Meta Decay

Desolation spreads unbidden
A constriction of webbing
To struggle is to be drawn tighter
Each strand constructed with purpose

To absorb and drain
A torrent dried to a trickle
Yet the web seems empty
Its creator spun elsewhere

Other husks decompose around me
Their gradual mortification a reminder
Of the way of all flesh
As the last of my energy is funneled along the web
I am strangely comforted at the thought of everything I ever had
living on elsewhere
The ultimate sacrifice
That of self

A jolt of the threads and my daze is broken
My final moments are in awe of the form before me
It moves in an embrace of death
and once again
I Am transformed

Maelstrom

Maelstrom

by

Martin Peel

"The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also the source of the highest good: not only dark but also light, not only bestial, semi-human, and demonic but superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense of the word, 'divine.'"

-Carl Gustav Jung

A wooden craft drifts listlessly under a vermilion sky, heavy rain clouds bursting with black veins suspended, jostling each other above a blackened sea. Two figures lie prostrate on the soaked deck. The mighty sea has taken it's toll on them both, dry salt rubbing pain-lines into their faces, arms and legs wiry from exertion without fuel.

They have coursed over many leagues, doomed by the vortex that spawned at a remote location in the Atlantic. A reversed whirlpool, it churns out black ichor, contaminating the natural water with a new medium for a different dominant life system. Many ships of all shapes and sizes embarked to seek the vortex, men and women from around the planet hearing the call in their sleep, whispering thoughts of deprivation.

At the emergence of this alien intelligence, a call-to-arms was passed on, those who had been steeled against the Madness organising a counter attack to this threat to humanity. With unseen power, it had created a field around the globe that had disabled every electronic device. The elder of the two men sits up, brushes slick matted hair back over his temple and casts his eyes around his surroundings. No other craft are visible. He leers over the ship's bow and looks at the oozing black mass that holds them in place - an oily adhesive cementing the ship to the flat sea.

He can just make out the undulating edges of the vortex, the only sound a unearthly nerve-shattering whine. The younger man sits up, coughing up fluid. The Elders

sight remains transfixed. He speaks without turning.

"We made it."

The Younger rubs a hardened, callused hand across his brow and stands, walking to the aft of the deck.

"Seems we were the only ones who did!" He calls back. The Elder nods, almost imperceptibly and gestures to the Younger to join him in the cabin.

Compared to the meagre external appearance of the ship, the interior is lavishly decorated - shelves of mahogany hold numerous books and paintings depicting vessels in various climes and locations adorn the walls. As the Younger sits in a lush red armchair, the Elder pours two brown coloured drinks from a decanter before sitting opposite in an identical chair. He takes a healthy draught before placing it on a ornate table next to them.

The Younger eyes the other for a few moments before speaking. "Shall we compare, before the Fade?*"

* Fade : The name given to the accelerated diminishing memories after reaching a distinct yet separate consciousness awareness.

"No, you know my feelings on that."

"Yes, yes. That describing the thought patterns verbally dilutes the flow via the introduction of sound waves in the loosened time structure."

The Elder grunted in acknowledgement, drained his drink and refilled it, while the Younger continued, oblivious. "There was practically nothing of positivity to bridge me through such hatred, such violence. I nearly sank without trace and joined them, became a shade."

The old man nodded, his feelings masked behind a neutral expression. How could he burden the Younger with the sacrifices he had made to get them here?

"We're here now, that's all that matters" he uttered solemnly. The Younger blinked once, matching his stare as he replied. "Our quest is nearly over, for better or for worse."

"The Prophecy must be fulfilled." The Younger sighed. "But what if it is wrong? Or misinterpreted? If we are successful, the effects on the planet will be cata-"

"Do not question the Prophecy or it's effects!" The Elder thundered. "I have agonised just as you have, yet all sources agree - It must be loosed once more upon the Earth."

"Yes, but-"

"Whatever changes it will make are ordained. I am fully aware than no human will be untouched by the madness, but we must adapt to survive it, as a species. Only then will we be able to transcend completely and rejoin our Creator." As the Elder stops talking, he seems to notice for the first time the Younger, sitting forward, head in his hands. The Elder sighs. "Our paths diverge at times, yet I still believe-" The Younger interrupts, without moving. "I chose Science. You chose Religion." The Elder slams his glass down on the table. "I chose Faith." He responds calmly. "And that is not where our paths diverge." He regaled his ship-mate for a few seconds, before wheeling around and exiting the cabin, leaving the Younger to his thoughts.

Minutes later, the Younger, having completed his cogitations rejoins the Elder on deck, who smiles wearily at him. "Our design was perfect. The anchor dropped at exactly the right moment."

