Room 218, Tuesday Afternoon
Karla sat on her bed, wooden frame floating gently in the air in front of her, a pile of spidersilk close to her right hand. Normally, she had a reason to be spinning a tangled web: a project, like for the ghosts or for the fair, because of a dream or an odd feeling, like when the other world's spell had swept across Fandom. But there was no concrete reason for the desire to spin this web; just a nebulous feeling, far too faint and vague to even be classified as 'bad' or 'odd.' It was more akin to having someone's name stuck on the tip of your tongue, or the nagging sensation that you'd forgotten to do something. Even putting on her Widow's Weeds to try to get herself in a more "Black Widow-y" state of mind hadn't helped.
Which was why she was glaring at the frame, almost daring it to explain to her what she was going to be weaving and why.
The frame provided no answers, just floated in front of her, calm and serene. Karla stuck her tongue out at it. It didn't seem to care. Still, there was really nothing else to do but to go with her instincts, regardless of whether or not she knew what she was supposed to be doing. If something was telling her to spin a tangled web, she just had to do it. Doubtlessly, the answer would come about in its own, sweet time. She just needed to be patient.
Karla...didn't do patient very well.
But since everything was out and she was even wearing her Weeds, she got to work. The first thing she did was attach the silk to the anchor points in the web. It didn't matter what kind of web she ultimately wove, the anchor lines needed to be firm, steady, and in place to support the Craft flowing through the radial lines. She looped the fabric through and around, pulling it tight, checking the tension with a kind of careless grace that only came when someone performed a task they were born to do.
Had it been a normal web, one born from a specific purpose, Karla would have been paying more attention to the spidersilk in her hands. Instead, her attention was focused inwards, trying to chase down that feeling, to poke it, prod it, make it more forthcoming. Which was why she missed the length of thread that was dyed a rusty brown. That thread was knotted tightly to the main anchor point, spinning down, down, becoming the central point of the web. And from that position, Ender's blood, innocently spilled not a week before, caught at the Craft within the web and turned it to its own purposes.
Blood is the memory's river.
Karla's hands moved of their own accord now, moving hither and yon according to what Karla saw, eyes closed, in her mind's eye. It no longer mattered why she had originally begun weaving. The Craft had a purpose now, and it was moving her hands automatically. It was like hearing a wild melody, off in the distance. The web was her instrument and Karla wanted to join the tune. She opened herself to her birthright, and surrendered to the music of her Craft.
At first, there was pain. Something was being removed, taken from her, no his body. It felt like they were pulling out his spine, setting his blood on fire. He twisted and spasmed and tried but could not scream...
"Thirdie, thirdie." Childish taunts, but with the power to sting. And hiding some very ugly emotions. "Lost your birdie, Thirdie?" Rough hands, a feeling of danger, of claustrophobia. They were surrounding him, ganging up on him, grabbing him to hold him tight. He kicked out, high and hard, catching one boy--Stilson, the web whispered--square in the breastbone. 'I have to win this now,' he realized, 'and for all time, or I'll fight it every day and it will get worse and worse.' And so he, a child, no more then six or seven, walked over to Stilson's supine body and kicked him again, viciously, in the ribs. And again, in the crotch. And again, in the face, after warning the others a similar fate would come to them. if they came near him again. And through it all, there was no hatred, no anger, no real fear. Only a mantra 'I am just like Peter. Take my monitor away and I am just like Peter...'
It was supposed to be a game. A game he was playing with his brother. He was wearing something over his face; a mask, a rubber mask meant to look like the aliens they were fighting, like the buggers. But the look in Peter's eyes suggested this wasn't a game. He was laying on his back, the air coming in through the mask scented by the cheap toy rubber and Peter was on kneeling on his chest, making every breath a battle. "I could kill you like this," Peter whispered. "Just press and press until you were dead. And I could say that I didn't know if would hurt you, that we were just playing, and they'd believe me, and everything would be fine. And you'd be dead. Everything would be fine." He was saved, by a voice from the doorway, Valentine, sweet, wonderful, most-beloved and angelic Valentine, who used their brother's ambition against him. Though it was only a reprieve and all three of them knew it...
More images, swirling faster and faster; colors, emotions, and sounds flashed by her as she examined the warp and weft of Ender's past. A shuttle flight out to the stars; a man who praised him in front of the other students to make them hate him, resent him. A broken arm--a boy had attacked him on the shuttle and he'd responded, but hadn't taken the null-G into consideration. Learning things, amazing things, on some kind of sophisticated laptop--a desk. Being traded from army to army, learning more about tactics and warfare at a rate that amazed and excited the other children--except those who hated him. And through it all, a kind of crushing, almost soul-killing loneliness. Even when they give him his own army to lead, to inspire, there was always that wall between him and everyone else, unable to be fully breeched...
