Near pitch blackness to the naked eye, for no light could reach so deep as to breathe the depth of which it would be drowned. Silence isolated and dominant in the black space, a void detached from reality.
From the floor protrudes hard rock, jagged and coarse, eroded and weathered. Shaved over the course of centuries, today’s surface would be replaced by that which resides right below, the lower layers destined to one day be in the position at the top where it would be their duty to feel the overwhelming current chip away at their bodies until they again would be replaced, and the cycle would continue as it would always by nature’s law. A vicious cycle with no victory, and yet one that would be naturally maintained and enforced, unable to avoid; for to avoid it would be to suspend the current altogether, and to do such a thing would be to terminate the world that perpetuates the current.
Amongst the rocky floor resides other rocks of the same natural ecosystem although displaced, namely the huge spikes once stalactites that proudly hung from the ceiling but now sit down on the bottom floor either still facing straight down plunged into the surface or fallen on its side. The spikes are not wholly together, for chunks of rock have been bitten off the sides and for some the tips, leaving it in a state almost weathered like the floor. Some of the remnants remain large, greater than the size of man, others split although still in chunks heavy enough to sit although badly deformed, yet many have now been chaffed into pebbles spread across and only held down by other constructs.
Some of those other constructs are too jagged substances albeit unnatural but instead chunks of wreckage, segments of former walls and floors now broken into bricks the larger of which sit on the floor. Extending out from the piles of debris stand wooden shards of destroyed furniture, although furniture remains largely intact such as the majorly whole albeit heavily ripped couches and sofas that lay whether it be proper or on its head. Much of the white leather that once was the gentle cushions no longer remains, instead torn and exposing the metallic base underneath. Spread apart but titanic to much of the smaller remnants are the fragmented chrome disks many of which cut into the ground thus leaving them standing up, no longer breathing light but instead corpses of the lair. The cracks have damaged the smoothness of the material too, and sprinkled with all the dust of the scraps the chrome face appears more of a lifeless gray.
The debris at this moment in time has made the decision whether to sink or float, for there wasn’t any suspended in between. What lays on the floor is majorly large and heavy, being the furniture that managed to remain mostly in one piece or at least pieces large enough on their own to still plummet. There are tables too, some of which are stuck in the piles of chunks, one of those tables being made of the black crystallic surface once smooth but now battered with edges chipped from.
Accompanying some of said tables are chairs, for while they are not that large their weights do drag them down, the metal weights visible through the torn apertures in the leather. Some lay on their back and others are stuck in between other pieces of remains, a portion of which by chance stands upright due to the suspension it’s locked in, almost as though still attempting to maintain its former condition of purpose although an attempt in vain.
Far the submerged wasteland spread, far across the deep dark floor, littered with the furniture that was meant to give life to what was meant to be a home.The heaps of red theatrical seats and the large flower pots no longer served a functional distinction to rocks, the rubble mayhaps variant on shape and color but nothing more.
In the detritus of old furniture lies that which once brought the most peaceful comfort a home could bring, the wide yet slim board cushioned with a whole mattress large enough for a being to lay whole: the bed. While they vary in measurement, all of them are still luxuriously large with the smallest being king sized, the cushions risen by the head to function as pillows. Although now many of those cushions have been snagged and ripped up, no longer comfortable to lay on as there are now gaps exposing the metal underbelly, a solid support yet one that requires a cushioning layer above to be relaxing. Some of the beds lay on their sides, sandwiched between other rubble, and some are completely capsized and only exposing their metal bases. Sandwiched in a golden heap of rubble surrounded by more chairs and tables is a bed larger than all the others, remaining on its side as the heap grips it on its edges, letting it hang like a spear jabbed into the ground. The golden pile spreads for longer around the bed, withered and no longer shining as royally, instead more of a dusty yellow.
Past the remnants of comfort, memories of soft warmth locked to the past, the debris of the two homes lay covering the floor, the rubble of the house leaving homely furniture and bright chunks of walls, and wreckages of the chrome pads both the surfaces and the machinery once that occupied it as well as the massive stalactites now merely spikes on the floor either laying or plunged into the rocky bedrock. Beyond the chrome disks now shards no longer breathing light, beyond the soft leather sofas unable to stand up, lays the wasteland of spikes like stakes of a prior war, an old pillage that took and left nothing to recover.
Within the land of dark gray rock, densely compact spikes angled variously thus chaotically cover the floor, many of which now reside by the tables of the lower home, its weight crushing what was never supposed to be above.
By one of the dense fields of stakes, huge stalactites the size of rockets juts out a strangely distinct black object, a slender tube laid out sitting right below one of the grand spikes laid flat. The object is slim and has a whitish component at the exposed end, also laying on the ground lifeless as the other rubble.
