es̍ͮ̎t́ͨ of͛̐ m͆eͥͭ!ͭ̔́
It grows even angrier, starts moving erratically in its tank. Dove takes another step or two back, about halfway to the lightswitch now.
Her foot rolls and she collapses to the ground once more, and kicks a bottle away in disgust.
Her hand lands on a black mark inscribed into the floor. Curious but still on guard, Dove sits up and follows the marking with her eyes. It extends throughout the room, in a complex circular pattern. The markings look as if they were scorched into the floor, and had attempted to be removed to no avail. Though faded, Dove can make out strange symbols lining the edges.
She glances up as if in search of answers, and finds the eye quietly, expectantly watching her.
Tͫ̄͒̈́̒h̑͛ë ͮCͣi̅̏͌r̓̑̆ͬ͐c͂ͭ̏l̓̄ͨe̾.̔
Dove blinks, reexamining the floor. It looks like the cover of one of her books, some kind of demonic design. Menacing, but beautifully complex in the right state of mind. She traces one of the lines with her finger, finding it embedded into the ground in small grooves.
“How long has this been here?” Dove asks cordially, sweeping her hand in the direction of the circle.
T̑͛̉ôͬ̿̍ ͋mͪ̈́ẻ̆͑ͮ,̊̈́̔ ͒͂tͭh͌̆e̔͒͂ ̾̆͒ͨbl͒̊i͗̆nͩk̋ͨ ͒ͯó̑̈́̈́fͭ̆̍͒̅ ͭan̍͊̈̽̍ ͭͯ̏e̿͐̒yeͨͤ.
Dove raises her eyebrow. That wasn’t even close to a real answer, doing nothing to satiate her curisity. But her blood pulses again as the eye communicates.
Buͥ̓̓͊̈́tͮ ͒̂th̔i͋̿̍̉sͨ̔̓ ̌̄̽̐wͧͮ̋̂̄ỉͮ̚lͩ̌̂lͭ͋̌ ́sͭ̔̑̓oͬͣͯõͤ̓n̈́̋̔ c̿̔͛̓́oͪͭ̀ḿ̈́̈́͒ȅ̐ ̈́̂̋̾toͭ̍͂ ̈͑ͤ̚aǹͣ̐́ͣ ͑͊́ͪ͑en͗d.ͮ̆
Another emotion washes over her in the form of a feeling like sunshine. This glowing warmth, compared to the fiery warmth of its anger, makes Dove think that the eye is pleased.
Yỏ͂ͧͫu͂̑͗ wͪí̏͋́ll͌͋̓̐ c̅ͮ̒͗̊om͐͆̄̓̇̆͋p̏̒ͥl̊̆̄̓̒eͮ̔͒̓t͋e tͯ̽h̓e͗̂̃̆̚ ͐̈ͩ̆̎su̅̎ͬͫ͊mm̾̒̀̑̈́oͯͣ͋̄̒nͯ̀̈͑̓i͗̄̏̾n̂̀̂̀g̓̾, ͛̈͂̊aͥ̾̒n̐̿̒ͫd̏ͫͫ̈ ̽̍set͆ ̌m̍̀̌e f̎̽̍rͧ́eͣ̾ͮẽ̃.͑ O̓͆ͣf ̓̇ͦ͒thi͆̓̒sͣ̍ ̇İ̿ ̂aͪͩm ̈́̉̍̔čeͮ̍r̎t̽ȃ͂̔̔in̄̚.
Dove, however, feels the opposite of pleased. She has a terrible feeling about this, but she cannot bring herself to get up and leave. She is driven by an urge foreign to her, to stay, to listen. Perhaps her mother was right in keeping her out of the basement. She could almost understand what led her mother to start drinking.
“Why I would ever do that? If my mother locked you up, she probably had a reason!” Dove demands. She finally gets to her feet, staring down the eye with hands clenched into fists. “You’re the reason all she does is drink, aren’t you? You’re the reason I grew up alone!” She yells.
This time the wave of heat feels like cracking electricity, almost like the being is laughing in glee.
Ye͗s̑͗, ͌usͨ̿eͬ̏ ͌͐̏yỏ̾̀̅ū͑̓r ͑a̅ͥ́n̏g̈́̌ë̍̽̌̓r̄̂͗.̌̾̍ͪ C̽ͩ̎ha̎ͨnͥn͊̇̑̈́eͨ͛lͦͬ ͭi̔t̏.̍ͬ̚
ͮW̐͂̀ͣiͧtͤ̉̄hͥ͆ ̏̀͐͗m͌ͩͯý̍̐ ̆h̒͛eͨͮl͋̔ṗ,ͯ ̋ͯͧy͛ͨ̇ou ̑̚c̈͊aͦ̂n fi͊ͨ̐͊x̃̋ͣͦ y̑́͌̈́o̊̍ͭủ̑rͬ̈́̍͗͋ ͌life.̐̓
“Fix it?” Dove echoes flatly, still glowering. “You mean, you could help my mother?”
Y͊ͥ̾eͭ̎͐̃sͩ̃ͩ̍.ͬ̈̓́ Y̅ͥoͤͨ͑͛ǘͨ̂ ŵ̉ͯiͦ̄lͭ͋͊̑l̋ͤ̚ r̽̐͆͌̔ec͋͌ͦ̈eͮ̓ͭ͂i̾v͊eͤͪ ͐ͪ̄͗th̅͑ͨ́ͦe͗̈́ p͂͌͗ͨow͑̉͛ērͮͫ͌͋ t͒̽̐o ̄dͨͩ̀oͭͨ͗̋ ̈w̿̀̎̎̋h͐̔̑ͪ̄ă̚t́̍̅̚ ͛y̍̆͊o̓͛̉̂̈̃uͩ̈́͗ ̄ͬ̋̒ẇi̎͊sͭ̓̅ͤh̒ͦ.ͧ
Admittedly, it is the word ‘power’ that attracts Dove, slowly diffuses her anger. She could gain the power to get her mother to stop drinking, to become happy again, to maybe be a family again. She remembers when she was small, everything seemed rose-tinted. Everything was happier. She could make it that way again, couldn’t she? She could make it even better. Along with that, Dove would have magic powers with which she could do as she pleased. Once she fixed what was broken, the options were limitless.
“What would I need to do?” Dove tells herself she isn't fully convinced yet, that there’s some fine print she isn’t seeing. But she had
agreed the moment she decided to visit the basement. This outcome was inevitable.
L̾ͧ̈i̍͑ͯ̍g̋ͩ̉ͥhͤ͐̇̓t̋ͨ t͛̊͗hͥ̔̄e̅͐ͣ ͆́͐̎̄ci͒͐r̽͆ͫ̚c̀lͦ̉̚e͑ͣ̂.ͦ
She examines the basement yet again, noting that the markings were indeed scorched into the ground. They had been lit on fire, once upon a time. Dove would need something flammable.