A few faces stood out. One was a young, handsome, swarthy male: Alai. His first friend. Taken away just when he was learning what friendship was. A kiss, as Ender was being sent away. A kiss, and a whispered "Salaam." Later, in the game room, with the game that forced him to kill again and again and again until forcing him to face his reflection as Peter, when Alai told him what Salaam meant: "I wasn't, Alai. Holding anything back."
"I know. Neither was I."
"Salaam, Alai."
"Alas, it is not meant to be."
"What isn't?"
"Peace. It's what salaam means. Peace be unto you." And Alai left, taking a bit of Ender's soul with him, but leaving behind something that could never be taken or lost or stolen, a memory of their friendship, one of the few things he could hold on to, forever...
Another was Bean; skinny, small, and brilliant, just like him. Another, younger, smaller version of himself. Someone to confide in, just a little bit, when they were pushing him too far, too fast. "I don't know what the teachers are doing, but my army is getting tired, and I'm getting tired, and they don't care at all about the rules of the game. I've pulled the old charts up from the computer. No one has ever destroyed so many enemies and kept so many of his own soldiers whole in the history of the game." Another thought, a whisper in the darkness. 'Is that all I am? All I can be? A destroyer? Another Peter?' No purpose to that thought, need to just keep going. "They've loaded things my way, but now they're loading it all against me. Bean, they want to break us down."
"They can't break you."
"You'd be surprised..."
Battles, everyday more battles. Two battles in one day. Battles against two armies at the same time. Another battle, this one more personal. An ambush in the showers. One of his old Commanders, with the intent to kill. He fought back, with clean, efficient brutality. The only way to walk out of this fight was to make sure that fear outweighed anger, outweighed hatred. Just like before, with Stilson. And so he made sure of it. Again, he felt no rage, no hurt, just...love? And a kind of completely and total understanding. And in that moment, he destroyed his opponent, utterly... Ender didn't know at that time, couldn't know, but Karla, still caught in the web, she knew that the other male was dead. Ender's first blow had sent tiny shards of death up into his brain. Tears scalded her cheeks, but they were for Ender, for the things they made him do, the thing they were turning him into. But there wasn't time for that as another knot tightened, another loop slipped and she was
floating on a raft with Valentine, strangely at peace. Back on earth, where the sun was bright and warm and the water made playful noises as it lapped against the edges of the raft he had built with his own two hands. And Valentine, his angel, was being used against him, the perfect weapon. ("I also remembered that you were beautiful. Your face is the same, but I don't remember what beautiful means anymore.") She was sent to scrape away his peace, his contentment, to force him back into school, to finish becoming the strategist, the killer they needed him to become. He forgave her for it, of course, because he could forgive her anything. It was not her fault anyway, but the IF's, she was just playing her part perfectly, which was to be expected because she was Valentine...
And last was his toon. His friends, the ones he had made and trusted in the Battle School. Bean, Crazy Tom, Hot Soup, Petra. names after names, but, most importantly, Alai was there to whisper "Salaam" in his ear. And together they played games, fight simulations, learning what to expect when they finally encountered the buggers, how to handle a fleet lightyears away. But he could feel them slipping away from him; he became their commander, but no longer was their friend. Then the last day, the last test. Adults were there, watching over their shoulders (Right, children, they're only children, why won't they let them be children?)tense and nervous and watchful. He decided to beat them at this, the last. To win so unfairly they'd never let him play a game again. And he did. He destroyed the center planet with the Dr. Device, spreading the destruction among the enemies' fleet, turning everything into a lump of dirt and dust. Then came the cheering and the tears and the news that none of it had been a game, nothing. That he and his friends had been the Third and final invasion. That all those dots he had lost, had killed, all of the dots on either side had been people--human and bugger alike. He had killed them all...
Xenocide.
There was more. Memories of a trial, a trip, a mirror with a treasure behind it. But Karla could barely see them anymore through the tears. She yanked her hands away from the threads as if they burned, called in the strongest wine she could, and drank it straight from the bottle. The wine burned as it raced down her throat and her shaking hands sent some of it sloshing out of the bottle and onto her clothes. The deep red liquid shimmered like the droplets of blood that had come from Bonzo's eyes and she nearly threw up.
Too much. It was all too much. Karla closed her tightly against the images still crashing around in her head, curled up into a small ball, and cried until she had no more tears left.