However, there is one specific distinction between this particular object and all others, as while this object also is motionless, the identity of the object is not one of a static origin, for the long black strand is an arm wearing a gray leather sleeve, and the whitish nub at the end past the leather cuff is a pale hand dirtied and dusty but intact.
The pale hand rests on its back, the grooves in the palm visible, emphasized more so due to the whiteness of the hand, further exposing the ravines curled around the thumb and the many branches that wrap around and intertwine. From the hand all five fingers lay limp, although naturally not flat but instead limply curled in. The fingers curl as though attempting to grasp at something, to grab at something, and yet with no power of contraction it is unable to do so in that moment. Yet the intent still lies present, even in its disabled state, a last action captured in time and preserved in the skeletal composition of the hand.
It is then at this moment that the stillness of the floor is ruptured, and it is by the sudden clasping of the white hand like a mechanical claw.
Following the clasp, the hand remains in a fist, a fist that tightens gradually as the fingers dig deeper into the palm, trying to tighten as much as they can; the arm itself tightens too as the bones beneath the skin harden visibly, coming alive like a machine being activated, although under a pressure that oppresses through forced immobility.
Up the white hand, up the black sleeve, up the body majorly submerged under the stalactite which lays on top at such an angle it covers the entire torso concealing almost all but for the black leather biker-styled collar which nests the pale white neck leading to the equally ghoulishly white face eyes shut in a dormant state relaxed and unaware, its four white locks floating outwards in different directions like the rays of the sun.
In the center of that sun, the second movement occurs from the abrupt opening of the azure eyes, wide and perceptive with the immediate response to said perception being the tensing of the cheeks, the instant recognition struggling after having been in what looked to be a serene state.
Firstly the man attempts to lift himself up, gritting his teeth and groaning although muffled with bubbles escaping out of his mouth. Despite all the force he puts in, there is no reaction in return as no movement is made, and eventually he ceases upon the realization of such futility.
That initial primal instinct of fighting gradually subsides as it does no good, and as the first wave of instinct passes, the man slowly begins to opt for a different angle by tilting his head down, finding himself below the stalactite far larger than his own body.
The spike sits at an angle such that while it does not cover his left arm and face, it covers nearly the rest of his body, that being the legs and the entire right arm. Its weight dominates the man’s mortal body, and with only access to one free limb it does not provide many tools for freedom.
Curiosity grows as the man starts to frantically glance all around himself to find that many other stalactites stand and sit by him, some even larger than the one over his body, a couple crossing each other in the shape of an ‘X’ and others miraculously upright like pillars. Yet not only that, but even from his locked position he can set his eyes on the nearby furniture degraded and torn, tables cut in half and sofas ripped in shreds.
Slowly and painfully the revelation dawns on him of what happened to his home, for all that remained was around him now, buried in the void and locked below the surface.
A glimmer of horror flashes over the man’s face, the painful understanding that the only home he had left was taken, his last fortress decimated. His motions slow as the frantic wave passes too, the curiosity turned to dread. His tense face becomes relaxed not in relief but in misery, his mouth frowning as there is nothing he could do to fix it, he could not just simply build his home from the ground up with the wave of his hand.
He turns his head to his side, utilizing the few muscles not pressed down to place the side of his head on the rocky floor.
Down his sight is nothing but scrap, heaps of rubble that once made the walls that guarded the home and ceilings that protected it from the sky. Huge chrome fragments of his base, what was his true home, the one he spent nearly all his days in. It was more of a home to him than the house right above it even, despite there being no comfort in the cold cave. Yet even that no longer stood, not the little he had left to grasp, even that could not stay with him.
Amongst the litter of the cave, there was also the furniture of the decoy home, the chairs and cabinets, props that only served as a roof for his stronghold, props that for most of the past decade meant nothing to him personally. There was a reason for why the majority of his furniture was modernly bland and lacked character, why many of the tables were a safe gray toned color or why the chairs were just sized enough to be comfortable for a human but no more to be a luxury. They were never instilled with his character, they were merely a blank slate, a body without a soul.
Although among much of that bland furniture there were some that were different, furniture made of wood–a material weaker and more expensive thereby illogical to have.
A curious glint sparks in the man’s eyes, and he peers more keenly with a tighter stare, for something within him still asleep was beginning to find consciousness.
Surrounded by the lifeless props of the surface house that had no second thought in their order beyond the bare minimum of interior design, embedded in a pile of white rubble stands a circular golden fountain, and standing in the center of the golden fountain is a rod in the shape of a lightning bolt.
While it does not shoot up water as its original purpose, and while there is no sunlight to make it shine majestically as it is meant to, even then there is a magnetic attraction to the rod.