“I suppose getting rid of her alcohol would be the first step to helping my mother,” Dove muses to herself as she pulls several bottles off the shelf to cradle in her arms. She carefully uncorks one, and begins to pour it into the indentations in the concrete. The grooves are deep enough that the liquid easily flows through them, saving her a great deal of time. Dove watches it go, gradually filling the circle, and realizes that it might have been designed to make this simple. The circle is almost completely full of fluid, now.
A glance to the doorway she entered reveals some shelves with various tools and appliances, where Dove is certain a box of matches must be stored. At least some of this basement is normal. She carefully sifts through the drawers, the eye staying quiet all the while. Its red iris reflects in the liquid circle, sending patterns spiraling into the walls and roof.
Dove now stands over the circle with a lit match. If she dropped it, the alcohol would light and the fire would spread throughout the circle, calling this eye’s full form. This would grant Dove powers to fix the world however she wants to, if she understands correctly.
But she hesitates, attempting to assess if this was really the smartest course of action. The eye, possibly worried of changing her mind if it spoke, only watches.
All is silent, until that is broken by a cry. “Dove!” A voice calls behind her. Dove looks over her shoulder to see her mother standing at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed and startlingly sober. She swears, as if already aware there is nothing she can do, now.
D̎̃ͮͪ̚Ỏ͒̅́́͊̐̓ ̆͛͛̓͊̊̐͗I̓ͦ͗T̀ͤͭ̊̚ ̈́̾̌̏Ň̑͗̔̔Ȍ͋ͮ̾̌Wͦ̃̋́̈́!̀̌̓̂
The eye suddenly screams into her mind, making Dove violently flinch and drop the match. She collapses onto the floor, clutching at her head. Her mother reaches a hand out to her, but it is far, far too late for that.
What had once been a young girl erupts into flames. The fire grows and expands until it fills the underground room, but does not stop. The former girl’s mother is disintegrated in a matter of seconds, as is their house. Still, it does not stop.
~~~
Eleven days later, the girl wakes up, shivering, alone, in the ashy grey remains of what was once New York.
It is the tendency of eleven year old girls with nothing to do to get into some mischief. Eleven year old girls without proper guardianship even more so.
At the present, a girl such as this is standing at the end of a staircase, gazing down into the depths of her house, a dark place she has never visited before. If she knew her mother, there would probably be copious amounts of alcohol at the base of these stairs, along with who knows what else. The girl wrinkles her nose in distaste at this thought, but decides that her house is much too large for a basement this size to only contain drinks.
Though, Dove does hope that there is at least a light switch down there.
The stairs themselves are made of old wood, and make a loud creaking noise as she takes her first slow step. She nervously glances behind her, but it seems that her mother is still busy (“busy”) on one of the upper floors of the house.
Dove hurries down the rest of the stairs, stepping as lightly as she can. Three years of ballet at the request of her mother assist in this effort to a great extent, as does being a small eleven-year-old. At the bottom of the stairs she turns to look up again, wondering if she should close the door to the kitchen. That would leave her blinded down here, until she found a lightswitch. But remembering the numerous Edgar Allen Poe novels she’d read makes her resolve to leave it open, letting the light from upstairs shine down.
She turns back to the darkness yawning in front of her, scanning the walls for signs of lighting. The house isn’t that old, it should be equipped with proper utilities. There’s nothing on either wall next to her. However, Dove does notice a faint, red glow further in.
Intrigued the girl wanders forwards in the direction of the soft light. After only a few steps her foot lands on something hard and round, throwing her feet out from under her. Dove lands on the ground propped on her elbows, glaring and feeling around with one hand for what tripped her.
Of course. Her hand lands onto the glass of a bottle, and Dove sits up to properly narrow her eyes at the unwelcome distraction, though it is still dark enough she can’t make out even its silhouette. As she had expected, her mother uses this basement to store her booze. Yet, that doesn’t explain the strange glow she can see.
Dove carefully puts the bottle down, and draws herself to her feet. She’s thankful now that she had chosen to wear some ballet flats to protect her feet from unseen shattered glass that surely litters the area. She brushes dirt off of her skirt. It’s filthy from the basement floor.
Once she is as tidy as she can get, Dove looks back to the glow and starts walking again. She drags her feet a bit, in order to test the ground in front of her for any more bottles.
At about the center of the expansive room, Dove encounters a lightswitch. She accomplishes this by walking into it, the metal beads dangling from the ceiling and smacking her near her eye. She spitefully wonders if her mother had designed this with intruders in mind, intent on keeping Dove out. Dove reaches up and tugs the cord, and a large light above her flickers on. The light itself is almost florescent, not pleasing to the eyes at all. But it provides Dove a real view of her surroundings.
The entire basement is concrete, no colors or embellishments to be seen. Therefore, there is nothing to distract her from the source of the red glow.
At first glance it appears to be a massive eye. It appears that way on second glance, as well. Dove can do nothing but conclude it is an eye, after three glances.
The eye seems to be alive, strangely enough. It seems to be looking around. And it seems to be looking at Dove, who has frozen in place under the lightswitch. She knows that her mother can be eccentric, but this a just a tad beyond that. The head-sized eye floats lazily in a tank of blue-tinted liquid that takes up a small portion of the wall, not connected to any sort of brain like basic biology says it should be. Perhaps it isn’t looking at her, but rather just forward?
Dove sidesteps, out of what she hopes was the eye’s line of sight. She very much hopes that it will not move, that it isn’t alive after all. What would her mother be doing with such a thing?
But to her horror, the eye follows her, pivoting slowly to stare directly at the girl. A chill runs up Dove’s spine. Dove considers that the eye is contained, that it cannot hurt her. She considers that she really, really wants to know what it is doing inside her house.
So, Dove walks towards it. As she gets closer the eye never wavers, still staring. She finds that the tank it floats in is about at her
eye level, and is about as long as she is tall. Over the top lays a heavy metal grate, accessed by a small set of stairs from the ground.
She scans the area for any clue as to what exactly this being is, but finds nothing. Empty bottles are strewn across the floor, one solitary upright one where Dove left it. A large liquor cabinet lines one wall of the basement, about half of its spaces vacant. She wrinkles her nose. Here she has more alcohol than she knows what to do with, and also an eye about the size of her head looking at her from a tank. What on earth is her mother doing down here?
She turns back to the tank, considering the eye. It is a dark black sphere, webbed with cracks as if bloodshot, with a red circle in the middle. That must be what causes the glow. It has a black pupil in the center, narrow and vertical like a snake’s, or a cat. In a perhaps unwise move, Dove strides forward to place her hand on the glass of the tank.
D̾o̊ͧ̐̏v̽͐̐̈̽e̚
Dove jumps, a squeaking sound escaping from her mouth in surprise. She pulls her hand back and spins in a fast circle, double checking that she is still alone in the basement. She is sure that she heard her name. It felt like a whisper, but it did not come through her ears.