"Excellent, though it is the second part of the working that worries me most. If this holds, the third should be effortless."

"That it should, for good or ill. Let's not tarry, I feel the soporific already dampening, and with our limited supplies it will soon be able to attack us with an even greater strength." The Elder sighs and opens a wooden storage chest. He removes a metallic rod, about three feet in length, with spheres at it's four cardinal points, and a pyramid of the same material at the top. "Here," he says, passing the device to the Younger. "Attach the conductor above the crow's nest." The Younger smiles, eyes sunken in their sockets. "Aye, I'll manage the physics of the thing."

"While I'll perfect the Art." he pronounces, brandishing a long piece of chalk. "Heh, you always did have a flair for the dramatic." the Younger replies with an eyebrow raised mischievously. "The drama begins when the mask of comedy and tragedy is aligned." The Elder replies with a grandiose accent, cutting imaginary swathes through the air with the chalk before bowing eloquently. The Younger laughs. "Let's make sure this doesn't slip to farce then."

He climbs the sodden salt-encrusted mast above the cabin, via a sturdy length of rope. Near the top is a literal bird's nest built around the mast pole, specks of shit the only sign that it was once inhabited.

"It will return." The Younger says cryptically, then attaches the conducting apparatus to the mast before climbing back down to the deck. As he rejoins the Elder in the cabin, he sees his companion frantically drawing on the floor - A perfect circle has been inscribed around the two chairs and table, and he is meticulously copying arcane symbols from one of the books within it. A protractor, compass, sextant with other mathematical and navigational equipment is scattered haphazardly on the floor. The Younger knew better to distract him - one imperfect line, one symbol not at the correct distance from its counterparts could mean the difference between success and being rendered deaf-mute, trapped in a constant state of terror, a series of visions specifically targeted to the individuals worst fears until their psyche is consumed by the creative they are trying to raise, or they take their own lives, a futile escape attempt.

As he watches the Elder work, muttering incantations under his breath, he thinks back to the Catastrophe - millions, if not billions lost; either dead or unreachable in a mind fog of gloom. His body betrayed them then, breaking the other's concentration. A low, lurching noise as his stomach constricted within, for fasting was a necessary part of the ritual. A sickly snapping sound followed it, as the chalk broke in two. The Elder whirls on him, begins shouting obscenities. The Younger watches calmly, detached, long since immured to the vileness spewing from his mouth. He watches as the Elder's eyes dilated, spittle flying from between his teeth, blood flooding to his temples and cheeks. The Younger turns around, walks to a drawer set at the side of the cabin, and takes some cannabis and paper from a drawer. As he methodically prepared the smoke, his hands shake as a layer of his will cracked. The Elder's voice seemed to flood everything.

"- and when your mother sits up after fellating the dead, rotting pig I'll cut her cum drenched face to ribbons while she laughs -"

The Younger grinds his teeth, the sound and feeling of them crunching together a welcome distraction to the insanity that had taken hold of his friend. Clicking his neck to the right, he strides over and kneels, making eye contact. The Elder takes a breath to launch a new tirade, and the Younger leans in and inhales from his mouth, grabbing his arms and holding them at his sides.

The Elder falls silent, but his lips are still moving, mouthing words that should not be uttered. Gently lifting the Elder into one of the chairs and placing the cannabis and a lighter into his sweaty palms, before taking the opposite seat. The Elder instinctively lights and begins to smoke, his lips gibbering, no longer staring at the Younger but a seemingly empty point in space. The Younger places his own joint down on the table. His arms and legs are tensed with fury. He grins then, too wide for a display of humour and reveals a straight razor. Still grinning, he cuts around his bicep, encircling his arm like a crimson bracelet. Shuddering in pleasure, he lets the razor drop the floor, blood flecking the floor of the cabin as it clatters to the ground. He waits a few seconds, then begins to smoke himself.

The Elder's shoulders droop, and he regains control of his mouth. His voice cracking, he starts to speak with difficulty, straining with a mixture of pride and self-loathing.

"I'm...I..."

The Younger raises a finger then gestures to the chest of drawers. The Elder utters a short mono-syllable half laugh then walks over and prepares them both more. As he rolls, the Elder speaks in measured tones. "It was never that...intense before. I thought I saw It, for a moment there."

"Forget It," the Younger spoke as his muscles relaxed. "We expected an increase in ferocity as we grew closer to the Nexus." His voice grew quieter. "I should have prepared more." The Elder sat down again, placing five more medicinal cigarettes on the table then replied. "All the time in the world couldn't prepare for this trip."

"Heh. Hehhehheh." The Elder raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Time." the Younger said as explanation. They both laughed as children, relief shared between them. The Elder shook his head. "Dude."

