What happens when the gods war? What happens when every god is at war with every other god from every dimension and every planet.
Annihilation.
Destruction immense enough to cause a singularity that ends everything. Every dimension coalesced into a single cosmic potluck of fragmented realities. But some of these Shards still contained life. And after a few thousand years, life just went on.
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What makes a martyr?
“Big baby here looks like he needs a nap.”
Is it passion, a commitment to ideals and virtues? Someone so naturally heroic that they are carved into the hearts and minds of all who met them. Someone whose death creates a prominent loss of good in the universe. A person who is remembered for their morals.
“Jeez, so sensitive. A little prodding and you already look like steam is coming out of your ears. Is your ego that fragile?”
Is it closeness to others? Empathy and connection that weaves them into the fabric of someone else’s life. Someone who, above all else, is remembered as a person and is grieved by the world when they are lost. A person who is remembered for their friendships.
“Come one, big guy. Hit me. Let off a little steam, or are you a little bitch who’s too scared to get his hands dirty?”
Or is it someone who is just convenient as a figurehead? Someone who can be posed as a leader from beyond the grave, to gather hearts and minds around a cause. Their name is used as a rallying cry, and their story told for them by those who profit from exaggerating and the flanderization of this person's life. A person remembered as a symbol.
“You hit like a baby with arthritis!”
I don’t know if any of that really matters to me, because I’m not any of these things. Not with the words I’m shouting. I don’t know anyone who considers me moral, symbolic, or a friend. Which is why I wake up the next morning with a hangover and a black eye.
Guess he can throw a punch.
I groan and reach for the glass of water on the nightstand by my bed. No doubt left there by Wither, who was also the one who dragged me out of the bar over her shoulder. I can’t help but feel a tinge of embarrassment over that, but I’ll get over it. Not like it’s the first time that’s happened, and I still ended up laying that guy out. Dude was a piece of paper and folded in a few hits, it was just kinda unsatisfying.
I get out of bed and walk through my average sized room, cluttered with dirty clothes, books, and snack wrappers. I half mindedly smack the punching bag I have hanging up while walking into the bathroom, a decision I immediately regret as the sound of the chains creaking as the bag swings worsens my headache. I grab some ointment for my eye, noticing the container is already half empty. Maybe I pick fights a bit too much… or I should just buy more in advance. Either or.
I wince as I dab it on myself while looking into the mirror. The swelling is noticeable, but not excessive and I can still see out of it just fine. My brown eyes slowly fade to a deep red that almost blends with my pupil. It makes my eyes look like all consuming voids, an aesthetic mutation due to the other condition I was born with that makes me an actual consuming void.
At least my wine-black hair looks good, it’s always something that’s required minimal upkeep. Although I might need it cut soon, it’s down to my ass at this point. I tie it into a ponytail and chew on some dental gum as I go to get dressed. I plan on heading out, so no lazing in my stained pajamas.
… I haven’t done laundry in a while. Whatever, some of these are probably clean enough. I find the only bra that doesn’t have alcohol stains on it, although I do have to wipe out some crumbs since I accidentally threw an empty cracker wrapper in them. The underwear I’m wearing is fine, so I just throw on a nominally clean pair of jeans and tshirt, in which I find a package of mini-cookies that still have a few in it. After putting on my custom leather gloves that go up to my armpit, I feel ready to head out.
Treat in hand, I walk downstairs, one hand on the railing because I’ve still got a pounding headache. My plan for today is simple, be lazy. Wither usually has a stocked fridge and I’ve got my own snack cache. I’ll probably end up swinging by downtown and check out the bargain bin at the bookstore, there’s usually some entertaining crap in it. I could also swing by Harper’s place to see if he’s got any new recordings from other Shards I could borrow. The tradeships come and go pretty often from here, so there’s a decent chance.
My plans are hastily interrupted by a message on my phone. It’s Wither, damn it.
Torturer
Delta, meet me at the training field.
Some weak Echoes appeared. Me and a few of the vets caught them and are using them to train the fresh meat.
I saved the biggest one for ya.
You
Blech
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Can we do this another time?
Torturer
No.
You wanted a good fight, now you’ve got one.
No complaining, you’re coming here to do what you do best. Hit things.
You
Am I just some barbarian to you?
Torturer
Yes.
Now get your ass over here.
You
You’re killing me
At least she’s not giving me a lecture on my behavior. Not yet anyway. I really hope she doesn’t decide to be an ass and ream me out while I’m fighting, and in front of everyone. She totally would though, the bitch. I’m not even officially part of the security force, this is just her idea of imbuing responsibility in me.
With that half a packet of cookies as my breakfast-er lunch now that I look at the time, I go to grab my equipment from the small armory next to her pantry, a design choice I will never fully understand, but accept because that is just something she would want. Dark elves are just like that, I guess.
The room itself is fairly small, basically two broom closets with the walls between them knocked down. What adorns this room is mostly trophies from Wither’s heyday, a rapier with golden inlays and enchantments, sabertooth daggers permanently caked in blood, a laser rifle that unfortunately used up all it’s battery (I really want to shoot that thing), and a dozen other tools taken from fallen foes that she’s considered worthy.