That rod reflects in the oasis of the man’s eyes, one of the few pieces of the home to remain standing upright. While the rod does not shine, the man’s eyes slightly shimmer at the sight of what he once viewed as a purposeless product wasteful of the credits spent to own it.
Yet in the darkness of the seabed, when that product is unable to even function properly or present itself in the condition it's advertised for, the character of the rod for the first time shines in the man’s eyes.
Not his own character for he instilled little to none in the surface, but the character of the characters of those who lived in his home too. Most of the past decade saw no true resident of the house above, as the only one to live in the land preferred the dark cave below, yet only towards the very end did a set of residents start to inhabit that surface, and furthermore start to realize it as a home in of itself.
Those characters, the ones that shared his home, the ones who morphed it into something it wasn’t and something he never intended for it to become. Of all remnants of the home to remain standing, the embodiment of their characters holds.
Those characters, the residents, the people. Nearly the entire home had been demolished, and a mere moment ago the man thought all of it to be, until this very moment of epiphany when it comes to him: not all of it is gone, not yet.
In a sudden and jerkish movement, the man returns his gaze upwards, his face suddenly tense and his eyes expanded.
In his sight is the blackness of the void, the hollow emptiness that he was drowned in. At first nothing but pure darkness, as if his eyes were still closed.
Yet upon deeper inspection, a more intimate gaze, there was a distant luminescence. Hardly visible, as the only residue that reaches the man is the faint gray contrasting with the absolute black, a gray scattered and dim yet still visible, still tangible.
From that very faint light, the man’s irises dilate, not only in response to the light but in a brief moment of relief.
Although in the very next moment, those irises contract and sharpen the complete opposite end, intensifying even more than his initial instinctual outburst.
With the only hand free, the man grabs the heavy spike weighing his body down, holding it from below with his shoulder squared. He tightly grasps the rock with his pale wrinkly hand, and with all his strength he pushes, gritting his teeth and groaning in the stress of the mighty stalactite, trying his best to move it.
Those muffled, drowned groans don’t reach very far, and they certainly do not reach any other beings. There is also no movement made on the rock despite the power pressed into it, as regardless of the man’s quick burst of motivation it is insufficient to move the rubble.
Again the man relieves himself, dropping his arm back to the ground in defeat and releasing a soft sigh. He frowns yet again as his face relaxes, knowing that the fact of his restraint has not changed, and in such a barren terrain submerged there was little he could do.
He begins to tilt his head again, although now to his right where his right arm is supposed to be, although he cannot even see it. What he can do however is feel it, acknowledge it, –and even if heavily oppressed– control it.
Again the man tenses his face and left arm before grabbing the bottom of the spike and pushing, groaning even louder now as he further strains himself.
Not only does he push with his left arm, he noticeably begins to shift his right shoulder, trying to wiggle it into motion. He tries to tilt his whole body to the side, pushing his left half up and lowering his right, which further lets him wiggle his shoulders more even if very slightly as the spike still does not visibly move.
Gradually his body starts to breathe a gentle blue luminescence, the first source of light that develops an aura in the darkness, faint but alive. His groaning lets louder and more strained as he pushes with his all in his left arm while wiggling his right arm, turning his shoulder a bit inward as his glare sharpens more.
All the sudden the man puts forth a burst of strength to just barely nudge the rock at last, and with that one nudge that made little difference by itself, he manages to expose his right arm just fast enough to grab the bottom of the spike with his other hand, now holding onto the stalactite with both hands –shoulders squared.
Still a great deal of stress lies on the man, as he does not stop struggling but if anything seems to struggle harder. It is not that there is greater force being pushed on him however, but rather now he is beginning to push out greater force himself.
His two hands clenched tightly, the claws beneath his skin revealing themselves, his teeth clenched but slowly beginning to separate as his jaw opens.
Gradually but noticeably the stalactite begins to rise up, the man’s arms beginning to lift them, slowly straightening themselves to push the stone icicle higher. The man’s grunts become roars, still muffled yet not subdued, his arms in agony as there’s hardly any strength left in him to push, for it all was what kept him alive to begin with and even with such limited utility it was used sparingly.
His arms begin to straighten, the spike rising higher off his body, with every inch risen consuming chunks of his depleting energy. Yet this sudden spark of will drove him despite the agony, for even if all his energy depleted he’d still keep pushing, even if it defied the nature of his own body. His drowned bellows are like a cry for help, a cry he knew would not reach a living being. Yet his intended audience was in no such demographic, so he screams and cries regardless, hoping that audience hears his call and permits him strength.
With the accumulation of all the upper body strength he could muster, the man makes one great thrust with his arms which tosses the stalactite forth, and in its slowed descent it glides away from the man’s body before finally dropping to the ocean floor again.
