It was an absolute nightmare. A nightmare that none of the people below could ever wake from.
But the people above.
All Calypso could hear were the screams of the damned, as the spiral staircase became a waterfall of blood, violently cascading down the rigid, once pearl white.
It was hard to make out what was exactly going on—the showering of blood splattered Calypso’s face, stinging her eyes as she desperately tried to wipe away. But she saw shapes, people. People running away with nowhere to go, crowds huddling together in some sort of respite, reprieve. Holding each other, shoving each other.
Over the shouts, the screams, the praying, the confusion, the accusations, the pleading—Calypso realized in that moment that more people aren’t dying from above.
It was time.
The blood-stained runes manifested themselves before the air, congealing from the rain of blood, forming from the screams of the damned. Stuttering in the air as the people below finally lost their minds.
These runes—immediately transformed into lighting-shaped whips. Lashing out before everything, uncomfortably yet some idea of aim—as they weren’t targeting the people themselves.
But the building where they stood. Calypso grimaced into a very painful, knowing look.
The fancy ornaments and crests that crowned the walls eroded into a rusting, dripping mess. The lights flickered, Calypso hoped to whatever she believed in at this point that they weren’t going to shutter off, but the alternative, what happened instead, was slightly worse as the lights were at the stage of barely working. Coloring the already tense room with this yellow haze that shuddered into darkness every second. The walls themselves molded somehow, the marble decaying until it was nothing but black and green slurry that mixed into the blood on the floor. The chimes smashed from the ceiling—causing people to desperately dodge out of the way, and even then, glass sprayed all over the area. And the elegant red carpet was ripped into shreds, splitting into seams as people—if they weren’t already slipping because of the floor, was because of that.
If the humans weren’t scared before, they were now.
As Calypso tried to ease herself, telling herself that there’s no need to transform yet, trying not to take “control” but plead with her other half that what they’re doing is the best course of action—she felt a hand grab hers and easily started to drag her away.
“Yeah okay—you were totally right to be nervous—” Hanna tried to be so cool under pressure. Between watching her and Sal, turns out confident people are still people too. “—We’re getting as far as we can, hopefully water can wash off blood—I doubt it but this is my favorite dress and all—”
Calypso wished that she could tell her that she now-lived horror-movie-themed hell.
But she was too bust crumpling onto the ground, clutching her head as she wailed out in pain. In the throughs of trying to overcome, managing to open an eye, she saw that Hanna fell onto her knees as well, shuddering due to the waves of pain rocking her.
There was no time to implore, to ask if she was okay. Calypso caught a glimpse of what was happening outside.
Of course people ran as soon as they thought about it. Droves of people were streaming out, back from the long and once-elegant hallway, pass the threshold.
Only for an advancing wall of writhing shadow to cut the poor souls’ path off.
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And just any wall of writhing shadow. It was lined with seats, long stabs that bled into becoming rafters and repeated the process over and over until it reached into the chilled night sky. The walls themselves, decadent with fangs and horns, hides and skin, eyes and mouths until they formed a conquerable, sturdy wall. Filled with leaning forward, featureless, but never the less judgmental gazes that peered from such darkness.
Chanting the same word, phrase… Their representation of salvation.
TERRORTIDE.
TERRORTIDE.
TERRORTIDE.
But that in of itself slowly died down. Faded into white noise.
To make way for a voice that came from everywhere, but nowhere.
A hateful, unfunny, spiteful little voice that Calypso’s come to truly loathe.
Hello, the few people that’s actually survived! You’re the lucky ones! ‘Cause you’re gonna be the ones that actually learn their lesson.
Since I have the “mic” right now and we’re being real with one another… This was always going to happen. Either by me, someone like me, someone that I had to fuck over and simply became another me—this shit was always going to happen. I knew it. You knew it. We all knew it.
And for what? A world that’s… Borderline okay? To serve our fellow man, when we so easily can kill, discard—act like he doesn’t exist because it’s easier to swallow for our egos? To believe in peace—when we were always on the precipice of blowing each other off the surface of the Earth? Create these morals and catchy songs telling us, “hope’s inside of us—all we need is hardwork to achieve what we believe—belief is all we need--everyone is good of heart in the end”—when we all know that when it comes down to it—we revert back to basic-ass instincts: kill or be killed, survive as long as possible and fuck the things that get in the way of that.
After today—no more pointless exercises in stupid futility. N-no more, acting like this was fine to begin with. This illusion of status quo, world order—normal. The human condition, a fucking heap of bullshit—a ghost that we’ve all seen through and acted like it was on our side.
No more taxes, debts—institutions that lined their pockets as they took out of yours—No more societal structures that were gamed from the start—schools and churches, businesses and definitely the fucking living suits that get what I’m spitting to begin with—No more useless fucking things to deal with and end your life before you could ever live it: social status, stupid rites of passage like getting smashed at stupid ass fucking parties—fucking and getting married—driving cars—having friends and the best fucking possessions.
A PAGAN, HALLOWEEN WORLD--WHERE IT'S NOTHING BUT SORROW! A TRUE, UTTER HELL HOLE--BUT FINALLY FUCKING HONEST! GET READY BOYS AND GIRLS--BECAUSE EVERYTHING WE EVER KNEW--
ALL OF IT, ALL OF IT FINALLY FUCKING DIES.
Everything—every single fucking thing, is gonna be peeled back and bare. No more of those ugly flash masks that were welded unwillingly on our faces since birth.
So! In short… Welcome to where we’ve always been, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuckers~!
Calypso struggled to get onto her feet. And as she rocked in place, while she knew this was the case—it was nice hearing conformation, the shouts of “we’re surrounded!”/ “there’s no way out!” / “we’re GONNA DIE!”
“What the fuck… What the fuck…”
Hanna was just lost. Calypso could hear it in her voice, how she was standing. Erect, trying desperately to make fists at her sides before they became undone as she became startled at how fast people were devolving.
With gritting of her now visible fangs, Calypso couldn’t hold it back anymore.
She reached out, but it was too late.
What was once men, their suits torn along with the skin that flapped against their exposed Bat heads, circled around Hanna in quick succession.
All Calypso could hear was:
“…I really did like this dress—”
As the ground descended and indulged in their meat.
Anger. Regret. Sorrow.
Regression. Calypso wanted nothing more to regress back into who she was. To give up, give in, to this harsh and unfair world. To just let the damn plan go, who the fuck cares about people—if the exact moment she puts away her stupid mental hang-ups, they’re immediately ripped away?
Proving that this was just some… Fucked up experiment. Made by an uncaring existence.
But what use of doing all of that? But playing a “new” game that this bitch just ranted about being against, seconds ago?
She had to remember, never forget the equally valid fact of it all... "It's always been the same".
Be it Cassie saying this shit, or Calypso's very own head.
As she let her claws slowly crawl out of her finger tips, Calypso never before was grateful that she was so small. She dug her boots into the muck, and darted low towards the revealed Bat Subsumed.