The Younger shrieked and began laughing hysterically, causing the Elder to join him before heavily coughing. The Younger tried to catch his breath as he laughed. "Ahuh, ahhhh huhhuh" The Elder coughed again, and spat phelghm on the floor. The Younger's laugh increased in pitch, his tongue rasping against his teeth. The Elder, solemn once more, leaned over and gripped the Younger's wound tightly. Abruptly the laughter ceased. "Thanks," the Younger wipes tears from his eyes. "That was too, too close." The Elder nodded and licks his hand clean.

The Younger looks away, his face unreadable, to the designs on the floor. "Can I do any more here?" The Elder looks up at him, before following his gaze. "Mmm? No, I'd nearly finished before you..." He rubs above his eye. "Just a few more sigils."

"Good, let's get this done." The Younger replied, suddenly determined. "I'll set the lure."

"Right, give it ten minutes or so before you do, I want to double check the seals once I'm done."

The Younger grunts in acknowledgement and heads back to deck. The Elder watches him leave, then gets down on his hands and knees and comments to himself. "Now, where was I?"

Above deck, the Younger stares out to sea, the Vortex disturbing his peripheral vision. He scratches his arm as he waits. Glimpses of his previous vision return to him, not unpleasant. He stands throughout the flash frames that strike his mind - a desert town, smiling faces, outstretched hands. He feels the emotion that filled his body previously, his eyes blinking rapidly, as if asleep. As they pass, he finds himself thinking to the near future.

In just a few minutes, they would start the reaction to reveal the true threat to the planet and in doing so, stand a chance of building a defence capable of saving at least some of their species. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he starts to wonder what the Creature they had been preparing to do battle with actually looks like. He knew from what they had shared previously that their visions differed in substance, yet shared a common theme - promises of untold power.

While It showed the Elder what he could do if he accepted the mantle of it's Dark Prophet, with throngs of worshippers asking for guidance, preying on and perverting his desire to help and enlighten, the Younger's were more sexual in nature; replaying past loves with a subtle tint, exposing fantasies he thought his own as laughable and unimaginative, all the while showing him despicable acts of cruelty mixed with lust that had frayed the very essence of who he was. This recollection triggered another - the first outbreaks of the creature's mind control. The people whose psyche had been more susceptible to what they perceived as their thoughts; an orgy of sex and violence as long dormant sexual urges were forcibly brought to the surface.

When the electricity no longer flowed through the towns and cities, he saw first hand as lovers turned on each other. Parents killed their children, then themselves. Whole communities laid to waste in a society that had been seething with directionless hate. Perhaps the Creature was truly a blessing for the planet, removing those that would act for evil? He regretted the initial agreement with the thought as soon as it came to him. The only survivors were the ones who could hold on to their principles while Chaos ran amok around them.

The thoughts did little to comfort him. The fact he was alive seemed a curse. His hand found its way into his pocket - the razor was there, yet he could not remember picking it up from the cabin floor. A hand on his shoulder startled him. "It is done." The Elder stated bluntly. The Younger turns and regards him. He had a zealous quality about his expression, that the Younger had not seen before.

"I thought you were going to remain below, in the circle?"

"No, I have to see. I have to know."

The Younger nods grimly, then flicked open the razor. He lifts it slowly in front of him, and the Elder grabs his hand roughly. "Can I- Can I do it to you?" The Younger looks with suspicion at the Elder for a moment, then lets the sticky handle fall into the Elder's hand. His eyes are dancing with an electricity of their own. "It won't hurt" he tittered. Resolutely, the Younger holds his arm over the stern of the ship, above the murky depths. The Elder moves closer, and the blade glints in the moonlight before he traces it over the congealed blood line around his arm, then drops the blade into the ocean.

As it breaks the surface of the water, a deep rumble resounds from the clouds, and a furious rain begins to pour. The Younger is still looking at he Elder's frenzied eyes while the waves of ecstasy ripple through him. The Elder is using both his hands, one on each side of the ghastly ring on his arm, holding the flesh open. The Younger closes his eyes as the sea spray splashes onto the gashed veins, shaking in bouts of pain and pleasure as his life blood filters through the deeps. His voice is faint, barely discernible through the rapidly developing storm. "Too...too much..."

"No!" The Elder shouts. "Just a little more!"

The Younger fights against the conflicting sensations in his body and the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness, straining, opens his eyes. The Vortex was somehow drawing nearer to the anchored vessel. Nearing death, he managed to turn his head, saw the Elder's attention still rapt on the blood pouring from his arm, blind to the hazard drawing nearer to them. With a supreme amount of will, he managed to bellow one last word. "STOP!"

