Its Gonna

Day 4 - Freeze

I appologize, this one got way out of hand. Hopefully you still enjoy.

Prompt: Freeze

Title: A Pilot is the Soul

At the Combat Robotics center in the big city, a crowd of photographers and important looking people in suits had arrived to witness the latest prototype in Fighter Robo being showcased that day. Investors from leading tech companies, as well as KFL fans, had gathered to see the fruits of their investments. As well as the return of a retired KFL Robo Pilot. One dapper gentleman known as Danny Fierce. He was one of the first humans who took his military combat robo rig and had it refurbished for KFL fights. 

His majestic partner stood at the entrance, proud as the day it was re-commissioned for the KFL. For his part, Danny walked up to an anxious-looking intern that was frantically looking around, clutching her clipboard and pen.

“Hey, excuse me. The email didn’t say where to go.” He said, slipping off his weathered cap and scratching his head, “Don’t suppose you could help with that?”

The intern gasped, “Oh thank goodness, we thought you got lost.” She clicked her pen and brought it to her mouth, “Mr. Fierce has arrived at the north entrance, I’ll take him to the briefing room.” The pen crackled some kind of response. She smiled and waved to him, “Follow me please.”

They slipped past the crowd and into the center. Passing by the posters and displays for the latest prototype. There were even some inside the elevator they rode to the top floor. Danny took note of one beside him. He muttered to himself.

“The Maverick mark two. Synthetic craftsmanship honed to its utmost potential? Pah,” He said shaking his head, “Just give me a rig and hold the synthetics.” He looked to his guide, she kept politely silent. 

The elevator opened up to a conference area. At the main podium, was the leader of the Combat Robo program. She waved to them.

“Yes yes, come in. Glad you could make it.” She said and gestured to a seat beside her. “For the guest of honor.”

Danny smiled and made his way past the other rows of tired-looking scientists and engineers. Some had let their chins dip to their chests and were snoring softly. When he arrived at the podium, he reached out to shake her hand.

“Danny Fierce, reporting for duty, Miss--”

“Doctor, actually,” She said, taking his hand, “Doctor Abigail Bishop.” She smiled and gave his hand a firm shake.

Danny smiled and nodded, “Got it,” He took his seat beside the podium, “Please continue.”

“Of course,” Doctor Bishop said. “Today is the big day team. We’ve put in the hours and now comes time to show it off to our eager investors. Right now, they are getting the VIP treatment and the awesome sizzle reel that our media team was nice enough to put together.” She said and motioned to a group seated in the back. They gave a weary cheer, the rest of the congregation applauded.

“And speaking of VIP treatment,” She said, “A round of applause for our very special guest, the renowned robo pilot Danny Fierce.” She clapped, others followed suit. Danny waved politely.

“We stand at a crossroads, my fellow creators,” She continued, “A new era is about to dawn. We have suffered through the setbacks and struggles of mark one, but with this, the mark two, we shall showcase the incredible might of Combat Robo development team!” She clicked a small remote and a projection shot up from the center of the room to showcase the specs and holographic design of the new robo rig. Supportive applause fluttered around the room.

Danny leaned forward.”Say, that’s pretty compact,” He said, “How is a pilot supposed to fit in there?”

Doctor Bishop smirked at him and clicked the remote again, “Oh no no, my archaic friend.” The image switched over to a spec readout, a highlighted phrase said, “Remote Operation and Autonomous Control modes”.

He leaned back, “Ah, I see.” He folded his arms and shook his head, “I dunno, you take the pilot out of the rig, the metal ain’t got no soul.” 

She wore a professional smile, the kind hewn from stone and salt that belies the teeth clenched behind tightly pressed lips. 

“Well, old man,” She said, “That’s what we are here to showcase.” She clicked the remote again. It brought up the specs of Danny’s rig, the Dandy Piston, and the not so flattering details. Including but not limited to a highlight phrase that said, “Unpredictable Human Error”.

“Oh, I get it now.” He said, a smile played across his face. He looked at her, “A friendly exhibition.”

