This week’s challenge from Terribleminds combined with a spin of the d20 ring resulted in the following.

I stumble out of my room in the middle of the night. It isn’t really my room. I don’t live there. I’ve been staying there, sleeping there when I can sleep, but I don’t live there. I’m trying to remember where I live. Maybe I can get back there. I wish I knew how far it is. Let’s try to figure out where I am, first, and go from there.

These clothes aren’t my clothes. I can barely call them ‘clothes’. They’re powder blue, featureless, formless. I’m wearing socks. I think they have grips or something on the bottom. I’m not sliding on the tile floor. Do I have tile floors where I live? Just in the bathroom. Most of the first floor’s hardwood. The second, carpet. Back in my house. It’s a nice house. I miss my house.

I almost lose my footing. Thanks to the socks I don’t fall. I grab the wall all the same. I’m face to face with it. It’s a bulletin board. When my hand comes away from it I have a flyer in my hand. My vision’s blurry for some reason. I can barely make out the words. It’s some kind of announcement about group therapy. Am I in the hospital? What for? Am I sick?

I wish I could remember clearly. I look down at my arms. There’s a wound in the crook of my right arm, and it doesn’t seem to be bleeding too bad. No, wait, maybe it is? There’s tape there. I close my eyes tight, trying to reach past the haze and the pain and the confusion to figure out how I got here and what’s wrong with me.

There were screams. I think some of them were mine. Not now, all I can do right now is try to breathe. My mouth tastes horrible. It’s sticky and gross. Did I throw up? I hate throwing up. Is that why my throat’s sore? Am I in for some kind of cold?

I look at the flyers. All of them are about positive thinking and therapy appointments and “Remember to take your meds!” and shit like that. Is this a psych ward? I take a few more steps down the hallway. It seems really long. I don’t know which way the exit is. I can’t seem to make out any red signs. How are there no exit signs? Isn’t that a fire hazard?

Something isn’t right. My knees buckle and I try to stay standing. I’m sweating like crazy. Standing shouldn’t take this much effort. My head shouldn’t be this foggy. My insides shouldn’t be fighting to crawl out of my ass. What the hell is wrong with me?

Someone telling me I’m crazy. This was back home. This was when the kids got packed up and I was left alone. I don’t know how I got here. Does anybody know I’m here? Does anybody care?

no

Wait, what? Who said that?

you’re not alone

What the actual fuck. Now I’m hearing voices. That’s just great. I feel like I want to throw up again.

Everything seems to be getting darker. The hallway feels like it’s getting even longer. My head wants to explode. I feel my pulse behind my eyes. It’s deafening. The only thing I can hear is that voice, it’s not my voice, I don’t know what’s going on.

I look down at my arm again. It’s turned dark, shot through with violet glow instead of blood. I can see right through it. It’s one arm, it’s many arms, it doesn’t exist. I shake my head to try and clear it. But I still hear the howling. It’s like a train, a train full of the lost and the damned and the hungry and the angry, and it’s coming my way. I’m standing in the tracks. I’m standing in the hallway. I’m standing in my home. I’m standing in nothing.

I open my mouth. I think it’s because I want to scream. But that doesn’t happen.

When I open my mouth, the voice that isn’t mine comes out. It says words I don’t understand. Everything starts to shake. My body doesn’t shake with it. It’s like I’m cut off from the world. Cut off from myself. Trapped in my own skin. A prisoner. A puppet. A pawn.

Somewhere, something is laughing. Then the world starts to come apart.

This week, Terribleminds tasked us with identifying the structures described in this Wired article. They are beautiful and unexplained. Here’s my take. Enjoy!

The Scout ran at full stride down the corridor to the office of the Overseer. The General was already there, talking about the positioning of the automated drones around the blue-brown world that turned beneath them. The Overseer folded its primary appendages across its chest as the secondary pair set down the report it had been reading.

“Something urgent, Scout?”

“A thousand apologies for the interruption, Overseer, but… the natives have discovered our devices.”

The Overseer’s mandibles clicked. “Well. That is unfortunate.”

“We knew it would happen sooner or later,” the General put in. “They’re not stupid.”

“Some of our telemetry would suggest otherwise.”

“It suggests primitive, mammalian tool-users with a modicum of intellect. They do have very limited space travel.”

“I know.” The Overseer gestured towards the expansive windows behind it. “Look at them. They hurl these hunks of metal into the void without nary a thought for orbit degradation or collisions with future launches. And they still have yet to colonize their sole satellite, to say nothing of the other bodies in the system!”