The Elder's trance was broken. Glancing up and instantaneously taking in the abnormality oozing towards them, he draped the Younger's arm over his shoulders, then drags him down to the cabin, into the relative safety of the chair within the circle.

As the Vortex grew closer, the ship suddenly tips to a near vertical position, sending books and numerous instruments flying around the cabin. Sliding across the floor to the chest of drawers, the Elder picks up a box of pills. Jumping, he manages to pull himself up by one of the chair legs bolted to the floor, then climbs to where the Younger sleeps, the whirlpool-portal's gravity pushing him deep into the chair. With an effort, he pries open the jaws of the Younger, places two of the tablets into his mouth, then closes it. He swallows two himself, and wraps his arms around one of the chairs, his feet around the opposite and closes his eyes as their craft is submerged into blackness.

The Younger

"Sir?" A hand shook him impatiently by the shoulder. "Are you OK Sir?"

His eyelids flickered open quickly, though he knew it will take longer for his vision to focus. "You had fallen asleep." Annoyed, he looks up and smiles into a white shirt and bow tie.

"My apologies. Another coffee please." With a sniff of indignation, the waiter strode off, balancing a silver tea seat on the fingers of one hand. As is often the case when waking from sleep, the first thought is often the most pertinent: "Why am I here?"

He stretched his arms behind his head, and took the thought at surface value, instead of ruminating deeply on the message from his Id. He squints around at his surroundings, trying to remember from scattered memories where exactly 'here' is. Absent-mindedly, he takes out a green cigarette packet from his shirt pocket and lights it. He is in a reasonably busy café, sat facing a thriving street. Though he was shaded, the Sun beat down with ferocity upon men in dish-dashes; hijab wearing women holding hands with their children; shabbily dressed street vendors sitting buckle-kneed behind a crate selling nut bars glued with honey, individual cigarettes and assorted sweets.

A man struck a donkey pulling a cart of water and spices, each strike accompanied by an insistent "Hai!" The sounds of various traders plying their wares, bartering with customers, street preachers calling to Allah, the clump of hooves. The adobe walls opposite shook the last of the dream fog from his memory - he was somewhere in the sprawling Medina of Marrakech.

While his eyes roamed over the surroundings, he noticed a man at the adjacent table eyeing him with a curious interest. He was wearing a grey and white pinstripe suit that hung baggily over a wiry frame. In his left hand he held a lit skibsi, that he was casually rolling back and forth between his thumb and index finger. Matted black hair was plastered to his brow and his eyes, with colour other than black impossible to see, seemed to be absorbing him, rather than his facadé. The Younger decided to speak to the man, answering his stare.

"May I help you?"

The man inhaled from his ornate pipe and spoke in a voice bereft of emotion.

"Yes. Of course." He gestured with his right hand to an empty chair. "Join me?" The question was weighted, heavy with hidden implications. Legs of jelly, as if of their own accord, stood up and staggered him over to where he was bade. "Smoke?" The man proffered with his pipe. "I'll prepare my own, thank you." The man's lip curled for a second. "As you wish. You have something of mine, I believe." The Younger recoiled slightly. "I hardly think-"

"Quite." The man tapped his trouser pocket three times. The Younger reached to his own and felt a small rectangular card. He picked it up and looked at it above the table. The name on the card is in western script, Rashid Ibn Shaibliss, while a description in French proclaimed him to be a trader. There is flowing Arabic around the border, though he can only make out individual letters, sounds. His eyes trace around the border, again and again, trying to puzzle out some clue as to this person and the specifics of his business.

"Will you return that to me, please?" The lilting tone of his voice mixed with the formality of the words effected him, and he slides the card along the table to Rashid, if the card identified him truly. "You have the advantage of me Sir?" The Younger hesitated before answering. "Armitage." Rashid smiled wider, showing brown teeth in sunken gums. "Very well." The Younger fixated briefly on the name he had chosen for himself, then removed a packet to smoke, while Rashid caught the attention of the waiter and asked for two black coffee's in a gesture. "I hope you don't find me presumptuous, Mr. Armitage."

"Not at all. May I ask, what exactly is it you deal in, Rashid?" The Younger tried to match the tone of the man sat opposite him. Rashid sniffed, brow furrowed, then sighed. "We are in a very special place in this world." This? It must be the flawed language, the Younger assumed. "I deal with absolutely everything." The Younger - Armitage's eyebrows raised involuntarily. "That's a serious claim."

"I am serious." He puts his pipe back in his mouth, watching Armitage intently. Armitage noticed the trader's almost vacant expression, saw only the eyes flaring with dark life. He was relieved to see his hands only shook a little as he lit up his smoke.