D̈́̿̅oͤͬ̂vͩ͂͒eͦ͂̃̅̎̀ i͐̈́̒s̏ͮ͊ ̈̾̂ͣ̃yo̾͒uͮ̊̐͑͗rͦͤ͗͋ nͯ̍̌ͭa̾͒̔̓m̉͐̆ë̂ͯ̂̚.
...It is the eye. Dove knows it is the eye. Its voice is deep and rough, and it almost hurts to head. She reluctantly looks at it again, making the most intense eye contact of her life. She takes a step back, and takes a deep breath. It would be rude not to respond.
“Yes, my name is Dove,” She says, as confidently as she can. “And… What is your name?”
I̍ ̽͗̄aͦ̆ͧͨm̽̈́ ͧ̇ͦ̌č͋ͯ͐aͩ̒ͨ̑lle̒ͣͪ̇d͑̅͐͊̏ ͂̾H̑ͮ̈́ä́͒l̔ͣx͛ͭuͦͦâ̍b̓̉̊͑́uͦͬ͑h̅̇̑̍r.ͥ
“Halxuabuhr,” Dove repeats, struggling to pronounce the complex syllables. She hadn’t expected it to have a name at all. Dove checks the door again, aware that it outwardly appears she is talking to herself. “What are you, Halxuabuhr?” She asks.
Iͯ́̏ ăm̒̋̎̀̓ ̔͂͌ả͑ ͆̾̈́̇b͛e͂ͣ͑̃i̒͌̚nͭ̓̐g ůńͭfaͪth́̅͆̊̄o͆ͬm̎͛ȁ̓͗b̒lͬ́e͒̐̚ tͥǒ̔͛̏ ̿͐̊t̿̄̓̔h̏̔eͪ̐̒ ͩͬͩliͤk͐es̀̒ͩ o͐͋ͩf͋̏ͣ ̐̉̚yo͋̅ͣu͂̓͌.ͫ̒̊̋
Now that she’s listening closer, Dove can make out a faint hum as the being speaks, the only outward expression that it is communicating. Meanwhile on the inside of her head, Dove is starting to experience a headache. This is surely a side result of having an ‘unfathomable’ being speaking through one’s mind.
“And how did you become… an eye?” Dove asks hesitantly. She isn’t sure what boundaries she could be overstepping, speaking to this creature. Was that a rude thing to ask?
A faint wave of heat like a fire rolls over Dove, giving her the sense that the eye is angry. She takes a small step back, worrying that she really has unintentionally offended it.
Y̓̃̅͑ȏͦu͂̊r̊͊.͂̑ͧ̆͑.̈ͣ. M̎̋ͤ̐ō͆̑̂̊́t̉̽h̓͐͌̆e͛ͦrͥͤ͂. ͐S̔͑́h̋̐è̏͛̽̈́ hͯ̄̅ͬaͣͧ̽sͨ̓ͨ͂̋ dͣ̂ͮoͤ̓n̂̆̌̌e͂͛ ̄tͬ̐͐h̑ͮ͐̋ȋ̃͛ͥs̑ͪ̓ ͐t̀͛̄̌ỏ͗̌̎ ̈́m͐̉ͣ͆e͛̑̑.̎̋͗
Dove winces and puts a hand to her head, it is no longer a hoarse whisper. Now she can make out what seems to be many voices speaking at once, overlapping and twisting around each other.
“My mother took out your eye?” Dove clarifies in a soft voice. Harmless though it may seem, Dove senses a great and ancient power emanating from the massive red iris, and it seems to hold a grudge against her, personally.
Sh̄̋ͬ͐̀̋e͐̃ͧ ̒̌su̿̆mͨm̽̂ͦon̄e͋̂̊̇̽d̒ͦ͂̎ m͒̀͒̐ĕ̒ ù̍͌̇̐p͆̈͌͐ ̌t̎͛o̾͋ͮ ̆t́̈́̇ͫḧ́̾i̾ͨ͊̅sͯ̑ ̓ẃ̔̂́oͯ͌͊̽r̽l͒̃d̀ͫ,̀ ̽ͣsh̀̓eͬ̒ͫ ̏̾tͣ̓raͤͥpͧ̎p͐e͋̓ͪdͫ̈́ͫ̓ ͊mͤͯ̅̈́e͂ͮ̓ͪ͆ ͒ͬ̈́ḧ͐ẽͥřͧͣê,ͥ̏̎ͭ sͫͨ́̉͛̈hͥ̈́̅eͨͤ͋͗ bā͛͑̀̿ṅͨͫ̐is͋ͥͪhͤ̃̚eͬ͂̀̆̽̊dͤ̆͂̌ t͌ḣe̚ ̓͗̏̋r̋̍ͣ͊es̍ͮ̎t́ͨ of͛̐ m͆eͥͭ!ͭ̔́
It grows even angrier, starts moving erratically in its tank. Dove takes another step or two back, about halfway to the lightswitch now.
Her foot rolls and she collapses to the ground once more, and kicks a bottle away in disgust.
Her hand lands on a black mark inscribed into the floor. Curious but still on guard, Dove sits up and follows the marking with her eyes. It extends throughout the room, in a complex circular pattern. The markings look as if they were scorched into the floor, and had attempted to be removed to no avail. Though faded, Dove can make out strange symbols lining the edges.
She glances up as if in search of answers, and finds the eye quietly, expectantly watching her.
Tͫ̄͒̈́̒h̑͛ë ͮCͣi̅̏͌r̓̑̆ͬ͐c͂ͭ̏l̓̄ͨe̾.̔
Dove blinks, reexamining the floor. It looks like the cover of one of her books, some kind of demonic design. Menacing, but beautifully complex in the right state of mind. She traces one of the lines with her finger, finding it embedded into the ground in small grooves.
“How long has this been here?” Dove asks cordially, sweeping her hand in the direction of the circle.
T̑͛̉ôͬ̿̍ ͋mͪ̈́ẻ̆͑ͮ,̊̈́̔ ͒͂tͭh͌̆e̔͒͂ ̾̆͒ͨbl͒̊i͗̆nͩk̋ͨ ͒ͯó̑̈́̈́fͭ̆̍͒̅ ͭan̍͊̈̽̍ ͭͯ̏e̿͐̒yeͨͤ.
Dove raises her eyebrow. That wasn’t even close to a real answer, doing nothing to satiate her curisity. But her blood pulses again as the eye communicates.
Buͥ̓̓͊̈́tͮ ͒̂th̔i͋̿̍̉sͨ̔̓ ̌̄̽̐wͧͮ̋̂̄ỉͮ̚lͩ̌̂lͭ͋̌ ́sͭ̔̑̓oͬͣͯõͤ̓n̈́̋̔ c̿̔͛̓́oͪͭ̀ḿ̈́̈́͒ȅ̐ ̈́̂̋̾toͭ̍͂ ̈͑ͤ̚aǹͣ̐́ͣ ͑͊́ͪ͑en͗d.ͮ̆
Another emotion washes over her in the form of a feeling like sunshine. This glowing warmth, compared to the fiery warmth of its anger, makes Dove think that the eye is pleased.
