Winter 2045
Zane Hannes
A curved slice ripped tendons from bone. The arc was like a sliver of the eclipse rending the meat from that which could be discarded. It was a mechanical process that Zane had honed in his time in this body in this new world. It was like a game—learning the ways meat tore and separated from the dead. The sooner you cut to when they were killed seemed to increase the factor of satisfaction exponentially.
It was as if he could breathe in the escaping soul of his victim directly—to steal their essence before it fled to the afterlife. Before it returned to his den where his kind would return it back out to the universe. A cackle echoed into the night as blood flew into the air like soppy paint. Each cut contained a swell in the orchestra of his mind. He was an artist. A performance to be watched by his eyes alone as they took in the disjointed angles of the corpse as its flesh was pared from the body.
His wretched claws dug into the blood-seeped side of the beast he had killed from the comfort of his hideaway deep in the crimson hills just outside of the local settlement. The disgusting pigs who lived there called it Hetton. It existed a few miles to the west of the crater that used to be called Enforal.
Hetton. Such a nothing, disgusting name for a nothing, disgusting set of people. He had entered the town for immediate retreat from the fallout of the meteor—the despicable woman he had traveled with was surely dead at this point—and his anger reached a fever point that he couldn’t have been there to see it himself.
And now his company had to be...the Hettonites. It was as disgusting as it was bland. Probably didn’t have a soul in its burrow half as bright as the corpse in front of him now. He slid the end of a long intestine past his lips and licked the droplets of blood off his cheek. His teeth tore the meat apart as the juices dripped down his chin.
The crimson sunlight burned the horizon into his vision, in his left hand he clutched the last remnant of his stay in Enforal. The orange gemstone faintly glowed as if it receded at his very touch—an act he spat on with the highest disregard. How dare you disregard me as some other creature. I am your commander and now I own all of your power. Your previous owner is nothing but ash in the wind. Nothing but dust and insignificance.
And yet, even though he felt the force disparaging him from within the power, he felt billowing pools of energy that shot through his veins when he held it tight. He felt like he could simply close his eyes and the settlement would cease to exist.
Parlor tricks, nothing more. For his true sights were much higher. He felt a burning hatred for that stranger who had stolen his treasure—who so effortlessly dug his face into the ground. The man in the hood needed to pay for embarrassing him so simply to that many people. The thought sent fire through his blood. He had been following the bastard’s scent ever since he vanished from Enforal. The hunt had taken him across the southern border up now toward the chilly northeast.
The beast he had killed played its own role in this cyclic game of cat and mouse—as it had been one of his own kin—a Chronomaly from the depths of time and space. Chronomalies were time hunters—traveling across the world searching for those thieves of time—Pathfinders—who lived lives a million times of their own...of course and monsters like himself—ex-chronomaly-human hybrid.
It was with this pitiful human’s help that his consciousness focused and formed into a personality—as the existence of a chronomaly is that of a senseless beast. Still, a mindless beast has its uses, and it was an act of pure entertainment to think that something so rank and foul could even begin to overpower him.
He slammed a closed fist into the lifeless husk he was in the middle of preparing. Blood sprayed—he had hit a rather juicy nerve and he shoved his fist in even deeper, offering a guttural scream where no words could explain his anger. Words failed to explain what visceral lashings of a body could so simply describe.
When he finished his meal he buried the bones—hiding evidence of his camp wasn’t so much a necessity rather than a move out of spite. The idea of some other creature benefiting from his work had been such a disdainful idea that sparked his efforts to completely remove any such possibility from happening.
He had begun his walk—he had hated to admit that his tendrils had pained him immensely still from his encounter with the robed menace. There were no bones in them to break, but the skin still seemed to ache whenever he had put any weight on it—meaning his primary method of travel was cut from him so coldly.
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Just another reason to tear the man spine-from- stem—for all that he had taken. So, he had walked. And he would continue walking until he could no more.