[Whew! That's done! Posted with permission and approval from endsthegame All scenes and text taken from Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card. Warning: post contains violence directed at children by other children. Cause kids are mean, yo. The contents of the web are NFB, though Karla's reactions both before and after the cut are fine.
For one, please. (Though OOC responses rock my socks)]
Which was why she was glaring at the frame, almost daring it to explain to her what she was going to be weaving and why.
The frame provided no answers, just floated in front of her, calm and serene. Karla stuck her tongue out at it. It didn't seem to care. Still, there was really nothing else to do but to go with her instincts, regardless of whether or not she knew what she was supposed to be doing. If something was telling her to spin a tangled web, she just had to do it. Doubtlessly, the answer would come about in its own, sweet time. She just needed to be patient.
Karla...didn't do patient very well.
But since everything was out and she was even wearing her Weeds, she got to work. The first thing she did was attach the silk to the anchor points in the web. It didn't matter what kind of web she ultimately wove, the anchor lines needed to be firm, steady, and in place to support the Craft flowing through the radial lines. She looped the fabric through and around, pulling it tight, checking the tension with a kind of careless grace that only came when someone performed a task they were born to do.
Had it been a normal web, one born from a specific purpose, Karla would have been paying more attention to the spidersilk in her hands. Instead, her attention was focused inwards, trying to chase down that feeling, to poke it, prod it, make it more forthcoming. Which was why she missed the length of thread that was dyed a rusty brown. That thread was knotted tightly to the main anchor point, spinning down, down, becoming the central point of the web. And from that position, Ender's blood, innocently spilled not a week before, caught at the Craft within the web and turned it to its own purposes.
Blood is the memory's river.
Karla's hands moved of their own accord now, moving hither and yon according to what Karla saw, eyes closed, in her mind's eye. It no longer mattered why she had originally begun weaving. The Craft had a purpose now, and it was moving her hands automatically. It was like hearing a wild melody, off in the distance. The web was her instrument and Karla wanted to join the tune. She opened herself to her birthright, and surrendered to the music of her Craft.
At first, there was pain. Something was being removed, taken from her, no his body. It felt like they were pulling out his spine, setting his blood on fire. He twisted and spasmed and tried but could not scream...
"Thirdie, thirdie." Childish taunts, but with the power to sting. And hiding some very ugly emotions. "Lost your birdie, Thirdie?" Rough hands, a feeling of danger, of claustrophobia. They were surrounding him, ganging up on him, grabbing him to hold him tight. He kicked out, high and hard, catching one boy--Stilson, the web whispered--square in the breastbone. 'I have to win this now,' he realized, 'and for all time, or I'll fight it every day and it will get worse and worse.' And so he, a child, no more then six or seven, walked over to Stilson's supine body and kicked him again, viciously, in the ribs. And again, in the crotch. And again, in the face, after warning the others a similar fate would come to them. if they came near him again. And through it all, there was no hatred, no anger, no real fear. Only a mantra 'I am just like Peter. Take my monitor away and I am just like Peter...'
It was supposed to be a game. A game he was playing with his brother. He was wearing something over his face; a mask, a rubber mask meant to look like the aliens they were fighting, like the buggers. But the look in Peter's eyes suggested this wasn't a game. He was laying on his back, the air coming in through the mask scented by the cheap toy rubber and Peter was on kneeling on his chest, making every breath a battle. "I could kill you like this," Peter whispered. "Just press and press until you were dead. And I could say that I didn't know if would hurt you, that we were just playing, and they'd believe me, and everything would be fine. And you'd be dead. Everything would be fine." He was saved, by a voice from the doorway, Valentine, sweet, wonderful, most-beloved and angelic Valentine, who used their brother's ambition against him. Though it was only a reprieve and all three of them knew it...
More images, swirling faster and faster; colors, emotions, and sounds flashed by her as she examined the warp and weft of Ender's past. A shuttle flight out to the stars; a man who praised him in front of the other students to make them hate him, resent him. A broken arm--a boy had attacked him on the shuttle and he'd responded, but hadn't taken the null-G into consideration. Learning things, amazing things, on some kind of sophisticated laptop--a desk. Being traded from army to army, learning more about tactics and warfare at a rate that amazed and excited the other children--except those who hated him. And through it all, a kind of crushing, almost soul-killing loneliness. Even when they give him his own army to lead, to inspire, there was always that wall between him and everyone else, unable to be fully breeched...