The waiter returned, ceremoniously placing their drinks in front of them, before quickly removing himself to a discreet distance. "Did that waiter just bow?" Armitage thought distractedly. Rashid tapped his pipe empty of plant ash. "Anything you desire can be made available to you...is something amiss?" Armitage, embarrassed, mumbled what was on his mind. "I had some hashhish..." The trader smirked, shouted something in Arabic. Armitage raised his head in the direction Rashid had shouted, noticed the other customers were all looking elsewhere, a little too coincidentally not to be deliberate on their parts.

A young boy, no older than ten, ran up to their table. Rashid stroked his arm and whispered something into his ear. The boy giggled and ran off, his bare feet slapping the paving stones as he went. Rashid spooned a cube of sugar into his coffee, stirred it absently. Within a minute the boy had returned. He removed a thick golden brown block from underneath his shirt and placed it into the astonished Armitage's hand.

"Ia." He says matter-of-factly. Rashid tousles the boy's hair before he runs away again. Armitage scratches his own head, then is cut off before he can speak. "Please, Mr. Armitage, consider it a token of my hospitality." He waved his left hand gently as he spoke. "Yes, there are those who would say you are already...saved, but I feel I see you truly. There is no ethical consideration needed at this moment. It is a gift."

Armitage nods dumbly, comprehending fully. He crumbles some of the hash into the tobacco, the action giving him reason to break eye contact with the merchant, something he is profoundly grateful for, though he was unable to put his mind at rest as to why. The unnaturalness he had felt most of his life was elevated here, and within the man's pupils he could almost make out ripples, as if left from the wake of some creature moving soundlessly through the unimaginable depths of some distant abyssal ocean. He spoke to Rashid without looking up, his eyes watching golden dust flow from his fingertips. "Are you independent?" He said, choosing his words carefully.

"No one is."

"How can you offer all this?"

"That is not relevant. Suffice to say whatever you take will be given willingly and happily to you."

"Why me?" Armitage moaned helplessly. Rashid Ibn Shaibliss laughed, a thick, wet sound. "The timeless question." He drummed tobacco stained fingers on the chess patterned table. "You have been chosen as one with potential. Most fail before reaching this crossroads. Many unseen eyes watch us, awaiting your decisions. Enough." He reached behind his neck and unclasped a amulet on a silver chain, let it fall slowly between his fingers onto the table. "This is the symbol of the One who controls me. It grants the wearer all the power I offer you, on behalf of my Master. No other, save us, may wear it without dire consequence. Put it on, and the deal is struck. I love you." Suddenly he raises, dwarfing Armitage in his shadow, then bows with hands steepled in front of him and leaves.

The Younger looks down at the dying embers of the hash, thinking back over Rashid's enigmatic words. He picks up the chain, letting the amulet swing back and forth in front of him. The Sun reflects from it, brilliantly blinding him and penetrating the hash haze for a moment with each down-swing of the art. At that moment, the Sun went behind a cloud and he caught the amulet, studied it's design.

The features seemed familiar somehow, a combination of symbols he once knew, and should still. While he held it, he heard faint whisperings in his mind. Several voices, male and female, some in languages he recognised, others completely alien. He picked up a phrase in English, a fragmented memory perhaps: "With This Love"

The Younger takes a deep breath and puts it over his head. He expected some revelations, a surge of power, but there was no difference, save the whispering had ceased, and the Sun was shining again. Determined, and full of belief, he left the café.

He stands on legs still unfamiliar to the sensation of moving, and walks along the dust covered road. He sees a man in a garage converted to a kiosk, selling baked goods. "Baklava please." Armitage stated. "With Allah" the vendor says, though his lips don't match the words. The Younger holds out money to pay the man, who holds up his palms face up, keeping him at arms length. The Younger nods, stroking the amulet around his neck, recognising it's shamanistic properties. Pocketing his money, he is aware of nearly invisible strings of energy in the air around, where they touch him he feels his own energy being altered somehow.

A sensation of power grew within him, the feeling that by the power of Will alone he could enable anything he wanted. Yet what did he want? The Younger was not a vain man, nor materialistic. He had sated his thirst at the café and his stomach with the offered baklava. Despite a lack of possessions he had managed to find shelter wherever he needed it, even before accepting the amulet. He found himself at the same point philosophically as before the 'gift'. He had merely to ask, or think of something, and he would get it. Though he only felt within his self a desire for companionship, and he knew that even when he had this, he was not satisfied. Men and women paraded themselves across his mental vision, only finding a temporary release from desire for more, and different, experience. Armitage tried to think on a different tack. He had been most places over the world, found people with the same needs and wants wherever he went, all struggling and striving to eke out their own existences. He had seen great natural wonders, beauty in natural bewildering sights, yet all too soon the feeling dissipated and left him only wanting more of this unknowable emotion, that could only be achieved through suffering, or so it seemed. He rubbed his eyes at the burden he felt.