He left the waste behind and followed the spectral scent that hung in the air—so faintly guiding his senses to its source. He knew the bonelands were a threat to any creature that walked across it. He had known there to be tunnels that connected one end of the badlands to the other—but he had long forgotten the source of either exit—plus, he wasn’t sure if there were more entrances or if he’d need to backtrack to the ruins of Enforal.
Out beyond him the land arched up as the white-hot land stretched as far as the eye could see. The man in the hood had traveled this way—of this he had no doubt. His decision was not made any more difficult than that.
He gripped the orange crystal tight in between his fingers as he took one step forward. The pain was immediate and he looked down to see that his foot had immediately glowed a deep red. The feeling rushed up his leg and was going to continue, but a cooling sensation covered his body. He smiled and took another step. The pain was just as piercing but it soon cooled and he continued—slowly taking step by step as if moving his feet through molasses.
There was a slight moment of hesitation as the scent he was following suddenly surged—his eyes dilated and he felt almost like doubling over. Just what was this sudden sensation? He started to lick his lips and felt they were crusty and chapped—he must have overlooked his hydration during his meal. Heh, now that I think of it I did get carried away. I can’t allow for mistakes like that again...I guess I do need to visit that shithole.”
He turned in place and took a step back for the village—looking over his shoulder as that scent surged again through his vision—bleeding in and pulling at his brain to follow. There’s more...more than the man in the hood...it’s tempting to forgo all his sensations and chase after it madly—but then he would be no better than that aged fool he’d taken this crystal from.
He stared down at the crystal in his hand and saw the reflection of those eyes inside. He blinked—and they were gone. He shook his head and continued back toward Hetton. Maybe he could convince some poor saps to share some resources. He didn’t want to expend the energy forcing his way if he could avoid it.
Something in the back of his mind seemed to sit like a rotten seed, planting itself into his consciousness. The thoughts started and then bloomed deeper and deeper as the words repeated themselves like haunted chants.
Absorb once and you just can’t stop.
Absorb and absorb until you drop.
How many voices are in your head?
Too many to count, then you wind up dead.
He kept repeating the words as images of the old Zane flashed across his memory. He refused their surfacing. He had killed that part of Zane and buried it so deep it would never see the light of day again. And yet...bodies tended to never stay buried for that long...so why should memories?
“No!” He yelled out.
Absorb once and you just can’t stop.
“I devoured you! I own you!”
Absorb and absorb until you drop.
“You are mine to control. I will not honor any of your thoughts!”
How many voices are in your head?
“You don’t belong here anymore. You don’t belong anywhere anymore.”
Too many to count, then you wind up dead.
~...~
It was a simple task, acting like a homeless fool. The hardest part about it was killing his desire to lash out at those who passed him with nothing more than a glance. He felt a bitter hatred toward the looks they gave like he were some cretin. All this, but his face was a weak imitation of what could be seen as sickly.
He waited until he got enough to sustain a trip through the bonelands and simply stood up and left. There had been other beggars around—that kind of thing seemed normal to them. The thought would have made him sympathetic if the people of this despicable burg had felt any sympathy toward them. He stared at the skeletal figures of starved and dying bodies who simply clung to life because dying was too inconvenient.
There was something to be said of the food and water he had taken from them, but that was cast aside almost immediately. I am not a person. Morality can be left to the dogs.
He wiped his forehead and left the town behind him, the sights shrinking the further away he walked. After regaining his strength he tested his tendrils and found they were less sore, but still noticeably so. He probably could move at his normal speed soon enough, but he would still have to wait on that.
He closed his eyes once he reached the edge of the bonelands again. The ground reflected brightly and he could still sense the trail he had been following. That hooded rat was still within traveling distance. He wondered then if this was some sort of trap...surely from his hours begging the scent would fade...no?
He thought back to how soundly he was beaten in the tournament and he cooled his anger. It was that exact anger that led him to underestimate what was obviously a most potent foe.
Thinking on this, he had a few options, and none of them left him pleased. He figured the best option might be to play the diplomat—see if his theory is correct and forge a deal like he had with the huntress.
And so he continued out, following the scent and a firm grip over his anger—which had begun to rise with each pained step across the flame-hot land.