A few faces stood out. One was a young, handsome, swarthy male: Alai. His first friend. Taken away just when he was learning what friendship was. A kiss, as Ender was being sent away. A kiss, and a whispered "Salaam." Later, in the game room, with the game that forced him to kill again and again and again until forcing him to face his reflection as Peter, when Alai told him what Salaam meant: "I wasn't, Alai. Holding anything back."
"I know. Neither was I."
"Salaam, Alai."
"Alas, it is not meant to be."
"What isn't?"
"Peace. It's what salaam means. Peace be unto you." And Alai left, taking a bit of Ender's soul with him, but leaving behind something that could never be taken or lost or stolen, a memory of their friendship, one of the few things he could hold on to, forever...
Another was Bean; skinny, small, and brilliant, just like him. Another, younger, smaller version of himself. Someone to confide in, just a little bit, when they were pushing him too far, too fast. "I don't know what the teachers are doing, but my army is getting tired, and I'm getting tired, and they don't care at all about the rules of the game. I've pulled the old charts up from the computer. No one has ever destroyed so many enemies and kept so many of his own soldiers whole in the history of the game." Another thought, a whisper in the darkness. 'Is that all I am? All I can be? A destroyer? Another Peter?' No purpose to that thought, need to just keep going. "They've loaded things my way, but now they're loading it all against me. Bean, they want to break us down."
"They can't break you."
"You'd be surprised..."
Battles, everyday more battles. Two battles in one day. Battles against two armies at the same time. Another battle, this one more personal. An ambush in the showers. One of his old Commanders, with the intent to kill. He fought back, with clean, efficient brutality. The only way to walk out of this fight was to make sure that fear outweighed anger, outweighed hatred. Just like before, with Stilson. And so he made sure of it. Again, he felt no rage, no hurt, just...love? And a kind of completely and total understanding. And in that moment, he destroyed his opponent, utterly... Ender didn't know at that time, couldn't know, but Karla, still caught in the web, she knew that the other male was dead. Ender's first blow had sent tiny shards of death up into his brain. Tears scalded her cheeks, but they were for Ender, for the things they made him do, the thing they were turning him into. But there wasn't time for that as another knot tightened, another loop slipped and she was
floating on a raft with Valentine, strangely at peace. Back on earth, where the sun was bright and warm and the water made playful noises as it lapped against the edges of the raft he had built with his own two hands. And Valentine, his angel, was being used against him, the perfect weapon. ("I also remembered that you were beautiful. Your face is the same, but I don't remember what beautiful means anymore.") She was sent to scrape away his peace, his contentment, to force him back into school, to finish becoming the strategist, the killer they needed him to become. He forgave her for it, of course, because he could forgive her anything. It was not her fault anyway, but the IF's, she was just playing her part perfectly, which was to be expected because she was Valentine...
And last was his toon. His friends, the ones he had made and trusted in the Battle School. Bean, Crazy Tom, Hot Soup, Petra. names after names, but, most importantly, Alai was there to whisper "Salaam" in his ear. And together they played games, fight simulations, learning what to expect when they finally encountered the buggers, how to handle a fleet lightyears away. But he could feel them slipping away from him; he became their commander, but no longer was their friend. Then the last day, the last test. Adults were there, watching over their shoulders (Right, children, they're only children, why won't they let them be children?)tense and nervous and watchful. He decided to beat them at this, the last. To win so unfairly they'd never let him play a game again. And he did. He destroyed the center planet with the Dr. Device, spreading the destruction among the enemies' fleet, turning everything into a lump of dirt and dust. Then came the cheering and the tears and the news that none of it had been a game, nothing. That he and his friends had been the Third and final invasion. That all those dots he had lost, had killed, all of the dots on either side had been people--human and bugger alike. He had killed them all...
Xenocide.
There was more. Memories of a trial, a trip, a mirror with a treasure behind it. But Karla could barely see them anymore through the tears. She yanked her hands away from the threads as if they burned, called in the strongest wine she could, and drank it straight from the bottle. The wine burned as it raced down her throat and her shaking hands sent some of it sloshing out of the bottle and onto her clothes. The deep red liquid shimmered like the droplets of blood that had come from Bonzo's eyes and she nearly threw up.
Too much. It was all too much. Karla closed her tightly against the images still crashing around in her head, curled up into a small ball, and cried until she had no more tears left.
[Whew! That's done! Posted with permission and approval from endsthegame All scenes and text taken from Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card. Warning: post contains violence directed at children by other children. Cause kids are mean, yo. The contents of the web are NFB, though Karla's reactions both before and after the cut are fine.
For one, please. (Though OOC responses rock my socks)]