Yỏ͂ͧͫu͂̑͗ wͪí̏͋́ll͌͋̓̐ c̅ͮ̒͗̊om͐͆̄̓̇̆͋p̏̒ͥl̊̆̄̓̒eͮ̔͒̓t͋e tͯ̽h̓e͗̂̃̆̚ ͐̈ͩ̆̎su̅̎ͬͫ͊mm̾̒̀̑̈́oͯͣ͋̄̒nͯ̀̈͑̓i͗̄̏̾n̂̀̂̀g̓̾, ͛̈͂̊aͥ̾̒n̐̿̒ͫd̏ͫͫ̈ ̽̍set͆ ̌m̍̀̌e f̎̽̍rͧ́eͣ̾ͮẽ̃.͑ O̓͆ͣf ̓̇ͦ͒thi͆̓̒sͣ̍ ̇İ̿ ̂aͪͩm ̈́̉̍̔čeͮ̍r̎t̽ȃ͂̔̔in̄̚.
Dove, however, feels the opposite of pleased. She has a terrible feeling about this, but she cannot bring herself to get up and leave. She is driven by an urge foreign to her, to stay, to listen. Perhaps her mother was right in keeping her out of the basement. She could almost understand what led her mother to start drinking.
“Why I would ever do that? If my mother locked you up, she probably had a reason!” Dove demands. She finally gets to her feet, staring down the eye with hands clenched into fists. “You’re the reason all she does is drink, aren’t you? You’re the reason I grew up alone!” She yells.
This time the wave of heat feels like cracking electricity, almost like the being is laughing in glee.
Ye͗s̑͗, ͌usͨ̿eͬ̏ ͌͐̏yỏ̾̀̅ū͑̓r ͑a̅ͥ́n̏g̈́̌ë̍̽̌̓r̄̂͗.̌̾̍ͪ C̽ͩ̎ha̎ͨnͥn͊̇̑̈́eͨ͛lͦͬ ͭi̔t̏.̍ͬ̚
ͮW̐͂̀ͣiͧtͤ̉̄hͥ͆ ̏̀͐͗m͌ͩͯý̍̐ ̆h̒͛eͨͮl͋̔ṗ,ͯ ̋ͯͧy͛ͨ̇ou ̑̚c̈͊aͦ̂n fi͊ͨ̐͊x̃̋ͣͦ y̑́͌̈́o̊̍ͭủ̑rͬ̈́̍͗͋ ͌life.̐̓
“Fix it?” Dove echoes flatly, still glowering. “You mean, you could help my mother?”
Y͊ͥ̾eͭ̎͐̃sͩ̃ͩ̍.ͬ̈̓́ Y̅ͥoͤͨ͑͛ǘͨ̂ ŵ̉ͯiͦ̄lͭ͋͊̑l̋ͤ̚ r̽̐͆͌̔ec͋͌ͦ̈eͮ̓ͭ͂i̾v͊eͤͪ ͐ͪ̄͗th̅͑ͨ́ͦe͗̈́ p͂͌͗ͨow͑̉͛ērͮͫ͌͋ t͒̽̐o ̄dͨͩ̀oͭͨ͗̋ ̈w̿̀̎̎̋h͐̔̑ͪ̄ă̚t́̍̅̚ ͛y̍̆͊o̓͛̉̂̈̃uͩ̈́͗ ̄ͬ̋̒ẇi̎͊sͭ̓̅ͤh̒ͦ.ͧ
Admittedly, it is the word ‘power’ that attracts Dove, slowly diffuses her anger. She could gain the power to get her mother to stop drinking, to become happy again, to maybe be a family again. She remembers when she was small, everything seemed rose-tinted. Everything was happier. She could make it that way again, couldn’t she? She could make it even better. Along with that, Dove would have magic powers with which she could do as she pleased. Once she fixed what was broken, the options were limitless.
“What would I need to do?” Dove tells herself she isn't fully convinced yet, that there’s some fine print she isn’t seeing. But she had
agreed the moment she decided to visit the basement. This outcome was inevitable.
L̾ͧ̈i̍͑ͯ̍g̋ͩ̉ͥhͤ͐̇̓t̋ͨ t͛̊͗hͥ̔̄e̅͐ͣ ͆́͐̎̄ci͒͐r̽͆ͫ̚c̀lͦ̉̚e͑ͣ̂.ͦ
She examines the basement yet again, noting that the markings were indeed scorched into the ground. They had been lit on fire, once upon a time. Dove would need something flammable.
“I suppose getting rid of her alcohol would be the first step to helping my mother,” Dove muses to herself as she pulls several bottles off the shelf to cradle in her arms. She carefully uncorks one, and begins to pour it into the indentations in the concrete. The grooves are deep enough that the liquid easily flows through them, saving her a great deal of time. Dove watches it go, gradually filling the circle, and realizes that it might have been designed to make this simple. The circle is almost completely full of fluid, now.
A glance to the doorway she entered reveals some shelves with various tools and appliances, where Dove is certain a box of matches must be stored. At least some of this basement is normal. She carefully sifts through the drawers, the eye staying quiet all the while. Its red iris reflects in the liquid circle, sending patterns spiraling into the walls and roof.
Dove now stands over the circle with a lit match. If she dropped it, the alcohol would light and the fire would spread throughout the circle, calling this eye’s full form. This would grant Dove powers to fix the world however she wants to, if she understands correctly.
But she hesitates, attempting to assess if this was really the smartest course of action. The eye, possibly worried of changing her mind if it spoke, only watches.
All is silent, until that is broken by a cry. “Dove!” A voice calls behind her. Dove looks over her shoulder to see her mother standing at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed and startlingly sober. She swears, as if already aware there is nothing she can do, now.
D̎̃ͮͪ̚Ỏ͒̅́́͊̐̓ ̆͛͛̓͊̊̐͗I̓ͦ͗T̀ͤͭ̊̚ ̈́̾̌̏Ň̑͗̔̔Ȍ͋ͮ̾̌Wͦ̃̋́̈́!̀̌̓̂
The eye suddenly screams into her mind, making Dove violently flinch and drop the match. She collapses onto the floor, clutching at her head. Her mother reaches a hand out to her, but it is far, far too late for that.
What had once been a young girl erupts into flames. The fire grows and expands until it fills the underground room, but does not stop. The former girl’s mother is disintegrated in a matter of seconds, as is their house. Still, it does not stop.
~~~
Eleven days later, the girl wakes up, shivering, alone, in the ashy grey remains of what was once New York.
Raisin the Dead (Nov. 2016)
Briar Alexsi was at a funeral. He wasn’t too shaken up about it, being the funeral for someone he hadn’t known very well. He wasn’t quite sure why he was invited to this. But he felt like it was important to be there and pay his respects. Plus he’d always had a strange interest in funerals. The thing that was making him angry, however, was that everyone at this funeral seemed to have the same feelings about it as he did. From the impression everyone gave off, nobody had really known the kid, and there were only a few visibly upset people here that Briar assumed were her family. Had she not had any friends? Or more relatives?