Now, the stalactite sits beside the man rather than above, no longer oppressing him against the floor, to which the man drops his arms and releases a heavy sigh of relief. He lays limp on the floor for a few moments, as though all the strength he had left had just been burned through, and now all that remains in his body is the corpse it is, surrounded by the wreckage of what he once found as his only location of peace.
While the old definition of peace no longer applies to what remains, the quietness still has an oddly calming solitudinous tranquility, quieter than what could’ve been on the surface. The mixture of the two homes surround the man’s body, chrome disks sliced through couches, chunks of the dark gray material that one composed the roofing broken and assorted with the split rocks of the stalactites that once composed the ceiling. They were no longer separate, but instead now merged together where they were buried.
At the center of the burial site is the owner, lying with the home that had served him for decades, that had watched him gain and lose, a home before he had others and after. Yet it also was one that housed those he had for a time, those who were no longer its roof, but instead somewhere else far away.
In the stillness of the cemetery, the pale corpse is abruptly animated yet again by the injective thought, throwing himself off of the ground and to his feet so hastily all the sudden. Bubbles of air pass out of his mouth as he glances all around him once, looking beside him and below at what has become his past.
Then, he looks up to what will become his future.
With the bending of the knee, the man thrusts himself off of the ground before then beginning to continuously kick with his feet, slowly raising his body from the floor and higher up. His arms cycle in soft strokes to help his climb, his body lightly illuminating the otherwise black aquatic void.
His strokes become greater, moving his arms more to gather more propulsive force, his kicks becoming faster like the propeller moving by the engine of his beating heart. Higher he climbs, passing over the heaps of rocks and debris, over the standing stalactites piercing the floor, over the fragmented disks wedged between the furniture once separated by a thick layer of earth.
Higher the man rises, past the remnants of the home below, a sole blue light rising like a flare in the darkness, casting a soft illuminance that spreads the higher it reaches. Spreading over the machinery, the cabinets, the worktables, the beds, one last light to breathe over the home the same way the cyan had done for so long.
Face up, the man gazes high with keen azure eyes on the pale face, his four locks waving like flags, pushing against the water weight by the thin grasps it has on the head. His mouth remains shut, trying to conserve his breath, knowing he doesn’t need to for much longer.
From his perspective, the black abyss still looms above, no longer any visible ruins. The darkness is absolute, yet there is the faint grayness, static almost that does not make it exactly pitch black.
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That grayness gradually brightens and sharpens, a light starting to form in the man’s vision. The brighter the abyss becomes too, the more there is an apparent occupation of many small entities scattered about, black dots amongst the brightening gray, something left at the surface.
Faintly the light touches the face of the man, far but able to reach at least with the tips of its fingers.
Slightly the gleam grazes the irises of the man, reflecting back like the relay of a signal, an assurance of reception.
In ascendance, the light glows ever more stronger, the scattered objects becoming more pronounced with sharper edges, emphasized against a brighter background. The objects also become larger in view, although technically closer.
In fact, upon approaching the objects, they start to take on shape and color, donning the form of boards and vases among many miscellaneous items.
The light grows stronger, brighter, until from the man’s perspective it’s blinding, until it takes the entirety of his vision, and until it the light consumes the void.
Out of the black lake surface bursts out the pale head of the man, breaking out a great ripple in the still water with a splash almost jarringly loud. Instantly his face is lit up by the brightness of day, which blinds him at first as his eyes close tightly in response, his head bobbing out of the water as items around him drift away.
He shakes his head and starts rapidly blinking to adjust himself, eventually adapting to the harshly opposite environment but able to allow his eyes to open steadily.
His first instinct is to face straight up at the source of the light, sharpening his gaze as the blue illumination from his body is relinquished below the surface.
Through his eyes is the colossal cavern with boundless sides that eventually lead to black voids, although those edges are pushed back by the bright cyan light that swallows the cave through the titanic aperture in the ceiling where the stalactites once hung.
Sunlight, touching the cave fortress, a strange sight thought never to be witnessed. It dominates the once deep dark, reaching all the way down to the waters below albeit for the circular obstruction looming in the air.
Still bewildered as told by the flabbergasted expression on the man’s face, he blinks again to calibrate his sight, lowering his head so as to not continue staring directly into the sun. He instead brings his attention to his side and around him, for he is not the only entity sitting on the surface, but rather all around him are still remains of the old home, fractured golden wood boards that had arisen to the top, although most of what sits at the top isn’t entire furniture but rather smaller items such as the garden of flowers ripped up and spreading their petals all over the film, kitchen utensils left out gleaming in the light.
Furthermore, scattered all around the surface, bobbing amongst the man, are countless small figurines of varying proportions and attire which the man’s attention is drawn to. He spins around, causing minor ripples in the water which brush away the figurines, some of which being of teenage girls dressed in formal uniforms of blazers and skirts and others being exaggeratedly muscular men in gladiator armor wielding huge swords.