She smiled, “Friendly, yes.”

The meeting dispersed and the crowds gathered at the research center’s KFL ring. Maverick Mk.2 was standing proudly inside the pristine ring. Carbon-fiberglass platting designed to look like an upright fighter jet with legs. Sleek, deadly, and super cool. 

Opposite the black and red rig was Dandy Piston, Danny’s faithful rig. The center was kind enough to get the cobwebs off of it before having it deposited into the ring. Danny stood on the staging balcony situated at what would be called the rig’s neck. Danny slipped into the last of his piloting gear, modeled after the aviators of old, all leather and insulating fur. The most high tech thing on his person, the headset the Doctor was nice enough to lend him, buzzed in his ear.

“Are you ready?” The voice was the anxious intern. 

“Just about.” Danny responded. He popped open the hatch and slipped his way down into the gyro cockpit. He sat back in the pilot seat, a wave of nostalgia washed over him.

“Hey there, you old fool, you remember me?” He ran his hands over the various levers and dials that made up his configuration. He took his time remembering each switch and the feel of the pedals under his feet. “Got another fight left in you?” 

He slipped his hand under the main console and triggered the startup command. The cockpit hummed to life, lights flickering on and gauges spinning to calibration. The music of the machine took Danny to a special place in his mind. A time of great battles, struggles, fear, and triumph. He smiled.

“Uh, are you ready, yet?” The anxious voice said in his ear.

Danny sighed, letting his shoulder slump. “Can’t let me have anything, can ya,” He muttered before adding, “Yeah yeah, we’re ready to rumble.”

Up in the command center, a host of the section leaders were gathered in front of various terminals, all whirring and beeping with up-to-date information of the condition of the Maverick. Doctor Bishop walked the rows, checking on last-minute adjustments.

“Matilda, Flick me the diagnostics. Marco, make sure the software is at its most recent patch, should be 11.5.1. Chell, no drinks at the terminals, please thank you. Juliette?” 

The anxious intern looked from her terminal, lifting an earphone from her headset, “Yes, Abby?” 

Abigail cleared her throat.

“Oh uh, I mean, Doctor Bishop? What is it?”

She smiled, “How is the fossil doing?”

Juliette looked back at her terminal and leaned into the microphone, “Uh, are you ready yet?” She paused and then nodded, “Okay, he said he’s ready.”

Doctor Bishop clapped her hands, “Wonderful, then let’s begin.” She dashed to the front of the command center and clicked her remote, a camera drone floated up to record her.

Out in the KFL ring, a robo announcer drone flew up to address the audience.

“Honorable guests one and all. Welcome to our demonstration exhibition match. Today, our latest creation, the remarkable Maverick mark two, will clash with one of the best robo pilots of the last generation, Danny Fierce. Please, enjoy the show.”

There came applause and cheering. A few of the gentlemen in suits who wore their graying hair in conservative styles, whooped and hollered the loudest, even starting a small chant for Danny.

The announcer drone floated up between the two competitors. 

“Are the fighters ready?” She said.

Danny rolled his shoulders and cranked his controls, Dandy Piston responded by pumping a fist in the air. 

“We’re ready to dance!” His voice cracked out of the rig’s megaphone.

Abigail looked across the command center, her eyes falling on Juliette. For her part, the nervous intern put on her game face and nodded.

“Well then,” Doctor Bishop’s voice boomed from the announcer drone. “Let’s BRAWL!”

The Maverick sprang to attention and charged at Piston. Metal clashed and sparks flew as the two massive battle robots exchanged blows. The audience roared with each heavy hit. Piston was a little sluggish at the start, taking a few hits that rattled Danny in his seat.

“Yeesh, at least dance with me a little before taking me back to the hotel room.” Danny grunted into the mic.

“S-sorry. Your simulation was a lot harder. Should I hold back a little?” Juliette said.

“Oh, so you got sass, huh?” Danny said. He grit his teeth and jammed a pedal. A kick flew up and caught Maverick in the chest, sending it staggering backwards. “Ha, how’d ya like the pepper on that?”