“We estimate they have had the capability to at least land expeditionary domes for twenty or thirty stellar orbits,” the Scout offered. “Perhaps they do not realize…”

“…that they are populating their homeworld to death? That they are on the brink of suffocating on their own numbers?” The Overseer’s antennae twitched, a common gesture of annoyance. “There is a reason our hives are able to thrive. The Queen, Ancestors protect her as Descendants praise her, never allows more mating pairs than the generation can handle. These creatures have no sense of control or direction. Our Observation Posts have demonstrated that much.”

“How?” The General’s expression was quizzical. “The Scout said they have only just discovered the Posts.”

“But many more remain undiscovered. In their fields, in their hives, in their very cocooning structures, Posts are everywhere on that planet.”

One of the Overseer’s primary appendages touched a control on the desk. Several displays came up of the dominant species on the planet: their governments in action (or lack thereof), their eating habits, how they mated, how they filled their days, their wars, their struggles, their hunger, their emotions. The Scout was, for a moment, overwhelmed by the diversity of it all.

The Overseer stood, looking at the displays as it paced. “I wonder sometimes if they would welcome us. We could obviate a great many of their problems for them. Their star is quiet young, rather vibrant, and produces an abundant amount of energy, yet their facilities for harnessing that energy are pitiful. Only a few of their more developed nation-states approach what would be considered the bare minimum for the lowest of hives on our worlds. Additionally, while they have abundant supplies of water and even mobile atmospheric patterns, they continue to use far more primitive and toxic means to heat their hives and power their machines.”

The General grunted. “They’ve been stuck on nuclear fission for dozens of stellar orbits. Maybe they just enjoying blowing themselves up.”

“It would seem that way. There are deliberate, casualty-causing explosions in areas where there are no active wars.”

The Scout cocked its head to one side. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Terror.” The General’s antennae gave a twitch of irritation. “Instead of negotiations, diplomacy, or up-front warfare, some of the members of this species conscript others of the species to cause damage to civilian populations. If the population feels it is unsafe, they could destabilize as they scramble for self-preservation, or shut down for fear of exposing themselves to future attacks.”

The Scout was silent, watching the monitors, stunned by this knowledge. The Overseer gestured at what had once been a forest.

“They wantonly destroy swaths of the vegetation they need to survive to expand personal territory. Countless members of the species are destitute, left without the means to feed themselves, while others seem to live in luxury while producing nothing for the good of the planet. The Queen has her position and prestige because of the hard decisions she has to make for the good of our species, and she sees to it that mating pairs are well-matched and successful. These creatures do nothing but acquire more material wealth.”

“And then there are those who are renowned for nothing but said wealth.” The General shook its head. “They have no honor from the battlefield, won no struggles to improve themselves, produced nothing of value. Yet the native society all but bows down before them. It is madness.”

“So what do we do?” The Scout dreaded the answer to its question, but asked anyway.

“Bio-targeted purge. We isolate the genetic structure of these parasites and cleanse the planet of their scourge.”

The Scout watched the General as it spoke. Then, without prompting, it touched one of the Overseer’s controls. The images changed to vibrant, colorful views of works of art, static and in motion, and the room was filled with musical strains, one song cross-fading into the next.

“Look, my superiors, and listen. This is what the planet produces in spite of all you have said.”

The General and the Overseer looked at the displays, and then each other, and then back. The Scout observed them, as it did with other species. As much as he had been selected as Scout for his curiosity and insight into alien races, he still found his own just as fascinating.

“Beautiful,” the Overseer said at length. “I had no idea that kind of barbarism could produce so much beauty. For such creatures to live this way, in their moments, so immediate and visceral… there’s beauty in it.”

“Does it change anything?” The General seemed unmoved. “Is preserving this art, singular as it is, worth consigning a planet this rich and vibrant to its fate?”

The Scout’s mandibles clicked. “I felt you should know the species you would condemn to death better before committing genocide.”

The Overseer waved an appendage. “Leave me to think. You will have my answer soon.”

For the Terribleminds challenge, “Another Ten Words“.

Even when he was human, he never cared for funerals. Death was an uncomfortable subject for many mortals, and funerals tended to bring an individual face to face with the specter of mortality, especially in violent circles. He stayed back from the front of the church’s sanctuary, where family members both intimate and extended slowly filed past the casket to pay their respects. He had no desire to show a lack of respect; he’d simply said everything he needed to say at their last meeting.