Soft cyan light from above reflects on the bodies of the figures some of which have various components of unique materials such as one of a teenage girl dressed in a light brown blazer and blue skirt both made of fabrics whereas her fair skin was made of a glossier texture, her long purple hair shining just like real hair would, and the brown wooden book in her hands made of what seems like genuine leather.
The figure floats on the surface among all the others, all around the man who gazes at the remainder of figurines that the owner had left in storage, now the last gone. After spinning a few more times for a complete inspection of his surroundings, he then raises his head up again as the figures drift further away from the gentle ripples.
Sight now better adjusted even facing straight at the source of light, the man’s eyes manage to make clear that up above him towards the fissure that bridged the two worlds together levitates a singular circular disk, high up in the air, its chrome body faintly shining although its luminescence dominated by the natural intruder.
Disbelief writes itself in the man’s expanded azure eyes, for one pad has miraculously remained standing after all that had come down, the final intact remnant of the bygone home.
Floating on the surface of the dark waters with the figurines and light debris of furniture, the man raises his right arm up with yet another splash, and he aims it straight at the edge of the disk. His hand is at rest, his fingers forward but limp, his desperate gaze facing his target.
A faint blue light flashes from the center of his white pale palm, and he clenches his fingers into a fist to grab the translucent blue cable that projects out of his skin, traveling like an extension of the man’s own hand able to extend infinitely further, up the air with an open palm before reaching the end of the pad where it clings on tightly.
Upon contact, the entire cable shakes from the abruptly tuned tension, and slowly the man rises higher again, now above the water itself and in the air along the blue path, leaving behind the second layer of debris on the surface.
The climb is rather slow with the character of fatigue, the cable reeling him in as he dangles in the air touched by the bright luminosity of the other world that had been isolated by the ceiling for millenia. Higher he climbs, for the disk levitates high relative to its former family, closer to the top of the previous fortress.
Eventually the anchor of the cable meets its launcher, and where the translucent wire once held the chrome edge now the pale hand clings before being joined by the other hand. The two hands then clenched tightly before strength is drawn into the arms which then hoists the whole body up over the top, the leather torso kept dry by the invisible outer layer same with the rest of the body.
Up and over the man throws himself onto the chrome surface, rolling forward once before laying on the ground, very clearly exhausted as his body is hardly able to tense itself. He lays flat on the floor for a few moments, his face resting squished on the ground, his eyes groggily open in a battle to remain perceptive.
One step after the next, the man groans as he raises his arms and grabs the ground, using them as a base to then pull his body up. His head remains low, his locks dangling over his face as he first kneels with his legs before springing up and stabilizing himself with his feet, although his stance is very shaky and fluid.
As he sways from side to side to stand perfectly upright, he raises his head up to find that ahead of him is the last pad occupied by the heavy machinery, one side housing the long white curved table accompanied with a hovering chair beside a large elevated chamber large enough to house a body, that side mostly intact. On the other side where the large factory machine stands– the network of cylinders, chambers, and the main oven interconnected by the large tubes–, what once was the most complex device in the entire fortress has now been rendered disabled by the abundance of debris from not only stalactites that jab straight through the oven but furniture of split tables lodged between the tubing and heaps of rubble burying the cylinders.
Wholly dysfunction was the machine now, no doubt about that, and even all across the floor lay piles of rocks and shards of wood, partly burying the mountain terrain of empty injection sticks that once littered the floor but now only a fraction of the mess.
Of course some rubble lies on the table and around the chamber, although the table still stands pretty decently despite the dust of rocks and whatnot from the many stories of the house above that crashed down.
Although as the man slowly surveys the pad and the damages left behind, his gaze noticeably leaps to one particular spot with a sudden spike of astoundment, his gaze widening and his mouth opening in bewilderment.
Past the man’s leather shoulder, at the end of the factory machine beyond the wrecked oven and buried cylinders lies the distribution chamber perfectly spotless, not a single pebble or fragment of tile touching the multiple silver plates still hovering, still carrying the plentiful of injection sticks, the final remainder miraculously filled with the blue gel substance.
Between the softly radiating blue sticks stands the man, whose attention has been absolutely fixated on the distribution chamber with an expression exhausted yet visibly appalled by the miraculous state of the machine’s end. He just stands in place for a few moments, staring in silence through those hollow azure apertures, his lips slightly parted, his posture slouched ever so slightly forward. Slightly his leather jacket flashes although most of its gray shell has long lost its shine, his white face wrinkled and wilted.