For my part, I take the weapons at the center of the room. A pair of enormous twin axes that show deadliness even from the apparent wear and tear from battle damage. They’re well cared for and maintained, which I would know well because I’m the one who has to clean them.
I do wish I could also wear her armor, but the 8ft tall set of black full plate gear covered in spikes isn’t exactly my size. That might not even be desirable since, while the erosion on the axes is noticeable but not detrimental, the armor is pretty fucked up. Dents in the helmet and joints, several of the spikes having been broken off, the fact that the entire right arm of the thing was melted off from acid, and several other signs of damage. Yeah, it’s probably just better to save up for my own gear. Still badass though.
I grip the hilts of the axes and with a heave I lift them up and strap them to the harness on my own back, attached to light leather armor that I’m currently making do with.
Heading outside, the sun fragment circling our Shard is bearing down on me. And it makes the five minute walk to the training area crap, and I know it’s gonna make the training worse.
Wither is the head of security for the Duke’s estate, and her home and all the guard stuff is right on the edge of the land. It gives me a nice view as I walk, the grassy plain cutting off to the endless sea of nothing, dotted by fragments of other stars and the scraps of nearby meteors noticeable with the light from our own piece of the sun. The light seems swallowed whole as I look out into the abyss.
I look out and wonder what the other Shards hold, those lands Wither got trophies from, and the Patchwork Planets that are the centers of every organization that has any meaning. The whole universe is so big and here I am, stuck on this little rock where I hate almost everyone and the feeling is mutual.
I was promised I’d get my chance to go when Wither says I’m ready, and I am really wondering if she’ll ever say I am. I can fucking fight, she knows that. I’m someone who can take care of themself. So what’s her deal with keeping me here?
I arrive at the field, seeing trainees smack at various dummies and a few using bolt-action rifles to shoot at targets. Off to the side of that, near the local armory, I see a stack of shed sized cages, a few of them jittering as whatever’s in them tries to escape. And waiting at the entrance for me is the woman herself. Wither is a dark elf, her skin a midnight black and her hair and eyes silver and shining. She’s large and bulky, towering over everyone here, save for the lizardman currently yelling at some of the trainees about their forms. My early memories of her are her muscles bulging like a bodybuilder. An adonis of a woman through and through. The more lax lifestyle of running security for a noble on a relatively peaceful piece of land has softened her somewhat, but that’s like comparing platinum to titanium. Her outfit by comparison is pretty mundane, tough linen trousers and a regular button up shirt, one of the sleeves tied at the stump of her right elbow.
She leans against the fence of the place with a blank expression. Her expression is schooled, but I can taste the subtle emotions off of her, bitter annoyance, citrusy spite, and a mellowed sour exasperation.
“Should we be doing this right after the funeral?” I question her, trying to get out of this even if I know it’s futile.
“You weren’t at the funeral. You were out celebrating and I had to leave early to bring you home.” Her blunt words and the sour taste getting less mellow is telling.
“Yeah, but still.”
“Your brother asked about you.” The hint of concern and the potent taste of it makes me want to puke, and I don’t bother to hide my emotions to her.
“I’m sure Rowan did. I don’t give a shit.”
“He and Erika are all that’s left of your family, please at least try and reach out-”
I step up to Wither, my nostrils flaring and my face getting close to hers despite her being two feet taller than me. I can feel my own blood burn as all I taste is ash from my own rage. “Don’t fucking imply that I’m the only issue here. We meet maybe five times a year, and that’s counting when he’s visiting you.”
My mentor calmly places her hand on my shoulder and pushes me back, calm and disappointed, which just makes me more bitter. “He’s trying now.” She tries to reassure me, giving me more bullshit on family and the importance of appreciating them like she always does. She’s a dark elf, and she talked to me a lot about how she was raised in a sisterhood with everyone else in her brood. I think she was trying to get me to want that connection myself. The thing is I always did, I just never had anyone to have it with.
“Don’t compare your regrets with mine. I didn’t feel anything when the old man kicked the bucket, I doubt it’ll be any different with them.” I swipe her hand away from my shoulder, with her just letting me do so. “You wept like a bitch when your sisters died, good for you, now will you stop trying to make that my issue?” I tell her. I know that’s a sore spot for her, and I wait for her reaction. I want her to get angry, to yell, to get mean.
Yet all I taste from her is more disappointment. “Just one more meeting with him. Then I stop bringing it up.” She promises me.
I grimace, but accept. “Fine, if you’ll finally let me have some damn peace about it.”
“Good. Now let’s put that anger to use.” She gives me a rough pat on the back, definitely upset about that comment about her sisters, and starts walking to the dueling area. I follow, now noticing all the eyes on us from the other security guards.
“The fuck are you looking at!?” That gets most of them to turn away, and I get my fill tasting the awkwardness radiating from everyone as I go to kick a monster’s shit in.