As he walked down narrow streets, turning left and right on impulse, his mind flitted back over the love again he had shared with others over the years. From casual attachments to long-term partners. While his mind conjured back images, the whispering returned, quiet, yet definite. He felt lust grow within him, coupled with a fresh pang of loneliness.

He looked up and found himself on a side street. Outside a driveway he sees a group of teenagers. Three boys in tight jeans, one on a moped were talking amongst themselves in a furtive murmur. A little to their right, wearing revealing blouses and skirts with a slit down the side are two young girls. As Armitage approached the boys stop talking and look at him. The Younger keeps walking slowly, and is interrupted by the boy on the moped.

"Sex?" The frankness of the question gives him pause. The whispers change in frequency. "Huh?" He replies, stupidly. "Sex." He starts gesticulating at the others, to snickers of laughter from the other boys. "Sex her? Sex her? Sex him? Him? Sex all?" He points at each person in turn. The Younger shakes his head. "No-"

"No sex? Why you no want sex?"

"No I do but-"

"You want butt sex?" More laughter. "No, they just aren't - "

"You don't think they are pretty?"

"No! I mean yes, I mean - "

The boy leans over the handlebars, says something in Berber to the girls. A whisper in his mind says "He thinks you are ugly sluts." One of the girls puts her hand on her hips, pouting. "They're too young!"

"You want older? In house." He flicks his head to the driveway. Out of politeness, the Younger makes an excuse. "No money. La dirham."

"Money? You pay for sex?" This time the girls laugh too. The Younger clenches his fist, choking back impotent, dull anger. The whispering changes into a single voice. It speaks in gravelly bass-tones: "You know what he did to his sister while his mother wasn't looking. Tell him."

Near involuntarily, he opens his mouth, finds the other voice thundering out of it. It shaped words and phrases he never knew his vocal chords could make. As he spoke, the boy on the moped began to howl with anguish. The girls ran down to the nearby house, while the other boys wailed and hit their heads with their fists. "What's happening? How am I doing this?" the Younger thought, uselessly. For now it was his voice that was the quiet whisper, barely discernible to his own consciousness. He puts his hand over his mouth, forces himself to walk at speed away from the misery he had created. As he gets to the end of the street, he glances back to where the group was. The boy is turned around on his moped, his head hitting the wall at steady intervals. The Younger walks on, a dry, deep cackle in the back of his mind.

Hours later, Armitage is sat in a back alley somewhere. He is only vaguely aware of the smell of the rotten meat and other waste. Large bluebottles swarm around him, on his arms, legs and head, yet he makes no effort to waft them away, perhaps realising the futility. He is sobbing quietly, his elbows on his knees, watching the amulet spin around on the silver chain his finger holds out in front of his eyes.

Internally, fifty voices are speaking at him. No longer whispering, and despite a myriad of accents he understands them all. They threaten and cajole him to do things, congratulate and chastise his previous actions equally, while others merely respond like a theatre hall audience.

"What's the point?" He thinks, nearly aloud. A host of voices answer immediately.

"Oohhuhfuckingpussydon'twhat'sthepointdon'tthinklikethatlikthattooofwhatofwhat" they rasped, growled and whined.

"Life." He responded simply.

"Funnyisanoldonejustafuckshould'vedonecan'tgiveupnowgettingstartedpaypaymoneymakethempayfucksolonelypitifulhelpus"

"Why go on?"

"onandonandonandondowhatwewantfeedsfeelsbadgoodgoodgoodpainforselfonandonandonstabbutotherdestroy"

The Younger starts to laugh, mixing the pain.

"thereyougothat'srightit'salllaughmakethemlaughdon'tworryaboutthecryingcan'tcrywithnoeyespointittakeitoutdifferentperspectivewholeworld'sbacktofrontlaughingontheothersideofyourface"

"SHUT UP!"

Silence. Even the flies seemed to have stopped buzzing. He exhales, holds his breath, regains control. Only one urge remains inside him. The void calls. He has stared too long into the Abyss, can no longer ignore while it envelops him. Escape. A lifetime of searching for this. A way out. Sever the shell, find a way to transcend. He will escape. A spark of a lighter catches his attention. Stepping out of the darkness amongst a plume of black smoke, Rashid Ibn Shaibliss appears.

"Whatever you Will."

In the half-light of tobacco fire, the Younger makes out what the amulet's original owner is holding: A pearl handled silver straight razor.

"Oh God. Oh God." Armitage's breathing quickens.