Her name had been Leyla Almasi and Briar had only talked to her a few times. From what he knew of her, she was in the top of her class and liked to read. But he also knew that she had hated raisins. That was the one conversation they had had, it was the one thing they had in common. But, judging from the snack table, he was a bit shocked by how little the people organizing this funeral knew her. Had even her family not known that she was so passionate in her hatred of raisins?
He walked to the bowl of raisins. Wasn’t that a strange thing to have at a funeral anyway? He picked one up, frowning. He shared Leyla’s feelings on raisins. He wished they would turn back into grapes, somehow.
The raisin seemed to shift, then. Briar startled a bit, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the silver bowls. His eyes had turned completely white, and were emitting a strange light. He could see fine, but the world seemed much brighter. Then it faded away, and when he looked down there was a full grape in his hand.
He glanced around quickly, to see if anyone had noticed. It didn’t seem like anyone had, luckily. He cautiously ate the grape, worrying it would taste like a raisin. It didn’t, miraculously enough. It was apparently just a normal grape. Looking around again, he casually stole a handful of raisins and put them in the pocket of his nice black suit. He’d have to test this some more. ...Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten the evidence.
______________________________________________________________________________
Later that day Briar Alexsi sat in his bedroom, staring down at a pile of raisins on his desk. He tapped one with his finger, rolling it, and then his eyes itched and a faint glow fell upon the raisin as he stared down at it. It began to stretch, growing and its surface smoothening out. It grew larger, and then it was a revitalized grape once more.
Briar hummed to himself. It seemed that he had a superpower, of some sort at least. Absentmindedly he wondered if this power would work on other things as well. What exactly was he doing? He was bringing the grape back to life. In his mind, it made sense that he’d maybe be able to do the same to, let’s say, a dead human.
A loud thump made Briar nearly fall out of his chair, worrying his parents were going to come in and question the grape pile. Or worse, they’d catch on to whatever it was that he was doing. But he turned his head enough to see the window, and the pigeon that had smacked into it.
He stood and walked to the window, opening it to look for where the bird had fallen. Since Briar lived on the third floor of an apartment, if the initial impact hadn’t killed the bird then the fall certainly had. An idea struck, then. He closed the window and left his room, walking quickly down the stairs to the ground floor. It was relatively easy to bypass his parents, luckily. He didn’t want them to know what he was doing. It wouldn’t end well.
The bird was lying on the ground on the side of the building, almost in the alleyway. If Briar looked up he could see that it was directly below his bedroom window. From the second he saw it he was positive that it was completely lifeless. He crouched down next to it, hesitated for a second, then touched it with his finger. He wanted to see if he could bring it back. He didn’t like it when animals died, and he wanted this bird to live, damnit.
Nothing happened. Frowning, and a little disappointed, Briar stood and walked away, casting one last glance at it. Even if he couldn’t bring animals back to life, being able to save raisins was still more power than he’d had this morning.
A chirp behind him made him stop still. A grin slowly spread on his face as he turned to find the pigeon standing upright, looking at him in curiosity. It flapped its wings, and seemed confused as to why it was on the ground. Like it hadn’t been dead at all. Briar felt satisfied.
As he walked back into the apartment building, he noticed a small mouse lying still next to the door. Glancing to make sure no one was around, he crouched and reached a hand towards it, but it wasn’t going to work for this one, apparently. The mouse crumbled into a strange black dust when his hand got close, dissolving into the wind.
A bit concerned, now, Briar frowned and went back up to his apartment. But he could put the mouse out of his mind for now, since he had just discovered something pretty big. He could bring back the dead, and not just raisins. What was the next step? ...His mind wandered back to Leyla. Would it be unethical to bring her back to life? Would she mind? Was he even able to use this on people?
...Well, there was only one way to find out.
______________________________________________________________________________
To the graveyard, then. The site of the funeral, and where this strangeness had started. Briar Alexsi, who hadn’t bothered to change out of his suit yet, (it was black already, good for stealth, and why shouldn’t he look good for special occasions?) remembered exactly where Leyla had been buried. It was a dark night, the moon not appearing and a thin layer of clouds hiding the stars from view.
The first step was to find a shovel. Luckily he had a way to get into the groundskeeper’s shed, in the form of the pigeon he had saved. The small bird was unexpectedly loyal, though maybe that wasn’t very surprising at all. He had saved its life, after all. It perched on his shoulder until he needed it, then it gave the rusted-through lock of the shed a few hard pecks, and the lock fell clean off. He was in and out, grabbing only a shovel and a flashlight.
He was making his way to Leyla’s grave when he heard a voice call to him. “You’re a bit young to be a graverobber, aren’t you?” It said. Briar spun around, his pigeon flapping its wings nervously with the suddenness, and saw a woman standing just out of his field of vision. He held up the shovel defensively.
“Yes. I am,” Briar answered. The figure didn’t strike him as someone who would be here legally, either, probably being a grave robber herself. She stepped closer, enough to see her better, and Briar found that she was very intimidating. The woman came much closer, laying a hand on the top of Leyla’s tombstone.
“You know,” She said, ignoring his response. “Once you get good at this you don’t need to dig the grave at all. If your call is strong enough, and your power trained enough, then they’ll rise out of the ground on their own.”
Briar stared at her blankly. “...What are you talking about?” The woman smiled, as if this was funny to her.
“You’re a necromancer. Hadn’t you noticed? ...You must be new. Brand new, actually. Is that your first one?” She gestured to his pigeon. Hesitantly, Briar nodded, nervously petting the pigeon’s wing. He thought that he knew exactly what she was talking about, now. “But how rude of me. My name is Margot Tate. And you are?”
“Briar Alexsi. You’re a necromancer, too?” He asked in open curiosity, holding out his hand.
“Yes. Would you like me to help you with this one? This, ah, Leyla Almasi? Was she a friend of yours?” Margot asked.
“Not really,” Briar shrugged. “I knew her from school.”
“Good, no emotional attachments. That makes this easier.” Margot took out a shovel of her own and started digging, gesturing for him to do the same. “You know, your powers only start to develope when someone you personally know dies. That’s why most necromancer’s first person is a loved one, since that’s the first person they know who’s died. You must be very lucky, to not have your powers begin until so late.” Briar shrugged.
A little while later they had struck the wood of the coffin. He remembered lowering it down only earlier today. Margot helped him open it, with a hammer she had brought, and he put a hand on Leyla’s arm as per Margot’s instructions, and concentrated on the feeling of wanting her to live.
His eyes glowed brighter than they had before, or maybe it was just contrasted with the darkness of the night, but under his hand he felt a small jolt. Leyla gasped, and sat up. The light from Briar’s eyes dimmed, and Margot’s flashlight returned to being the only light source.
That is, of course, until the flashlight tumbled into the hole, and Margot collapsed on the ground. “Margot?” Briar asked, concerned. He glanced at Leyla, who was starting to look like she was freaking out, but he decided that she was more than okay now, so he climbed out of the grave to see what Margot was doing.