With dragging feet he steadily approaches the chamber, stepping through the rubble that covers the chrome floor, knocking rocks and debris along with the occasional sounds of glassy material being bumped as the discharged sticks amongst the dump. He moves in a straight line regardless of the obstructions, the clutter as tall as his knees that he treks through as though hiking through a blizzardous valley.
His pace becomes slowed the deeper he makes into the heap yet he maintains his direction nearly in a mindless zombified state, his legs pushing hard against the metal chunks of tile and boards of tables to brush them to the side.
After depleting even greater strength from a simple few feet of travel the man reaches the distribution chamber, and upon doing so he stops and simply gazes so close that the blue hue of the gel reflects off his pale canvas.
The light too brings some flare to his otherwise empty irises, a life that has powered him for so long, although a life artificial and temporary.
Past the rubble the man stands forth before the stack of plates carrying injection sticks, all of them full and primed for utilization. Only a few feet separate the two, for the debris was now behind the man’s silver shoes. He gazes straight at the plates with a fatigued melancholy, frowning subtly with a face relaxed albeit not inherently peaceful. His white locks dangle beside his head, ruffling and slightly brushing back from the open cavernous breeze.
“It appears you are not deceased,” bluntly speaks the familiar British voice to the man, who immediately raises his head up at the sky instinctively, staggered a step back by the abrupt vocal motion.
The man then turns his head to the right before turning it to the left, glancing beside him although not to find any physical presence, for it was not one that could be held by the sense of sight or even touch.
One step forward in return the man takes before lowering his gaze back to the plates, his arms resting by his side and his mood lowering back as the wave of surprise passes over him and returns to the still sea of sorrow.
“It’s…all gone…all of it,” he softly mutters, spoken in a voice only to himself.
Well below the gaping fissure where the stalactites once hung, above the dark ocean once clean now atrociously littered, among the chrome pad which used to be accompanied by many more, the owner pivots around and sweeps the cavern with a slow panoramic turn of the head, absorbing the brutal aftermath with his eyes fully open.
“I lack even a fraction of the credits needed to afford repairs…and I certainly can’t rebuild it on my own…not like I used to,” the man’s voice follows.
Amidst the wreckage of fractured tables jutting out of rocky mounds, the man steps to the side to allow a continuation of the sweep, facing away from the machine while acknowledging, “I…I can’t get out of this one…not this time…. It’s over…maybe ‘he’ could have fixed this but I can’t…it’s gone for good. There’s nothing left…nothing but…,”
Again the man swivels to return his sights to the plate station, the only remaining component of the entire base not ripped, split, crushed, or minced into incoherent grain. He fixates on the few injection sticks standing on the plate, perfectly upright without any apparent stabilizers but instead seamless to swipe off with no resistance.
His words trail off as he just stares at all that’s left, frowning again at all he has in front of him, the only piece of home remaining before his eyes.
“You are correct, given the current situation you would need to not only have the hole patched but the entire estate rebuilt, and your funds are far insufficient for such an operation. The energy outputs required to construct a substitution of the estate and The Pad’s platforms also are well above your latest recorded capabilities. I have no contentions with your analysis,” studies the British voice as the man picks up one of the injection sticks off the plate to inspect it more closely.
Victory is won in the argument, although with no celebration, as the confirmation is only met by a disappointed sigh from the man before he shuts his eyes and lowers his head.
His wrist lowers limp, the stick only being held by the laxed curled figures bordering it, the white walls surrounding all he has left sitting on the pale rugged surface.
The gentle breeze brushes the man’s white locks, dangling the many thin frail strands in the air, long down to the shoulder but so sparse it’s far from luscious. The cyan rays of sunshine once prohibited from the underground now graze the man’s head and the rest of the cavern, the abyss’s darkness no longer absolute, the oppressive spikes that always pointed at the colonist far below his body sunk in the sea meant to trap him. There was nothing, no base, no estate, no home. Yet there were also no longer the shackles, the cage, the void. In the loss, there was liberation.
The man’s eyes open, the azure irises revealing, the blue circle now present looming over the remnants in his hand intimately. His eyes sharpen into a glare of sudden resolution, his white cheeks tightening as he could no longer rest in misery.
“Where are the others?” seeks the man in a willful voice, and a sudden strong gust of wind charges into his locks, causing them to fly backwards waving like flags yet failing to close or even shrink the man’s eyes.
“I managed to track all three of their whereabouts, which are all within point proximity of one another; none of them appear to be masked. However, I shall preface that the abductor is aware of our methods for tracking, and has the ability to obstruct it, so the fact that there is no such obstruction leads me to conclude that this may be an intentional lure,” answers the British voice without needing further clarification, for the cognitive bond was significant enough to bridge such minor gaps.