The sleek rig straightened up. Juliette came back on the line, “Actually, that should just about finish it.”

“Finish? But we were just getting warmed up,” Danny protested.

“What she means,” Doctor Bishop said, cutting into the channel, “Is she will no longer need to fight you.”

She looked around the command center, her team looking up to confirm.

“Matilda, good. Chell, excellent. Marco. Marco? How we looking?” She said.

The engineer was furiously typing at his terminal, “Uh, fine. Yeah, we’re fine. It’s fine.” He gave a thumbs up.

She smiled. “Finally.”

She clicked the remote again, her announcer doppelganger appeared before the crowd.

“Been enjoying the fight, KFL fans?”

Cheers came from the crowd.

“Because now it is time to show what the Maverick can really do! Time to switch to Autonomous mode!” She clicked her remote again.

The Maverick snapped to attention, its eyes changing color. Once a humming red, they became a pulsing green. It stood pensive opposite Piston.

Danny squinted at his display, watching the idle rig across from them. Moments drifted by before he chuckled into his mic, “So uh, is it supposed to be doing something?”

There was no response from the headset. Until a voice shrieked.

“Why are its eyes green?” Abigail shouted.

Her team was frantically typing at their terminals. Juliette smashed the buttons on her controller to no avail. Matilda was flipping through a dense tome of code. Chell scrolled through dense code on her terminal. Marco fought to deny eye-contact and keep a low profile. It did not go unnoticed.

“Marco?” She said, walking quickly to him, “Fine? It will be fine?” She asked, pulling him back away from the terminal. The screen said, “Latest patch, 10.9.1”. She stood up straight and took a deep breath.

“Are you telling me, our prized prototype is standing like a dead lump of metal in front of all our investors because it had a system crash?” She said, visibly shaking.

Marco opened and closed his mouth to say something a few times before Abigail heard laughing coming through her headset.

“Aw now, you can’t blame the poor rig.” He said, pushing down on a pedal to have Piston approach the stoic Maverick. “Everyone goes through it in their first fight.” He laughed, “The Freeze.”

He got within a robotic arm’s length. In the cockpit, Danny flipped open a panel that had a big red switch. He let a wide grin pass his face as he flipped the switch. The rig started to hum louder, charging, priming, getting ready. He pulled back a lever, Piston readied a balled fist.

Abigail snarled into the mic, “What are you doing?”

“Let’s see if a nice, hard reset will do the trick?” Danny said.

“Don’t you dare!” She cried out. But it was too late.

In the audience, when they saw Piston wind up, they went wild. They knew what was coming. It had been the signature move of the pilot and his rig back in his day. The crowd cheered as the massive metal fist slammed into the sleek rig’s chest plate, lifting it off the ground. Then, the deafening crash as the hydraulic piston built into its arm sent a massive shock wave rippling through the Maverick and knocking it up into the air, end over end, in a shower of sparks and shredded metal.

The advanced piece of tech landed in a heap on the ground at Dandy Piston’s feet. The crowd was on their feet, cheering for their hero.

Abigail stood in the command center, Marco had pushed his chair far away and now she was left standing alone. Her jaw was clenched as thoughts raced through her mind. The remote that connected her to the investors that had paid for their project was heavy in her hand. Her fingers slowly loosened and let it fall from her grip. 

It was caught by another pair of hands. Juliette smiled and put the remote back in her hand.

“Just another setback.” She said. “Like the mark one. Just think of how good the mark three will be with all this data.”

Abigail shook her head, “There might not be a mark three, not with that pathetic display.”

“I dunno,” Danny said, hollering through the headset, “Seems like my fans got one hellava show.” He laughed, “You tell them I am already on board for the rematch against Maverick mark three, and they’ll fall all over themselves to put money behind it.”

Abigail looked out the window to the ring, where Dandy Piston was striking heroic poses to a no doubt elated crowd. She looked back at Juliette, who patted the remote in her hand and returned to her terminal.