“This…” Margot said, her breathing labored. “Is the only way a necromancer can die. A life for a life… Good luck, kid,” She rasped, and them dissolved into black dust, same as the mouse he had tried to forget about. Briar’s pigeon seemed to be scared, as it flew up and spiralled in quick circles. Briar stared in shock.
“Um…” A voice behind him said. “You’re going to have to explain all of this to me.” He looked down blankly, and saw Leyla holding the flashlight, giving her face deep shadows and an ominous expression.
______________________________________________________________________________
A week later, Briar Alexsi and Leyla Almasi were among the very few guests attending Margot Tate’s funeral. Leyla wore a black veil that covered her face and hair, lest she be recognized. It was only a minor change from the scarf that she normally wore on her head. Briar wore the same black suit that he had taken to wearing often, nowadays.
“I wish we’d had more time to ask her questions,” Leyla murmured. Briar nodded in agreement. After he’d explained everything to Leyla, as she was owed an explanation, she had begun researching everything she could about necromancy, sharing everything she learned with Briar.
He’d named his pigeon Tater Tot, partly after Margot, but also after a good food that the pigeon had taken a fondness to. He’d also taken to keeping raisins in his pockets, strangely enough, because when he revitalized them they made for a great snack. And because raisins were easier to carry around than grapes. He pulled a couple out now, restoring them and handing one to Leyla.
And all this, because of raisins, is how one of the most powerful necromancers to ever live got his start.
Horror: Fate (Nov. 2016)
She had smoke in her eyes and death at her back. Her irises burned with blue flames, huge black wings dragged on the ground behind her. She wore a dress of constantly shifting fabric, faces visible in the right light. The souls she had claimed were tethered to her, sewn into the fabric of her being, never to be happy or free again. If all was quiet, and you were listening close enough, you could hear the faintest screaming.
She hid around every corner, in every shadow, in every reflection. It’s impossible to ever truly be alone, because she’ll always be there, even if no one else is, hidden from sight. She is neither angel nor demon, god or mortal, human or animal. She is everything and nothing, order and chaos, everything that exists in between. But if you ever had the misfortune of seeing her… Avoid her gaze, or she’ll be the last face you ever see. But don’t try to fight Fate. She will always win.
______________________________________________________________________________
It was centuries ago when the she had been awoken by silence. The world had been muted, not a sound heard besides her ragged breathing. As she opened her eyes she found there was no difference, nothing to see. Her hands searched around, feeling the splintered wood underneath and above her. She pushed up with her hands, and found an immense weight holding the lid down, keeping her trapped in this box.
She suddenly remembered what had brought her here. Or, rather, who. This was aftermath of a love story most terrible, ending in the most awful form of tragedy. There wasn’t anything for her to do now, but succumb to death, buried six feet underground in a splintering wooden box. Her movements became frantic, her breathing panicked, and her oxygen supplies dwindled by the second.
As she lay there hours later, her life slipping away, she had one last thought. The ones who did this… They would meet their own horrible fate, someday. This vow gave her comfort in her last moments.
…
Later that night, a burst of light exploded across the graveyard. From an unmarked pile of freshly dug soil, a figure arose, completely cloaked in shadow. The light died, and the shadows grew deeper than they had been before, the figure seeming to absorb and destroy any moonlight it encountered. It gently hovered over the ground, tendrils of shadow hanging from its bare feet. Glancing around the graveyard with cold distaste, it floated across the grounds, leaving a trail of ice in its wake.
It was headed towards the village. It halted its procession at the house on the edge of the woods, gazing forlornly into the windows for just a moment. Then it evaporated into black smoke, seeping through the cracks in doors and windows. It reformed into the shape of a girl, stepping into the path of a young man.
The man’s eyes grew, and his face paled. “What are you…?” He whispered. The spirit, for that was what the figure must have been, tilted her head and gazed at the man with ice cold amusement. Her ink black hair spilled over her shoulders, pooling onto the floor.
She paused before speaking, letting the air chill and the man’s fireplace sputter and die. “I suppose that I am Fate,” She said, then raised her arm. Like a pack of angry dogs shadows shot from the walls, too fast too see, enveloping the man completely. There wasn’t any time for him to scream before he died.
Satisfied with her work, the spirit released the shadows, bringing them close to her. They merged into the formerly white fabric of her dress, patterning it similar to the stars in the night sky. A face could be seen in the long skirt, wearing an expression of agony.
She smiled, evaporating into smoke once more. She reappeared in every house, one by one, and turned each and every villager into patterns for her dress. The pinpricks of light were slowly replaced with thousands of faces, eternally bound to her.
She continued on her massacre, spreading across the country like a plague. As the centuries went on, her appearance grew more and more warped, less and less human, until at last she couldn’t be recognized as such anymore.
She was pleased.
______________________________________________________________________________
She had smoke in her eyes and death at her back. Her irises burned with blue flames, huge black wings dragged on the ground behind her. She wore a long, billowing dress of constantly shifting fabric, the tormented faces of her victims silently and endlessly screaming. The souls she had claimed were tethered to her, sewn into the fabric of her being as victims of her wrath, captured in an act of revenge for a lost love. If all was quiet, as it had been when she awoke, you could hear them screaming.
She hid around every corner, in every shadow, in every reflection, on the hunt for whoever was unfortunate enough to be her next victim. It’s impossible to ever truly be alone, because she’ll always be there, even if no one else is, hidden from sight. She is neither angel nor demon, god or mortal, human or animal, dead or alive. She is everything and nothing, order and chaos, all that exists in between. But if you’ve ever wronged someone in ways that can’t be forgiven... Avoid her gaze, or she’ll be the last face you ever see.
But don’t try to fight Fate. She will always win.
Bottled Emotions (Feb. 2017)
A car down the road screamed to a halt, four men wearing masks jumping out and running into the nearest building. I looked around. The street was deserted except for me.
...Well, if that wasn’t suspicious activity, I didn’t know what was. And if the logo on the van was any indication, this could be the organization I’d been tracking for a while.
For lack of a better disguise I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head, shrouding my face with shadows. The sky was dark as well, thunderclouds blocking the sun and threatening to storm later today. For now, there was a brisk wind, but no rain.
I tapped a finger to the center of my forehead, drawing out a crackling yellow strand of electricity. As it left my head my shoulders relaxed, now that I didn’t have some silly emotion distracting me. A bag hanging off my shoulder made a clicking sound as I pulled it open to fish out a small glass vial labeled ‘fear.’ This covered a small range of emotions, from anxiety to apprehension to dread. I put the sparking string into the bottle, sealing it tight and putting it away.
Ruffling through the bag some more, I found a glowing red one. It wasn’t hard to find, as it illuminated the entire bag, mixing its red light with softer glows of other vials. I uncapped it and carefully held it over my eyes, allowing some of it to slip into my consciousness.
This process in total took less than a minute. A red glow of confidence tinted my vision, giving me exactly what I needed to go and confront these suspicious characters.