The bond, although able to bridge the intended meanings of the messages, appears here to come short at the intent of the message itself, as the man lowers his arm and pivots around to examine the pad as he simply commands, “Report their vitals.”
After a few moments of awkward silence upon the request, the British voice answers: “All three of them appear to be alive and in physically healthy states. None of them are currently conscious however, but they are only in a natural sleep. My analysis concludes them to be in prime condition. Although that is only their state now, and while they may be currently healthy I would not confirm them to be safe.”
Receiving the report, the man peers keenly in contemplation for a couple moments before then nodding his head, turning it to gaze at the oven now plunged with many blades.
“Provide me their whereabouts,” orders the man, almost ignorant to the cautions laid out from both of the previous responses. Although he was not an ignorant man, he did very much comprehend the discretions, he interpreted them into his plans, and he arrived at a conclusion that resulted in the apparent indifference to the advice.
All this silent computation is shared with the voice he calls to, for their verbal speech is nothing more than a human formality, a tradition of conversation not technically required for their transmissions. The reception of the transmission is made, also carrying the comprehension of the lack of impact further concerns will bring, and thus the voice answers alas: “The three appear to be currently situated in the military research facility Fort Icarus, which is stationed on Earth One’s Moon. I have stacked the destination in your navigation queue, as I know that will be your next request,” while the man continues to watch over the wreckage of the machine that had provided him with his life support for many years now, its final batch now in his hand.
After his request is finally permitted, the man turns away from the machine and back to the distribution station while remarking, “Then you do know me,” in an almost familial, friendly sense despite the morbidness of the situation.
“And I know you did not doubt that I do, sir. But I should preface first before you execute on your decision, I intercepted an emergency transmission from the facility referencing the abductor’s breach. Upon my last survey, there are no living personnel in the facility, only the four, and the intercepted conversation leads me to assume that there will be no reinforcements. If they are unwilling to send a party, especially given the operational significance of the facility, then there is good reason to understand the capacity of the threat. I know I cannot stop you, sir, but I at least hope you understand the necessity of intricacies in this operation as you will be against an opponent who has significantly higher energy outputs than you also with the advantages of preparing not just himself but the region. It appears there are already several unauthorized air to air weapons systems stationed around the fortress not in the military’s databases, and the readings I’ve received indicate them to have nuclear capacity. The only method of conventional attack would be a high speed bombing, although of course that is an option that they will not take,” explains the British voice, understanding that nothing they say will sway the overall decision, but hoping to at least bring to light certain obstacles that will need judgment.
To that all the man simply nods his head and coldly responds, “Noted” while staring at the plates of injection sticks, his words still short and not wholly responsive to the detailed briefings.
“Those readings are only of the weapon systems currently present in the facility, as the nature of the enemy allows for a dynamic environment meaning that at any moment the systems present may become absent and systems absent may become present. I am unable to calculate for you a comprehensive list of potential sequences of obstacles as there is an infinity to his potential, so while I can provide real time advice on navigating current obstacles I cannot help make a plan that can assure the required margin of success. I apologize, but these are the few edge cases where my reliability falters,” further prefaces the voice, still very much apprehensive in tone while the man just casually inspects the station and the sticks sitting on the several stacked plates.
“Your apologies are not required,” gently assures the man before he then raises his head up at the bright sky where he inquires, “Is the pod operational?”
After a quick moment of gathering, the voice responds: “Yes, luckily the garage it was stationed in was not targeted heavily at the time, and the shields managed to ward off the minimal damages.”
Staring straight up at the blinding blue sky, the man then orders: “Bring it here, and set the course to the precise triangulated coordinates of the requested.”
Whilst gazing up at the bright sky the man receives the response: “Very well,” to which he then returns his stare back down to the plates, and then to his hand which he raises to reveal the injection stick still in his grasp, not having let go after first picking it up.
Closely the man’s azure irises inspect the blue gel concoction inside the stick, a keen stare not only analytical but introspective, the glint of the day’s light shimmering his eyes and the glassy casing. He frowns in his meditation, pondering to himself in silence during his wait.
Then in a soft, gentle voice, he whispers the question: “Hey…if somehow…some way…’they’re’ watching…what would they think of me?”
After a couple moments of silence since the question is posed, the British voice answers also in a more sentimental and quiet tone, more human than the default professional accent: “To answer that question is also an edge case beyond my capabilities. My apologies. The pod has arrived,” as the engine’s roar reverberates throughout the caverns above, coming from well above the platform just as announced. The roar is an announcement in of itself too, the thunder that alludes to the storm. Thus the man turns around with the stick still in hand, and he slowly begins pacing himself.