Doctor Bishop took a deep breath. “Minor setback folks,” She said to her team, “Now let’s go win em back.” She clicked the remote.

The folks in nice suits were stepped back into their fancy cars, smiles all around. Danny waved to them as they went off. Juliette stood beside him.

“So, the soul in the metal?” She asked, “Is that how you won your fights?”

Danny looked at her and laughed, “No, I won most of them by being a little stubborn and a lot of lucky. I just wanted to bitch at your boss a bit.” He stroked his chin and looked up at Dandy Piston as it was being loaded into a transport. “But maybe--.” He shook his head, “Bah, I’m gettin old. Come get me when you need a rusty pilot to wrestle with your latest rig.”

He headed off to his ride. Juliette finished taking her notes and hurried back inside. As the new full-time assistant for Doctor Bishop, she would be very busy.

Happiness Will Come To You.

My tl is really dead rn so if ur a writeblr who writes fantasy, urban fantasy, anything with kings and queens and lots of fighting and shit (doesn’t have to have all of these elements …btw!)

That’s my jam, reblog so i can follow u and check ur rlly cool shit out

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

concept playlists;

you’re lying on mossy forest floors, slowly transforming into a nymph, your fingers are turning into flower vines, your limbs are bleeding honey & growing thick skins of sepia bark, wings sprout in between your shoulder blades. your breath sounds like the wind. fireflies litter the air above you

you’re hold up in an abandoned church, outside there’s a raging storm & a horde of zombies roaming around, pressing up against the entrance doors. you & a small band of survivors are staying inside for the night in hopes to ride the bad weather out. you take first watch & listen to these tunes on an old ipod while everyone else tries to get some rest & the undead crawl outside, awaiting the taste of human flesh.

you’re in your boyfriend’s pickup. he’s asleep in the passenger seat, you’re driving without a destination in mind & you have the window down as you let the cool night air whip against your face in a state of pleasant delirium you’re on a rooftop somewhere, there’s 5 am air on your skin, streetlights glint like coins at the bottom of wishing wells from where you sit. you’re feeling peaceful for the first time all week

you’re lying in the middle of a crop circle forty miles from your grandma’s old house waiting for aliens to come and abduct you

it’s four pm in the afternoon and you’ve got your head in the lap of the only boy you’ve ever loved & you’re reading jane eyre & he’s sipping on tea & it’s the kind of weather where it’s just warm enough for you to pretend it’s summer & it’s drizzling & you’re listening to the rain beat softly against the windowpanes you’re curled up in bed as it pours outside, there’s a citywide blackout and the last candle you had left has finally blown out, but you feel strangely at peace within the warm, all-consuming dark

you’re making out in the bathroom of a house party with someone that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed the sun you’re standing amidst a city you burned to the ground. the apocalypse has come & gone. all that’s left is ashes & mortar & sad bones but you’re feeling empowered. a slow smile creeps up your lips as you realize how you’ve always wanted to watch the world burn you wander into wonderland and now you’re suddenly being crowned fairie queen, apparently there’s a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled  it’s mid morning but it’s dark outside from the rain. you thought the tapping on the window was from the rain but it’s actually a crow that flickers out of sight when you look directly at it you’re sipping on cherry cola by the pool on a lazy sunday & you’re feeling younger than you’ve ever been you’re summoning old ghosts in an abandoned parking lot on a smoggy thursday night

Abaddon Among the People - A drabble

I had some spare time at work and a word processor opened in front of me. A fun idea of a character that was once a harbinger of doom gets put on hiatus so the creator can get back to creating. But what happens when they don’t want to come back?

Enjoy.

~~~~~

"You're Grounded!" The eternal being bellowed.

"What!?" The destroyer of worlds cried back. Then, in a flash of light, the world opened around him. His glorious wings vanished and he fell. Passing through the several layers of reality, each plummet robbing him of his home and place among his kind. It its place grew a painful resentment. 

Then, he landed. He glared back at the bubbling rips in existence from whence he came. As the rends stitched themselves back together, he cried up into the void, “You’ll pay for this!” 

And then, silence. He would be forced to live among the mortal people. Creatures he once only saw at the tip of his lance. He would be forced to wallow alongside them.

That is, until they are called upon once more.

