.
. .
In time immemorial, a
monster of fire, a flaming thing tearing over the horizon, a monument
of a beast galloping heedless high above the mountains, over the
ocean, over the forests and deserts; its flame lit the sky orange and
red, spreading out over the atmosphere of an Earth imperceptibly
small and forever beyond to overpower the light of all God's
celestial gems. A maw the size of a continent split wide to reveal
teeth great as California redwoods, breath like an arid Phoenix.
Black and crimson eyes perceived the expanse, trespassing upon each
layer of existence, seeing through the concept of mankind and
dedicating a judgmental glare to the Spiritus Mundi.
All of this presented an
image, and the beast sifted mindfully through it, turning aside and
looking behind each subtle strand of each person's life, unweaving
the webs of their God-seeming composition. And in the midst of it,
the beast found HER.
And with unnatural, fervent speed did it pursue.
HER.
Then
the image changed, and our Great Lady Babylon sat atop the corpse of
that beast in an unfamiliar golden ocean, the size of which defied
the curve of the world. She and HER
alone atop it. The ocean glowed yellow and as the fire of the beast
slowly died away, a sepia twilight fell over the scene. And the Lady
rode the corpse as though a vessel to convey HER
across a sea of bitter honey.
|pRoj<Ec>T_</fo>uR|
. .
.
WHAT FOLLOWS: S1.E01.1
No matter how pressed for time a person is, it's hard
to be in a hurry when approaching Famine death. The van sped along
the empty highway, the concrete under its wheels screaming, and the
hearts of its passengers beat at a panicked pace, knowing that even
as they hurried along their enemy charged eagerly to the place of
their meeting, wherever that might be. Yet the movements felt slow,
and seconds dragged out, and when Foundation looked about the
vehicle's confines it was with a calm, cognizant expression. He sat
without fuss and moved without haste as he reached out to the
magnetic chessboard he was busying himself about. The officers
towards the front of the van were silent, solemn, and the youth
sitting across from him in pale white garb and coat was relaxed in
his seat, leaning far back sleepily. It was a deceptive body language
that humans were born into, that they were given over to when they
had chosen to ride into a perilous situation and were as prepared as
anyone ever could be to do so. It was all just waiting and thought
now, all just riding along. The only one in the van who could do
anything at all at that point was the driver, and it was hard to tell
how the man felt about it. Hands at ten and two, eyes forward, check
the mirrors every few seconds, don't open your eyelids all the way
for fear of noticing the evacuated highways and the militant vans
winged out behind you; for fear of re-realizing the extremity of the
situation before you could affect it.
Light shone into the van from the other vans'
headlights around them, six or so, and Foundation
almost-unconsciously placed his brimmed brown hat upon his head and
adjusted it so that the shadows favored his eyes. He put one leather
glove to his stubble-laden chin, rough aged features trying to look
thoughtful as they considered the next move of one side or the other
on his chessboard. He made a sort of guttural sound that was supposed
to seem intelligent, but was full of grating as though he'd swallowed
sand and choked on it. He had the white pieces arranged in a layered
defense around the king, pawns at the front, knights and rooks
behind, and the bishops and queen squared off for a last stand around
the king, if it should come down to that. Defense is a poor strategy
in the game but sometimes necessary, as in this case when the Black
pieces were being so boldly aggressive. Foundation looked down on the
black rook that had advanced heedlessly into the midst of his pawns,
daring his more powerful, precious pieces to come out and play.
Foundation sighed at it.
The pieces jostled suddenly, snapping Foundation's
attention up, as the manchild across from him kicked the underside of
the table. All the board and the pieces quivered, but none fell or
moved significantly. The magnets were more than capable of keeping
them in place; it would take more effort than that to destroy the
game he had so carefully orchestrated.
Sitting forward and gripping both hands in his lap, the
youth blinked his gray eyes lazily, looking at Foundation's
chessboard as if trying to use it as evidence and pass judgment on
Foundation himself. When he finally did look up, he wore a smile in
his eyes and a frown on his lips. “This is quite a pessimistic game
you have running here, isn't it?”
Foundation inhaled deeply, looking bored at the youth,
“You think so?”
Sitting up so as to position himself a bit more over
the game, he began to point at pieces. “You're all in a panic over
this one rook here, but there are two rooks, remember, and a queen
that hasn't been touched.” As he indicated each piece individually,
the sleeve of his white canvas coat swayed very close to his youthful
wrist, “While he kills your pawns and you utilize everything you
have just to oust one rook, he's moving his pawns simply out of the
way of his bigger guns. You won't be ready for them when they come.”