In steady steps moves the senile man in the grayed leather biker jacket with the silver linings down the sleeves although now bleeding into the natural faintness of the overall leather, aged and faded like the pale arid skin of the man whose scarce white locks dangle in the air. He makes his way towards the center of the platform, walking away from the chamber housing the remaining sticks, but also walking away from the three illusions in the form of figures that had been standing beside him, facing the opposite direction.
The back of the sharp woman in the tight black suit with the purple curvy streaks that ran down her arms, legs, and back like extraterrestrial coils that strengthened the humanity of her let down in the form of her long silky hair sitting past the dark purple hood.
The back of the lean man in the white race suit with the black reinforcing padding and blue breathing meshes, the perfect lightness for a man who excelled when free, for the suit was no more weighing than the short groomed blonde hair.
The back of the mature woman in the forest green dress and white flag skirt over her green leggings, concealing the least to allow her fair arms to shine, to let her thrive in her own image and its power, to flourish like her long majestic brown hair that drapes down her shoulders and back like a goddess.
The back of the stalwart man in the paramilitary crimson armor with heavy gray gauntlets and combat boots, a dark brown bandolier slung across his shoulder over the chainmail piece that wraps around his neck with the raw power that amplified the immortal determination of a man who not only could expel any beasts that came his way but did it while rejecting the monster inside him to stay good to his family, exemplified by the primally long yet still intently kempt black hair that sits down his shoulders.
The three now stand, their flesh and blood only the projected images of the final team member’s memory, still facing the past as the survivor walks the other way. The love. The friend. The mother. The mentor. Now figments of the past, images and memories. They could not speak, they could not fight. But they could stand as they always did, by his side, as he kept moving forward and carrying them with him.
Through the rubble and debris up to his legs the man pushes to the very center of the platform, and after powering through the rocks and boards he comes to a stop partly buried but his upper half still out feeling the breeze.
He then lowers his head and moves his gaze to the stick in his hand which he raises to meet, staring at it for a few final moments in decisiveness, frowning at all that’s left of the home. He takes one more look, one ultimate inspection of all the hard work that had kept him fueled for this long, that had kept him able to fight, but most paramount that had maintained the final strand of his identity. It was not just for power, it was for name. In his hands was not merely an enhancement serum, it was an extension to keep who he was for just a little longer, his tag. To hold onto the defining characteristic of what the name ‘Meditat’ meant.
With one last stare, the man tightens his grasp so much into a fist that it shatters the glassy casing into innumerable shards that slip between his fingers and rain into the rubble along with the gel oozing down his palm, not allowing even a single ounce to remain in his white hand.
He slowly opens his hand and lowers his wrist to allow the remaining shards to roll off his palm as the last remains of the gel fall out, and alas he looks to the sky as his legs begin to illuminate with a blue radiance.
With one abrupt motion the man launches himself straight up, causing rocks and furniture to fly omnidirectionally and scatter about, knocking into the tables, chambers, and even the untouched distribution station as rocks completely smash the remaining plates and sticks. Before all of the debris can even fall, the whole chrome pad fractures in half and caves in before beginning its descent, the final platform plummeting down the cave by choice. The three figures vanish in a cloudy haze, not destroyed but released, relinquished to the heavens above as the gates had finally unlocked for them.
Up the man soars in a blue comet towards the bright cyan rift to the surface world as down the fragmented pad dives below, towards the dark teal cavity to the black pit. Simultaneously the comet passes through the rift as the pad crashes into the sea’s surface, erupting a massive splash that ripples the water one final time, brushing the litter as the chrome surface continues to sink deeper towards the floor among much of the rubble albeit not for the lighter wooden boards that are left at the film with the figurines.
Above the rift, above the cavern now collapsed are the open vibrant green fields and rich forests with sierras and mountains far in the distance, although in the center is the massive ravine that has left not the mansion, not the driveway, not even the garden standing. For by the edges is nothing but the forest, with no remains of the entire home, as though there was none to begin with. It was a complete erasure, perfectly precise to cut out every small structure to allow for nothing to be recovered.
Yet even then it had failed to accomplish its purpose, for through the rift rises the blue comet towards the levitating black pod that stationarily waits. The birds chirp in the forest as the glowing cyan supersun looms among the thin white clouds in the bright blue sky, daytime in the funeral.
The blue comet reaches the black pod where it then enters through the driver’s seat from behind, and seconds later the pod finally begins motion as it first rotates around to pivot its face towards the supersun, where it then begins to crawl forwards with the loudening of its hum. The pod accelerates as it tilts higher in its launch, and the faster it goes the more intense it's hum becomes a dragon’s roar so vigorous that the chirping of the birds are interrupted, and a flock the size of an army erupts from the trees and scatters from the call.
The pod races off into the sky straight in the direction of the supersun, departing where the house once was and approaching where the home now stands.
For now the storm was very near, as the lightning can now be seen with the thunder.