~~~~~~

"Let's get your wings back." Said the emissary of the eternal being. It floated in the middle of the living room and pulsed with eerie blue light.

"Actually," Don said, "I kind of like it here."

"What?” The being’s body bubbled and hissed as impossible energies coursed over what passed for its skin. The lights in the apartment started to flicker and shine in strange ways, like the bulbs were in pain.

"Hey, easy easy, you're gonna blow the whole grid." Don said, putting his hands on what passed for the being's shoulders. "Do you want some tea? I was just heating up a pot."

"How-" It began, before a finger pressed to what passed for its lips. Don gave a  pleading look before hooking a thumb to the bedroom door.

"She's trying to get some sleep."

The emissary's eyes twisted in an unnatural and disturbing way, the pupils weaving between each eye. When they settled, it began again.

"How can you turn down the call of the Eternal?" It said. Though hushed, the voice of the emissary was still heavy with purpose.

He shrugged, "I guess it just isn't as important anymore." 

What passed for the emissary's mouth dropped open.

The tea kettle began to hiss. "One second," Don said and hustled off to the kitchen to grab the kettle. When he got there, the emissary was standing next to the refrigerator. Its glowing body illuminated everything in a swirling mix of blue and white light. He didn't turn to face the impossible being as he poured out some of the hot water into a pair of cups.

"Was that a yes or no to the tea?" He said.

"You are making a mistake." It said, its voice dipped into that quivering pool of impossible where it sounded close and far at the same time, a booming whisper. The kind that makes your heart wait its turn. A mortal being would probably drop to their knees in terror and repent their sins.

Don set the kettle down and tipped his head to the side. "Yeah, probably too late for black tea. Too much caffeine." He poured out the cups and walked right past the emissary to the cupboard. "How about some chamomile lavender?"

"PESTIFER MUNDI ABADDON," the emissary said. “I CALL UPON YOU.”

Its voice was like a forgotten song. It was old and dripping with power. For Don, it ached with memories. A surge hit him and an old itch prickled his skin, centering on seven very particular points on his back. He grabbed the edge of the counter top to keep himself upright. His jaw clenched as a warm, pleasing, dangerous power kindled in his arms. The counter top began to crack.

"How feeble," He thought, looking at the splinters spreading from his flexed fingers. "A flick of my wrist and this whole wall would crumble. No, the whole building." A smile creeped over his face. His muscles burned, burdened with power, on the edge of a sudden push that would bring forth ruin.

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE," The emissary said.

"Who I am," Don said, his own voice was becoming dangerous and hot with feral potential. In truth, he never forgot. The memories of a lifetime long lost all gripped at his heart and mind every day. And every day he had placed them in their dark box. Things were different now.

"Who I am, is not who I was." He said. His bones, his body, ached in protest. But it wouldn't be the first time.

"YOU ARE A TOOL FOR THE ETERNAL AND YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED." The emissary said. Its body shimmered brighter, eyes burning with literal fire. Wisps of white smoke drifted towards the ceiling.

"Shove it, glowstick," He said, turning to face the floating voice of eternity. He put his finger right into its burning face, "You want to destroy this world so bad you can do it your damn self!"

What passed for the emissary's face curled into a horrible look of satisfaction. "So be it."

It was gone in the next moment.

Don was left in the kitchen alone. In the sudden darkness, he had the chance to ruminate on his choice of words. The gears whirred in his head as he flipped through the pages of his memories. Back, back, back. He finally reached that dark box in his mind. Whispers crept to his mind. Whispers of the end times, and getting permission, and a prophesied fool who would welcome the end of the world.

"Fuck," Don said.

A small voice gasped from behind him. He spun around, arms raised defensively. He looked at the doorway where a young girl was huddled, peeking in. She had a yellow rain hat and rain jacket, just like when he first found her. The baseball bat was a new addition. Though, it did prove that she had been listening to his survival advice all along. Her hazel eyes were wide and fixed on him.

