Arc 3: Imago
Imago 3.P: Preludes and Nightmares
You are in the warm, enfolded in the dark. You cannot move, and the ever-present sickly-sweet scent of decay is the only sense you have beyond the bitter taste of bile, until suddenly it isn't. The dark and cramped confines of your cage fall away as does the awareness of the agony in your skull when, like
a thousand-thousand constellations dotting the night sky, tiny blips of awareness
kindle within your mind. Simple things, a million and more strong army, coming at your command. You had been all alone, but how could you ever truly believe that? Your
servitors/
subjects/
children are everywhere, and each is a part of your awareness, each of their
tiny minds completely obedient to your mental call. You cried for help, expecting none, but they came anyway. You do not feel relief; no joy or excitement fills you at this. As well thank the
sun for being
green, the
desert for being
endless. No, it is
but right and proper that
you call and they obey.
A great wrong has been perpetrated here. You have been tormented and imprisoned
without cause or reason. An act of
madness, of
chaos, hateful and malign, has occurred. And so your tiny soldiers,
individually insignificant but
mighty taken together, swarm and charge the, to their view, behemoth form of your attacker, besieging the flesh of the
architect of your betrayal. They die in droves, your loyal multitude, but you are not sent to sorrow.
All is as it should be.
Many die that the whole may prosper, and your tormentor is driven to her knees, then again to the ground. Your loyal horde swarms the flesh of your fallen foe, and you watch with
logical dispassion as bit by tiny bit they strip your enemy to bone. You feel every fragment of flesh part, taste every bit of blood and bone before your scuttling horde departs at your command. Not one scrap of flesh or a single crimson hair remains.
Reaching out with your mind's touch, the padlock on your prison spins rapidly through the proper sequence before clicking free, your mind-hands pulling it loose as you step out from the bloody bog-filled cell you'd become trapped in. You feel...changed,
more than you'd been. Looking down at the flensed skeleton of the one you'd once been proud to call sister you feel...a passing sort of sorrow,
one which cracks then shatters into so much sirocco-scented sand, blown away on a dry, quiet, coppery breeze. You stare long moments more
, unable to remember why you were so intent upon this...thing. This utter insignificance. Turning away, you breathe in,
the bones eroding to dust which fills your lungs with clean, clear air, that you might ignore the charnel reek of your freshly empty cage.
You turn, distantly aware of your little crawling corps of soldiers continuing to chase down and consume those transgressors who'd fled the scene. They failed at their appointed roles. They did not oppose the collapse of order. They ignored the mandate of their roles, and so they perish, as individually insignificant as the insects in your tide of ants.
A bitter taste of salt brings a scowl as you reflect that you have been merciful. Death by a hundred-thousand cuts is too quick when it is carried out by a thousand-thousand troops.
Betrayal deserves suffering. Ah well. You are magnanimous in victory, and they are permitted to merely die,
affront to your majesty though they be.
Your vision shudders to the side as a swift splintering sound fills the sudden silence in the hall. Ponderously, with
tectonic menace and gravitas, you turn to face the source of the attack. At your feet, a splintered quarrel from some paltry pointy stick launcher falls forlornly, its pathetic powerlessness finding no purchase past your
impervious, imperious power. You blink in languid
largesse, allowing the
impertinent lunatic moments more to live, even as you scent the air. Your generosity
ignites,
utterly eradicated,
rendered unto ash, the treachery inherent in the stink of
shadows and betrayal suffuses the insolent insurgent
who dares to stand before
YOUR GLORY.
Exploding into action, you
batter down the mad miscreant, sending the
tenebrous traitor crashing through walls of burnished brass and blocky basalt. They scream, an echo of
your own agony as an
emerald apocalypse ignites their insides.
HOW DARE THEY?! YOU ARE THEIR QUEEN, AND THEY WILL KNOW THE FULL WEIGHT OF GLORY THAT YOU EMBODY. You
were merciful. You
permitted them to survive, to
submit to your sovereignty and they
spat spite in
their ruler's face. As
slick keloid scarring and blood-pouring lesions open across them, you put them from your mind. Their
punishment has been seen to. Their folly is at an end.
Finally, you turn the attention to the last of
your dear, intimate enemies. Most
playful of them all.
Adorable, really, in her faltering flailing attempts to show you
her affection. Fortunate for her you are such a persistent paramour. She
lets out a cry, and it
rends your ears with so thoughtful an
agony, that you just
must pursue her. She
flees, and you feel your
fleet feet accelerate, the
joy welling within you spreading to
embrace the surrounding city, sharing the
lovely, loving caress of your
aching affection, feeling a shiver of satisfaction as the stone
sublimates silently to a
cloud of trailing crimson in your wake.
You pursue your
adorable admirer, the
sharp, stabbing delight of
her cries at your
little love-bites and
flensing kisses returning your
affection and more. It is with a
sudden smile that you at last bring your relationship to
its inevitable climax, your
flaying affection finally
freeing her before you
forget whatever it was that brought you here.
Odd, that. Hm. Ah well! Someone out there is putting quite a lot of effort into making an
awful racket. Those
sirens are so utterly
shrieking, you just
must show them your
appreciation of their attempts to
tease you. You dart from the ruined shell of the school, your satori-self expanding to spread your slicing touch to a--
ooo
You awake with a thundering heart and a convulsing stomach. Scrabbling your way to the 'guest room's' trash can, you just manage to retch into the receptacle. You're there for several horrified and heaving moments, trying at once to sob and be sick, before your stomach starts to settle, and you finally manage to weep. A sharp and sudden light lances in, silhouetting the panicked face of your father, seeing the sick on your chin and in the can, his features contort with worry and a helpless rage before settling into a fierce and fervent compassion. Before you can even get a syllable of your protest stated, his arms are around you and he's clutching you close, his tears dripping against your hair as your own stain his pajama's shirt. No words pass between you, yet much is said despite the silence.
ooo
Infernal Conundrum Part 2, Act 3: Start
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