“The pawns are hardly expendable,” Foundation
countered, “But I have to trust them to do their jobs. As I keep
this single rook busy, he gets his pawns out of the way instead of
using them, and that leaves his important pieces vulnerable. Mine
will be protected by each other, his will not.”
Nodding, “Assuming that's the strategy he's using.”
“You've been playing this game a lot longer than I
have, Monument. Have you ever known him to do otherwise?”
The youth huffed and held his hands in front of his
face momentarily, then leaned back again. “Heart rate, respiration
and location of extended habitation all affect lifespan,
potentially.”
Taking this as a surrender, Foundation allowed himself
a half-smile. “Thought so.”
“Foundation,” it was a title, not a name, and it
was spoken by the officer in the van's navigator's seat. “The
Magicians are reporting Famine's presence outside the artisan
district. They've engaged him.”
This was something Foundation gave little thought to.
It was one of those things that he couldn't affect, that he didn't
really want to give even a moment's consideration just yet. Still, he
had to ask. “Have we contacted the advance unit?”
“We tried. There was no response.”
The youth sat forward, pulling four pawns off of
Foundation's chessboard. “Oops,” he said, calmly, placing the
pawns aside and moving the offending rook into the midst of his
knights where it violated his second line of defense.
Foundation considered the board without expression.
“Thank you, Monument, but it wasn't your turn.”
“I'm not playing,” the young one, Monument, leaned
back in his seat again, crossing his arms over his chest. His face
faded into the shadows, hiding his gray eyes and making his brown
hair look black, hanging over his brow in harsh contrast to the
gleaming white bodysuit, looking like polished ivory, that he wore
under his knee-length white coat. His frown was still visible, a
stubborn thing that disliked this night like a child disliked
homework.
Clearing his throat, Foundation sat forward, pushing
the brim of his hat up so that he could look into the shadow where he
guessed he was meeting Monument's glare. “Which reminds me to ask
you, elder. Are you going to do anything about all this?”
Monument huffed at him. “Heart rate, respiration and
an integer implied by one's moral choices all affect lifespan,
potentially.” He then made a humming noise that started out high
and gained a lower pitch over several seconds, running into the first
syllable of his next statement. “I'm not sure what there is to do.
I'd just as soon stay out of Famine's way, so long as I have the
convenience of the choice.”
Foundation allowed himself a bit of a smile, crossing
his own arms over his chest and motioning to one of the bishops
guarding his king as he spoke. “You know, some of the people in
this car would say the Famine is your responsibility. Because of your
history.”
“I am Famine's problem, but he is not mine.” His
mouth was the only thing that moved as he spoke; not even his voice
wavered. “The hotel bombings, the Elysian and what goes on under
the Blue Raven Club. Those might be my problem, if you want to push
it. But not Famine. I don't fight Famine. I stay out of his way.”
And then after a moment's silence. “You should stay out of his way
too.”
“Every sacrifice is calculated.”
“You
don’t fight Famine. You don’t stand up to him. You don’t stare
him down, you don’t get in his way. You run, or hell will run you
over.”
“Everyone being thrown in the way of that Hell
tonight is a good friend of mine, and of the project. I thought that
included you.”
“Inclusively?” Monument seemed to have solidified
in his position, both physically and in terms of the argument. “I'd
say indicatively, of your moral choices. Heart rate, respiration and
an integer implied by one's moral choices all affect lifespan,
potentially. You don't fight Famine.”
Foundation began to buckle against the wall that
Monument had made of himself. No, Foundation wasn't counting on
Monument tonight. That could never be done. But he had hoped, though
it was an odd thought, that there would be a friend's assistance
hidden somewhere inside of him. “How many people do you think are
going to die tonight?”
“If I'm running the math, and I just might be, I'd
say fifteen already have. The rest depends on how you play the game.”
Monument pursed his lips, and then quirked them to one side in
thought. “Is it worth it?”
“Curare's the target, Monument. Curare might die
tonight.”
Monument's voice took on a sort of laugh, “I don't
care about Marduk. He's one of us. He can take care of himself.”
Foundation nodded. “Marduk can take care of other
things too. But not Famine.”
“I don't care about Marduk.”
“He'll fight anyway, though. He has something to
fight for. Unlike you.”
“I don't care about Marduk.”
“Probably die, too. But he has someone to die for.
Unlike you.”
“I said I don't care about him!”
“Marduk isn't even what Famine's after.”