"You said a swear," She said, her shocked face turned to a chiding smile.

He dropped his hands and let out the breath he realized he had been holding. He walked to the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a small hard candy. It was a serious swear, so he grabbed a strawberry one. He walked over and knelt down in front of her. He held up the candy and said, "No telling, okay?" He smiled.

She set the bat down and grabbed the candy, stuffing it in her pocket. "Deal. Who was the floaty guy?"

Don had almost forgotten about it. Is this the mortal ability to bypass traumatic moments? He will have to be more careful in the future. Things were about to hit the biblical fan.

"The floaty guy," He began, "Was an old friend. Wants me to get back into my family's business. I turned him down and he took it pretty hard."

"Is that why he exploded?" She said, she fidgeted with her hair, fingers fumbling to make a loose braid.

"Pretty much," He said, once again taking advantage of the impressive ability children have to just go along with things. They can inquire forever about why rain falls but tell them your old friend, who is a floaty guy on fire, just exploded because of family issues and they just nod along. Which is what she was doing, nodding her head like it all made sense to her.

"Speaking of which," He said, "We need to go see Mother May."

Mother May would know what to do. Probably. Assuming she was lucid enough to still be coherent. It was still early in the night. If they could catch her before her second bottle of absinthe, they might stand a chance to get a question in before she goes into her "Trance".

"Ready to go," She said. She grabbed the backpack that was tucked behind the doorway and slipped if on. Then she picked up the bat and rested it on her shoulder like a big leaguer. 

“So it would seem,” He said, giving her a nod. “I’ll grab my stuff and we’ll get going.”

He hustled to his room and dug into the back of his closet. He grabbed his satchel and leather duster jacket. He dashed to the door, but his hand came up and caught the door frame. He hesitated at the door. He looked back at the closet. His fingertips drummed on the door frame.

"What's taking so long?" The girl called from the front room.

He let go of the door frame. "Nothing," He called back to her before leaving his room.

Seconds later, he came sprinting back, vaulting over his bed and diving into the closet. He pulled back with a small box in his hands. He let his fingers trace over the intricate and ancient writing on it. He stuffed it into his satchel.

"We'll be fine," He said, "But just in case." He got to his feet and hustled out of the room again. “We’ll be fine.”

. . .

Mother May was a withered husk of centuries of abuse. Most, if not all of it, had been chemical and self-inflicted. However, for all the hallucinogens she had ingested in one form or another, she was a spry woman, scuttling about her duties at the Pearly Gates hostel. After a day of hard shilling to the lost and misfortune, she would shuffle to the parlor in the back to engage in recreational fortune-telling and tarot reading. Surrounded by her favorite tinctures and exotic smoke, she would play cards against the gods and read what the future had in store. This night, she had barely settled down to turn over the first card when there came a knock, knock knocking upon her chamber door. She laid down the card "The Fool" and sighed.

"Come on in, Don," She barked at the door, "You know you're always welcome."

Queen Hatshepsut of Ancient Egypt. She has a lovely smile for someone who’s been dead for thousands of years.

if you are 13 and there is a 17/18 year old showing interest in you: please run away and never look back. i understand that you feel special; that older person will tell you how mature you are and make you feel special. but please. run away from that person. stay away from them. they do not love you. an 18 year old should not have ANY interest in a 13 year old. please. please be safe. please do not let them manipulate you. they are dangerous. stay away from them

Reposting for the tags. #agreement

I’m gonna try this thing where I post more frequently with whatever I drew for the day, whether I’m satisfied with it or not. Bear with me. Or just be a bear. That works too.

not to get too deep on main but did anyone else have such deeply rooted issues with their self worth for so long that they thought as a kid/teen that their only redeeming feature was being “low maintenance” and now as an adult you give yourself guilt pangs asking for any more than the barest minimum in virtually any relationship because asking for things might negate your only good quality which is just “doesn’t ask for things”