“This lot never cease to captivate me.”

He didn’t have to turn to know a statuesque woman was standing behind him, uttering those words. It was a presence he’d felt many times.

“I warned him about this. I told him he was pushing too hard against the Gates.”

“And now he is gone. Has all of your deceit been worth it?”

At that, he did turn to face her. She had been a beautiful woman by mortal standards; looking past the skin, he could barely withstand her glory. Part of him shrank, fought to run, pleaded to hide, to be forgiven; he crushed the sentiment under his heel.

“Why are you here, Raziel?”

She smiled. “Have I become so like you that I need an ulterior motive to see you?”

“Absolutely. Next thing you know you’ll be bathing in brimstone.”

Raziel made a face. “I don’t think that’d help my complexion.”

“Somewhere in the canyon Below, Beelzebub is recovering. It may take time, but he will return.”

“In the meantime, you can consolidate your power. Rally your troops. Get things in order before the balloon goes up.”

“I’m curious. Why did he choose that vessel? He must have known it was dangerous.”

“He was always fascinated with the way humans quote-unquote ‘organize’ their crime. He wanted to see that world from the inside. I was, naturally, obliged to follow. And you know for a fact that we are not common clay as they are.” He gestured at the funeral-goers. “It takes a bit more than a few little punctures to send us back from whence we came.”

“It does take some doing to rip the demon out of the flesh.” Raziel examined her fingers. “It’s almost an art.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Raziel looked at him evenly, then at the rest of the funeral. “I wanted to see the aftermath. Witness mortals facing their mortal nature. Record what choices they make.”

He smirked. “That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Their choices.”

“Belial…”

“No, wait, hear me out.” Belial began to pace. “Lucifer wanted for us – you and me – the same thing that God gave to humans. He wanted us to be able to choose. But, think about it. Lucifer fell. And we fell with him. We did make a choice. But whereas the choices humans make do not essentially change who or what they are, we were changed. Disfigured. We no longer have your grace and glory; we have only malice and terror. We remain as awesome as you in countenance and presence; yet humans run towards you away from us.”

“That is, at best, a broad generalization. Not all mortals make that choice. Some reject the notion of Heaven as a place to be sought and opt to make deals with your kind. Others eschew metaphysical planes entirely and believe that there’s nothing but the dirt and themselves.”

“Doesn’t that just reinforce my contention that humanity’s free will, and the choices born of it, does not fundamentally alter them?”

Raziel thought for a moment, reaching out with her hand to examine a willow branch protruding from a bouquet near the exit. “Is that why you want to usurp Lucifer?”

Belial winced. Even the mention of the nature of his plan made him anxious and paranoid. Still, he pressed on. “Think about it, Raziel. It can go back to the way it was. The Satan is supposed to be a complimentary role. The point is to test humanity, not stick it to Heaven over a grudge. Heaven is the carrot; Hell is supposed to be the stick. Lucifer is angry, angry enough to still want to end the whole thing. Global cataclysms, gatherings at Armageddon, the Horsemen, all of it.”

“And you’re not?”

“Would I be working with you if I was? Raziel, something changes about us, on the atomic level, when we make the choices that define us. Humans can define and re-define themselves at the drop of the proverbial hat. How can they do this? Why were they made so malleable? I need to know the answers to these questions. I need data. I need to experiment.”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the font of holy water near the back of the sanctuary, the one used by incoming parishioners to cross themselves. “So make deals and observe the results for yourself.”

Belial shook his head. “Too inefficient. A deal can take decades to bear viable data. If I control more demons directly, I can observe more results. This is the logical conclusion.”

Raziel studied him, and to his surprise, smiled a little. Even more surprising to him was the reaction from his body.

“That is what this is all about then? The mere result of an equation you’ve processed already?”

“For the most part, yes. There are fringe benefits, of course. Like seeing that pompous ass Beelzebub get kicked back downstairs. Nice work, by the way.”

“Darling, one doesn’t become the Keeper of Secrets in Heaven without learning how to silence those who’d disseminate those Secrets.”

He looked at her, deeply, for a long wordless moment. “That’s why you’re here. You want to know if I’ll betray you now that Bub is out of the way.”

“It’s a logical conclusion to make. You are a demon.”

“Yes, but I gave you my word that our bargain is ironclad. You know how seriously we take such things.”

“Perhaps we should discuss that more.” Raziel smiled again. “Over dinner.”