"God is Great." Rashid moves behind him, places the blade into limp, unresisting fingers. "You are very close now."

"Oh God oh God oh God" The Younger can say naught else. The whispering has stopped, no doubt in anticipation, though the flies now encircle them both in a thick cloud. Rashid picks up his hand, slowly raising it across Armitage's body. "I am merely a Messenger, though I also have the title of Psychopomp for this realm."

"OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod" the Younger stammers, terror-locked into his new mantra. Rashid lines Armitage's hand in line with his neck, and speaks again, the unnatural tone cutting through his speech. "Tell me, where is your afterlife?" The Younger paused, caught his breath. He looks into the eyes of the trader, trying to think, though his mind seemed a vacuum. "Tell me." the other man repeated sternly, stressing the importance, a strange fire burning in his eyes.

"I don't know!" the Younger whined pitifully. "Fucking Hell!"

Rashid Ibn Shaibliss held the hand of the young Armitage firm, then pulled it across his neck. Blood gushed, and he slumps over. The trader reaches tenderly to the back of his neck, unclasps the amulet, places it in his pocket. "So be it." He kisses his fingertips, taps them between the temples of the Younger, and walks away, as the first of the flies descends to drink.

The Elder

He awoke in the darkness, jaw clamped in agitation as he reached with shaking hands for the tobacco by his side. The dream was stuck in his mind like shards of glass reflecting grisly ideas, while the motions of his hands making the cigarette seemed to disseminate his latest message into the waking world. He heard a distant scream of hysterical anger cut short by a door slamming.

To block it out, he cast his mind back to when he awoke spiritually those long months ago, to when he first accessed the metaphysical data banks of those he believed to be the secret controllers of the planet. Through ritual meditation before sleep, he had opened his thoughts to those around him, absorbing information that seemed to be a response to his questions.

After a few trials of looking back over his personal experiences in a new light, the new perspective battering his already fragile ego, he had begun to try and find the answers to some of the great unknowns - 'Why are we here?' being the first. The rather unhelpful response, "To find the answer" had only served to spurn him on in his eightfold quest, making him reject many of his former pleasures in life for wisdom; that application of knowledge which could alter the outlook from one of enforced pessimism to a comfortable acceptance of what is (was?) to come.

He had long since learned both the curse and blessing of eternal life and it's counterpart. He had heard from the source of revelatory information the original messages the Prophets had received. This next level of enlightenment, while balming the deep despair he had absorbed from the Abyss had also infected his psyche, made him hungry to accelerate time itself while realising that in order to experience pleasure in the After, pain must be experienced in the Before. For he had unashamedly sought the pleasure most do in youth, without realising the Law of opposites is paradoxically reconciled with that eternal maxim, As Above, So Below. That is, for what he takes in, he must give out, and what he gave out in search of enjoyment shall be returned, the indubitable law of cause and effect instantaneously affecting change. Nothing is motionless.

His sudden development in those other realms had caused him to become a husk of his former self, having learned the lessons of Asceticism, he denied himself of most luxuries, his heart laid heavy by the struggle of rebellion against his Creator by ceasing to partake in the world, as a method to transcend the constant cycle of life and death. Labelled as psychotic, he had been removed from many social circles and placed in a secure mental hospital - his gift from society for feeling simultaneously positive and negative, the symmetrical opposite yet comparable experience within experience.

From this vantage point, he felt even more disassociated - living moment by moment detached from his physical self, responding to the motions of nature around him. The more confident he became in his dreamscapes, the more he responded with what was perceived to be an uncaring, aloof attitude; for what would have once seemed of monumental importance within one lifetime is rendered of no consequence in the countless lives that they had all lived whether they remembered them or not.

Far from causing him misery as he had expected, his change of circumstances had served him well, putting him in contact with other soldiers of the Moon, all silently entwining their mental energies in a vast double helix rising through a steeple of an invisible cathedral to Pain. Sometimes he could see the strands as they transmitted a type of energy to some unseen mother brain. It was while he was in the third of these psychic beacons that the incident occurred. He remembered staring into the Sun, when the beam of light erupted like a shock wave from its core, and electricity was no more, negated by an invisible planetary wide field.

This same unifying field also seemed to affect the minds of humanity, fixing their minds irrevocably together. Merely being in close proximity to someone else resulted in an innate knowledge of that person's Character, where they weighed the other according to the hive consciousness. Society quickly devolved into groups of people sharing a common belief pattern, rather than by deity, ideology, colour or creed. The internal conflicts civilisation had collectively repressed and fought to the surface, with large swathes of people damning themselves by choosing a side between Light and Dark, while the strong realised that once cannot exist without another, attempting to alchemically transmute both poles to their internal harmony.