I scanned the building for a point of entry that would give me some kind of advantage, and as luck would have it, there was a fire escape leading up to one of the second-story windows. I climbed that easily, and peered through the window, giving the situation a quick glance before sliding it open. There were three men standing under a sole light illuminating the warehouse, all seeming to be focused on something on a table that they blocked from my view.
Not one for subtlety, especially with the extra confidence, I jumped down onto a catwalk above their heads, landing in a crouch and making a loud clang. All three heads turned to look, drawing weapons as well.
“So, guys, what’s the evil scheme this time?” I called down to them before jumping off the catwalk to slide down one of the columns supporting it.
Considering this wasn’t a planned thing, it was weird that none of them looked surprised. “You that kid who’s been messing around with the locals?” One asked.
“I’d say I’m more of a teen, or a young adult maybe, but yes. That’d be me.” I circled around the three men, all of them watching me warily, and circling in turn while still guarding the object of their seeming fascination. They still hadn’t given me an opportunity to see what it was. “...And you’re next.”
Dispatching the criminals was a simple task. I sprang at the nearest one, the one who had spoken, and with a swift kick to the head he was down. I used the momentum to carry myself into the next guy, who’d been trying to sneak up behind me. Well, that wasn’t going to work.
I blocked his first attempted punch, grinning with the adrenaline, and grabbed his forearm to swing him up and over my head into a flip. He collided with the third man as well, knocking them both to the floor.
I laughed. “I hope that teaches you a lesson! I’ll take you down, and anyone else who messes with this city too!” But I think they’d all already been knocked unconscious before I’d finished speaking. Ah, well. I put my hands on my hips to survey the fallen opponents, then, satisfied, went to examine what they’d been after.
On a desk in the middle of the room was an unassuming black briefcase. I flicked it open immediately, and… In hindsight, that might have been where I went wrong.
I’d forgotten about the fourth man. I flew backwards as the case exploded, hitting a column.
“Perhaps we could teach you a lesson,” He said dramatically. “Mind your own business.”
“Yeah? How about no. Turn yourself in, or you’ll end up like your friends, here,” I said weakly, gesturing to the motionless bodies laying around. I was still reeling from the minor explosion, though as far as I could tell I wasn’t really seriously hurt. The confidence still running through me gave me a bit of a boost.
The man was about to respond when a tremor shook the building. He looked towards me as if somehow I could be causing it, while I looked around checking the windows and doors to find the source.
Then a wall of flames erupted in front of me, blocking the man from my sight. “Another time maybe,” I heard him say, and then I couldn’t see or hear him anymore. He had gotten away.
A figure appeared from the smoke, leaning over and offering a hand.
“Come with me if you want to live,” She said. I looked at her doubtfully, wondering if she was making a joke or something, but took her hand anyway. She pulled me to my feet, made sure I was stable, and made for the front entrance of the warehouse. I followed immediately after, not wanting her to think I was slow or something. She looked back over her shoulder for a second, and the flames died down as quickly as they had come.
So she had some sort of fire powers. She’d probably be pretty useful if she ever wanted to help me fight criminals.
“We should do something about them.” I said, gesturing to the criminals still laying on the floor. “I brought some zip ties. It’d be a waste not to make sure they’re safely in custody before we leave.”
She glanced at me, slightly exasperated. “No, actually. We don’t have evidence they really committed any crime. We can’t legally arrest them, so we’ll be leaving them here.” She swung open the double door entrance of the warehouse, letting some of the dim light from outside in.
“Then what’s the point of this? Why are you here?” I demanded, closing the door roughly behind myself.
“You’re a rising vigilante. And a good one, at that. The sooner someone takes you out the better. I’ve dealt with rookies before, and I always keep an eye on them in case they get into something they can’t handle,” She explained.
“I definitely could handle that, excuse you,” I crossed my arms.
“Your thing is emotions, right? Do you have a default mode, or are you always in crime fighting mode?” She asked. I frowned. I didn’t need this kind of criticism. “Do whatever it is you do to fix yourself, please.”
I didn’t want to follow anyone’s orders, but she obviously curious about what I could do, so why not make a show out of it? I begrudgingly ruffled through my bag to find the vial labeled with ‘confidence,’ which still had some extra red glowing substance in it.
I glanced at her before tapping my finger to my forehead again, drawing out the emotion that had been a source of the energy that I needed to confront criminals. My mind went still while I transferred the strand almost automatically into the vial, capping it, and searched for the next emotion I wanted. A simple, light green one stood out to me, even though it didn’t glow nearly as much as some of the others. I poured some of it into my eyes, blinking to absorb it fully, and felt a subtle glow of satisfaction for the job I’d just done.
“So that’s what you do,” she mused to herself. Good, she was impressed. “What emotion do you have now?”
“Satisfaction. The bright red one I just took out was confidence. I kind of used a lot of it, so sorry if I was a little…” I trailed off, self conscious now. “Um, do you want to see the other ones?” I asked. She nodded eagerly, but then paused.
“We should probably go somewhere safer first.” As her eyes hardened I realized that she had been doing this a lot longer than me, and her ordering tone suggested that she’d be suited to a leadership role very well. I wondered if she’d been on some kind of team of vigilantes before. “I have a hideout near here, that should do.”
I gestured for her to lead the way, and she started weaving her way through the city’s alleyways, finally coming to a stop outside an inconspicuous door. “Here?” I asked.
“Yes. I have tons of these all over the city,” She explained. “It’s safe.”
“Alright,” I shrugged. She held the door open as I walked in, taking in the surroundings. There was a couch with some blankets on it, a small table with some chairs, and a sink with some cabinets. “Not used much?” I asked.
“Not really, no.” She gestured at my bag, and I only hesitated a moment before carefully taking out all of the vials I had and arranging them onto the table. I had some of almost every color, varying strength, brightness, and quantity in each bottle.
“The glowing red one’s confidence, which you knew, and the softer green is satisfaction, which you also knew… The electricity yellow one is fear or stress, that kind of thing.” I went down the line, next going to a light blue one that was slow moving like honey and a completely still, dull grey one. “The blue one is calmness, which is pretty useful. The grey one is anger, but more of a cold anger.” One of them was shining with a brilliant white light. “That’s happiness,” I said simply, pointing to it. “And sadness,” I said, looking to the deep black one next to it. That one was full, unfortunately.
“What happens when you’re not using any of them?” She asked.
“...Nothing. I mean, I just feel nothing,” I shrugged again. “My mind used to produce emotions naturally, but then I started bottling them up, and I guess I ran out. They’re all in here, now. Sometimes one will come up naturally, like this one,” I put a finger on the crackling yellow one. “And I just take it out. That’s why some are more full than others.”
She nodded, deep in thought, and gestured to the last two bottles. “Which ones are those?” One was a mellow orange, with a more liquid-like quality than most of the others. The other had a solitary string of deep, shimmering purple, by far the emptiest bottle.