The manchild made no reply, freezing their dialog
completely. It was a reaction, a still reaction, one that implied a
realization on his part. It wasn't easy to surprise Monument, and
when he was surprised by something, if only just a realization, it
showed. In his stillness. Not even his lips moved, and he didn't look
to be breathing.
It took a long time for Monument to speak again. “Heart
rate, respiration and body temperature all affect lifespan,
potentially.”
“That's right,” Foundation agreed, “You do not
care.” He raised his voice then, speaking to the silent officers
around him. “The Magicians are still holding Famine?”
A nondescript answer, “Yes.”
“Stop the van here. He'll want to run right through
us on his way to Marduk's. We should be waiting.”
The vans parked end-to-end sideways on the road,
forming a feeble wall across all east and west-bound lanes, wide gaps
in between each one filled out with officers in riot gear, each one
having turned in his police-issued firearm in temporary exchange for
something a little more powerful and far less-well known. Foundation
stood some twenty feet ahead of the line, looking back at the
makeshift soldiers he was rarely forced to utilize, watching them
make their preparations. Monument was sitting in the doorway to one
of the vans, his legs drawn up beside him, leaning comfortably,
unwilling to exit. The youth was holding one of the officers'
weapons, inspecting it for him, likely making sure that the
mass-produced models matched the prototype the manchild himself had
designed, assembled and tested a month before.
Foundation sighed. No, Monument wouldn't be any help.
That man was just along for the ride.
Watching his own breath dissipate into the cold air as
he exhaled, he took a moment to separate his thoughts and perceptions
from the violence taking place in other parts of the city and making
fast approach to swallow him up. He perceived the chill touch on his
skin and in his nostrils, the promise of snow in the air actually for
once suppressing the smell of dust and oil that permeated most of the
city. He looked about, the clean air crisp, making the city
well-visible. The Highway he stood on was some forty feet off the
ground, and from here he could see the most of the city. North, the
University, the rural areas, City Hall, the small block of buildings
amongst which hid a blank construct that housed the Project.
North also held the entertainment district, glowing
like a marquee sun in the middle of this night. All casinos and clubs
and whatever else he was missing out on by staying as far away as he
possibly could. There was a sign rising high above the rest, mounted
atop a dome that tried to block out any view of the sky for anyone on
its property. It was a simplistic bird made of blue tube lights, and
the words, “Blue Raven Club.”
Southeast was the airport and industry. Southwest was
the museum, the artisan district, and Famine. He couldn't see Famine,
but he could feel him in that direction, hewing things down.
Foundation had expected to at least see the orange glow of fire where
Famine was carving his route. Probably hidden amidst the buildings.
Welcome to Jeru, they said to newcomers. Welcome to
Heaven. But that wasn't this place. Welcome to Jeru, they should say
well enough. But welcome to Hell. Jeru, the city of the Project.
Jeru, the dirty city.
WHAT FOLLOWS: S1.E01.2
She awoke to an aching pain that sweltered and rippled
through her skull and neck; a fire flicking about the nerves in her
spine; to the taste of steel in her mouth, blurred vision and slow
thoughts. As she squinted and lifted her head off the cracked
tile and became slowly aware of still-warm blood pooled about the
glassy crater her head had made in the floor when she fell, she
became very cold, and then very warm, and a rush of goosebumps over
her body left her feeling naked. Weakly she rose, laboriously,
slowly, all the while muttering broken and confused words under her
breath. She reached a sitting position and let her head hang between
her legs, waited for her eyes to focus as she watched red drops
trickle down the sticky strands of her long-hanging black hair.
Breathing steadily, waiting out the waves of pain and panic,
trying to will her mind to work, a thought finally formed in her
mind.
What happened?
One
heavy hand extended to - Unexpected file termination, unable to render further.
Running
search for missing data. … Data not found. … Repeating search. …
Data not found. … Repeating search. … Data not found. …
Repeating search. … Data not found. … Repeating search. … Data
not found. … Repeating search. … Data not found. … Repeating
search. … Data not found. … Repeating search. … Data not found.
… Repeating search. … Data not found. … Repeating search. …
Data not found. … Repeating search. … Data not found. …
Repeating search. … Data not found. … Repeating search. …
Search timeout … Search unsuccessful.
File
S1.E01.2 does not exist.
Sending
request to Fiction Machine:
DIRECTOY:
|pRoj<Ec>T_</fo>uR|
FILE:
S1.E01.2
Status:
pending
…
…
Status:
request received
File
name S1.E01.2 under construction
Formulae:
plot-to-date – babylon – famine – marduk –
foundation/firmament – elder
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