Night 59: M51-M60 Hallway
It was only but a quiet secret, held and kept.
Only a means and a method. A lie, and one he would continue to tell. Continue to slip from himself to maintain sanity's tight coil. Keep your eyes on me--he would not stray if the pattern held, he would not march out of line without a reason gathering whys. No, he would not waver, yet here-- The screech raked out against the night, the sound ill-mannered and poorly conceived, and even as the AI rambled codes he did not know and emergencies he did not care for it was at first the replacement of that sound, that drone. The replacement, slip and slide downward, to wrench something out of place and forward--to call familiarity, an echo in his soul, and it wasn’t that he heard it, per se, but he remembered hearing it; in that moment, he remembered that then, remembered how he had heard and what it had meant and that--
Weakness traveled through him and fled on sight. There was a reach of consciousness, familiar and overflowing, and even as it kept to expansion, here it held, here he would recognize first and only--a waveform rekindled to sparks. He could do what he willed and it would be afforded him, for he was now whole, now more than willing to--
Reach out and grasp firmly what was his. His eyes lit brightly, and something of a grin slipped over him. There was no rules in place for this game. He was only afforded what had been, without limitations or the quiet tendencies of death. Given to this he could only-- Only? Everything. His waveform flowed through him, something else was slowly waking, and Albedo wondered, perfectly, precisely, if what had returned to him was everything, always, or only this, and only this. His gaze happened to his closet, of what was situated there, and his head rolled on his neck, lips thinning in decision, quiet and droll. Of height, there were three things of note. Two guns and one sword, and it was the latter he picked up and placed against his skin--it was there that his arm glowed the moment pressure was released, the wound closing instantly and perfectly in the way that was only his, only his because he was--
Albedo laughed then, his head thrown back, and in the same moment, his arm snatched one of the shotguns, the weight afforded and given, and he pulled it close, tucked it near, leaned a cheek against it in affection. "Memento vivere…" came the murmur, as if to a lover. The gun shifted, nestled under his chin, and the boy reached down, trigger tightening in en experienced grip.
The result was an explosion of light and sound, bone, blood and gore, gray matter situated in-between the leaking ruins left on the wall behind. The resulting sound, sensation, impression faded. And in the moment that followed, the boy regenerated as wholly as he ever had. The entity smiled, tongue touching teeth touching--
Oh, this was glorious! This was truly marvelous, was it not?! "Ipse dixit! He himself said it!" Albedo crowed and broke into laughter, high pitched to a shriek. He curled in on himelf, arms clutching his shoulders, then he flung them out, the laughter bouncing off the walls. "On the third day he rose again!" And what was this?! Was this not the twenty-first day that he had spent in these halls? Divide it by three and what remained? Seven, three sevens to equal this time, and should he call dragons, should he fill seven bowls with blood?! It had not yet weighed on another set, and perhaps it was to him to bring down heaven’s wrath. To cut seven heads from a red dragon, and present them hand and foot--
Parcel and part, for what role would betrayers gain when standing before those who were owed their absolution?
He swayed once then, and his hand loosened, the shotgun dropped to the floor with a clack, somehow not going off at the shock against it. His hand moved to his mouth, his teeth bit into fingertips, and he shifted forward, mind moving through scenarios that could be expended tonight. Of what and where should this resurrection hold? Who shall it grace? None had cried at the grave, after all.~
None had held to faith alone.
Only a means and a method. A lie, and one he would continue to tell. Continue to slip from himself to maintain sanity's tight coil. Keep your eyes on me--he would not stray if the pattern held, he would not march out of line without a reason gathering whys. No, he would not waver, yet here-- The screech raked out against the night, the sound ill-mannered and poorly conceived, and even as the AI rambled codes he did not know and emergencies he did not care for it was at first the replacement of that sound, that drone. The replacement, slip and slide downward, to wrench something out of place and forward--to call familiarity, an echo in his soul, and it wasn’t that he heard it, per se, but he remembered hearing it; in that moment, he remembered that then, remembered how he had heard and what it had meant and that--
Weakness traveled through him and fled on sight. There was a reach of consciousness, familiar and overflowing, and even as it kept to expansion, here it held, here he would recognize first and only--a waveform rekindled to sparks. He could do what he willed and it would be afforded him, for he was now whole, now more than willing to--
Reach out and grasp firmly what was his. His eyes lit brightly, and something of a grin slipped over him. There was no rules in place for this game. He was only afforded what had been, without limitations or the quiet tendencies of death. Given to this he could only-- Only? Everything. His waveform flowed through him, something else was slowly waking, and Albedo wondered, perfectly, precisely, if what had returned to him was everything, always, or only this, and only this. His gaze happened to his closet, of what was situated there, and his head rolled on his neck, lips thinning in decision, quiet and droll. Of height, there were three things of note. Two guns and one sword, and it was the latter he picked up and placed against his skin--it was there that his arm glowed the moment pressure was released, the wound closing instantly and perfectly in the way that was only his, only his because he was--
Albedo laughed then, his head thrown back, and in the same moment, his arm snatched one of the shotguns, the weight afforded and given, and he pulled it close, tucked it near, leaned a cheek against it in affection. "Memento vivere…" came the murmur, as if to a lover. The gun shifted, nestled under his chin, and the boy reached down, trigger tightening in en experienced grip.
The result was an explosion of light and sound, bone, blood and gore, gray matter situated in-between the leaking ruins left on the wall behind. The resulting sound, sensation, impression faded. And in the moment that followed, the boy regenerated as wholly as he ever had. The entity smiled, tongue touching teeth touching--
Oh, this was glorious! This was truly marvelous, was it not?! "Ipse dixit! He himself said it!" Albedo crowed and broke into laughter, high pitched to a shriek. He curled in on himelf, arms clutching his shoulders, then he flung them out, the laughter bouncing off the walls. "On the third day he rose again!" And what was this?! Was this not the twenty-first day that he had spent in these halls? Divide it by three and what remained? Seven, three sevens to equal this time, and should he call dragons, should he fill seven bowls with blood?! It had not yet weighed on another set, and perhaps it was to him to bring down heaven’s wrath. To cut seven heads from a red dragon, and present them hand and foot--
Parcel and part, for what role would betrayers gain when standing before those who were owed their absolution?
He swayed once then, and his hand loosened, the shotgun dropped to the floor with a clack, somehow not going off at the shock against it. His hand moved to his mouth, his teeth bit into fingertips, and he shifted forward, mind moving through scenarios that could be expended tonight. Of what and where should this resurrection hold? Who shall it grace? None had cried at the grave, after all.~
None had held to faith alone.