“The orange is excitement, joy, that type of thing. I swear it’s not just orange juice. The purple one, that’s… attraction.” I admitted. She didn’t say anything for a few moments, but that was alright.
“I see. Do you know how to use them?” She asked finally.
I blinked. “Yes? ...What do you mean by that?”
“You almost got blown up today because of taking too much confidence. It’s lucky you weren’t seriously hurt. Do you know how to balance these, and use them to your advantage?”
“I think so. I’ll be more careful next time,” I nodded in assurance. She stared at me as if to see if I meant it, then nodded in return.
“Then you can officially call yourself a vigilante, I’m giving you the go-ahead. Use this safe spot whenever you need it, call for help as needed too. The community will have your back. ...Good luck,” She said, then turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.
I frowned. Was that it? Was that all it took to be a vigilante? What if this had been some sort of elaborate initiation ceremony?
...Either way I never saw her again.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
Sci-Fi: Complete The Loop (Nov. 2016)
Turns out separate planets wasn’t far enough.
The past still caught up to you, no matter where you ran. The days of your empire were gone, barely a whisper on anyone’s lips. But you think you would have left anyways, even if your criminal empire hadn’t imploded in on itself, causing you to be hunted anywhere you went. Everyone you knew was already dead, and there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that you were next. ...Well, that wasn’t quite true. A few of your former subordinates lived yet. But they may as well have died, for they were the ones responsible. You wouldn’t rest until justice had been served.
Now, you could see ships in the sky, bearing the emblem of your former friends. It was a dull reminder that your kingdom, everything you’d ever worked for, was gone. And even now they continued to search for you to finish the job. And so you kept running, evading, dodging death at every turn. It seemed that you refused to quit the game, even knowing it was futile.
It was a shame. You’d only been living in this secluded forest for a year. Now it seemed naive to hope that they wouldn’t be able to track you down. You picked up the rifle from its mount on the wall, checking it was loaded. As luck would have it, its energy stores were full. Bullets were a thing of the past. You threw some things into a pack, and took one last glance around the room before leaving it forever.
Hopefully your rivals had finally come themselves. It’d be a shame if you only got to kill more drones. Bending to tap your shoes, the rockets activated and sent you soaring up the trees. You’d made sure to fuel up on those as well, before leaving. Once you were level with the furthest reaches of tree cover you stopped, lurking in the branches.
You were close enough to take a shot at the ship. A single blast from your rifle was enough to put a dent in the hull, while also alerting them to your location. You always loved a good fight. Only when you were the victor, of course. And luckily you were more than capable of handling a single ship. You’d leave when they called reinforcements, living another day.
The ship’s entrance ramp lowered, allowing people to come flying out equipped with rocket boots and energy rifles of their own. That’s where the fun normally begins. You shoot out of the trees, firing rapidly with the rifle. The good thing about energy is that it doesn’t run out easily, sometimes taking years to empty. The bad thing about it is that your enemies have it as well. You ducked and spun in the air, dodging left and right, dropping drones with every blast.
There was one figure, however, that was perfectly dodging every fire you shot. It was slowly coming closer, and with it your worry increased. You’d never met a single opponent who could match you. You ducked beneath the canopy, letting the large leaves block out the suns’ light, flying away from where you came from at the same time.
A moment or two later, the figure you had been worried about came down as well, showing off how easily trackable you were. It was disguised in a helmet and uniform, giving you no clues to its identity. You couldn’t be certain if it was one of the targets for your revenge or not.
You got closer to it in order to shoot through the trees more accurately. The two of you traded shots, neither ever getting hit. It seemed you were a perfect match. You narrowed your eyes. It was possible that this was one of your personal targets. Only one of them could ever be this good.
A shot came too close, grazing your arm and making the tree behind you erupt in flames. As you were distracted by that, the figure came close enough to attach some kind of technology you hadn’t seen before to your arm. It locked on, and as you looked back at the figure, waiting for the device to explode or something similar, it whispered three words.
“Face your destiny.”
----------------------
When you came back to consciousness, surprised that you did at all, your internal clock flashed warnings, saying that something was wrong. Or, perhaps, not wrong, but simply different. It was telling you the wrong year.
Your internal clock had never been wrong before. You should probably get it checked out at some point. Glancing around, you were struck by the familiarity of your surroundings. It looked like your old headquarters, before you were overthrown. Interesting.
Cautiously looking around, you found that it hadn’t aged a day. This probably should have seemed suspicious to you. It had been 7 years under new management, something should have changed by now. You were wearing a new uniform as well, one of the ones that your new recruits used to wear.
As you wandered the halls you found other odds and ends that didn’t seem to match up. Your propaganda still covered the walls. Finally you found the recruitment sector, where new recruits would be assigned missions and tasks within the empire. You’ll admit something, here. None of this was legal in the first place.
But when you entered, you were greeted by the officer you remembered hiring, it must have been a decade ago. But… He had died during the coup. You thought back to what your internal clock had said. It was the only date worth anything in your life, the day you lost everything.
… Could it be that you were back in time? That’s what the signs led to. If the new leaders of your empire had continued to develop technology at the same rate you had, then it’s entirely likely that they had recently invented time travel.
All right. Let’s see where this will take you. You wondered where the leaders of the coup were. It was possible that you could stop this, and save yourself.
Or… An idea entered your head. With your current understanding of time travel, it was not possible to change the past in significant ways. And if you were doomed to lose your empire this day, then perhaps you could win a new one.
You walked through the facility at your top speed, memories of the day flooding to the forefront of your mind. The leader of the coup had been a new recruit, on their first day of the job. It was starting to make sense.
Finding the main gathering space for the crew, you found it worryingly easy to convince people that the operator and leader of this empire was in need of a rebellion. In your mind, this coup had taken years to plan, and years to convince people that there needed to be one at all. This was a bit of a shock, hearing they all had been thinking rebellious thoughts all along.
Nevertheless, it only made it easier to plan and enact the coup. You were at the forefront, as was always your role in life, and made quick work of your own defenses. This was getting on your nerves. It seemed that in the past, you hadn’t ever thought that you’d need them. You had been extremely careless, and a poor leader. Maybe that’s why the people so easily rose against you.
You let yourself escape, not willing to disrupt the time-space continuum. The next seven years found you developing time travel, as well as tracking yourself down with ease and sending group after group to assassinate your past self. It wouldn’t work, and it never would until the day you arrived, but you were okay with this. This was how it was always meant to play out. It wasn’t as if you could ever be wrong.
The day arrived for you to engage yourself in combat. You had grown older, and were more adept at fighting. But you didn’t want to kill your past self. By now you had developed time travel, as you had thought, having put people to work on it as soon as you possibly could.
As you and yourself fought, you could see the sheer desperation and hatred in your eyes. You were your own worst enemy, doomed to relive the same existence again and again, stuck in an infinite loop. But you were okay with it.
You distracted your past self with a well timed explosive, and drove the time travel device into your arm.
“Face your destiny,” You said, and then your reality dissolved with a blink, having finished the loop for the thousandth time.