He remembered sitting in a group within a wall-thickened room, silently communicating, their minds assailed by cacophonous gut-wrenching noises of a cabal of cannibalistic citizens, putting their own desires twisted by anger and made impure, deliberately striving to disobey any deity's first order - Do Not Kill.

The Elder and the others around him, through the double-edged sword of empathy understood only their feelings of hypocrisy as they subverted the flooding darkness from without. The consensus seemed to be that there was a hole in the atmosphere - invisible to the naked eye but a gateway to a adjacent universe, or a parallel dimension (depending on who you thought with) where the opposite of every known state of being was flooded through humanity's subconscious - the net result being a bridging of the worlds, the barrier between a person's left and right hemispheres of the brain broken down, rendering the imagination as real (and as deadly) as anything previously, stoically, considered True.

None of them slept anymore. Not true sleep. Theirs was the uneasy turbulent nightmare in broad daylight, howling at the Sun. They existed in a razor-edge balance of agony and ecstasy, feeding to and from each other, striving for the orgasm of pure knowledge that resulted in each mental victory. In the Institution, the doors were open, some literally, others metaphorically. They chose to remain, thought they realised that they were hiding from the chaos that ran rampant through the cities, only their psychic emanations keeping those who had given in to the malevolent controller(s) at bay.

As the Condition (as it came to be called) progressed, and the mental fight escalated, more and more of the warriors were rendered catatonic, free from the clutches of the influence yet drastically weakened in Will - rewarded with heavenly dreams by the one who had bested them as a gesture of peace, in exchange for the consumption of their life essence. Time passed, and the number of active people in the Institute dwindled, as did the living outside the talismanic building.

The Elder remained alive, mentally strengthened and physically weakened simultaneously. While his active mind remained in telepathic word fencing, his sub-conscious was easily manipulated for the more basic actions in a day to day existence. For him this was a worthy trade off to his 'colleagues'. While they shook and gibbered to remain independently bodily functional; he, in perceived weakness allowed their influence upon him, to the extent that his other mind grew stronger.

Part of him felt guilty in the new situation he found himself in, as did they. Phrases such as "necessary evil" were used on him, yet he tried to remain neutral when it was wielded at him. Part of the struggle, he supposed. Those who he had bested remained within his mind, or at least part of them did. His animus, long since transmogrified to a bright black when passive, emanated outside the boundaries of their haven. With his second sight, he roved over the once idyllic streets of his home town, seeing the aftermath of chaotic carnage.

He steeled himself against the visage of torn, discarded limbs, pyres of corpses set alight by the zealous that believed they were purging the planet of evil, blissfully unaware that they disobeyed their own accepted Law, believing themselves free after the collapse of all government. It was while in this trance that he knew they could leave their sanctuary, their voluntary removal from society.

Creating a neutral meeting place in the astral realm, he summoned the strongest remaining patients to discuss the moving of their physical selves, so that they could rebuild the human race. While there, they focused on the Vortex - a tunnel in the physical both sucking down into murky ocean depths and correspondingly a similar swirling hole in the atmosphere. One of them, claiming to have ventured his soul inside the swirling black mass said he encountered a vast aquatic creature. He believed it to be prehistoric, revealed to the Greeks as Charybdis.

The Elder recognised this as conjecture, yet accepted that there was a physical manifestation of the threat as well as a spiritual one. He proposed that the only way humanity could be truly be free of negative influence, the madness, to use the term inflicted upon them, was to mount an expedition to the middle of the ocean, confronting this invader. He heard the voice of the collective in agreement, and suddenly a flood of strength entered him. The trance ended, and he re-entered his body. He awoke in the centre of a circle, cross-legged and surrounded by the serene dead bodies of all who had trusted him.

The horror of what had happened hit him, and he staggered on shaking limbs out into the relative sanity of the blood-spattered streets. His course was clear - their sacrifice must not be in vain.

He left the Institute with no provisions, no protection against the elements save his overcoat and boots. As he strode out into the gales of wind, he shivered. Not from the cold, but from the enormity of the power that coursed through him, picking away at his sanity with each flash of his dead friends in his mind's eye. Cracking his knuckles then gripping his hands together, he walked, guided by the voices of ghosts.

Using the techniques he had been taught, he intoned for tranquility. Presently, the guiding voices stopped. He paused in his walk to collect his thoughts, sighed. The enormity of the task ahead struck his head like a hammer. He believed he would make it to the coast by nightfall, if he maintained his steady pace. Provided there was a boat left in the harbour with a mast attached, he had a chance. Slim, but a chance all the same.

As he continued on his path, he glanced around furtively at the town he had known most of his life in ruins. Husks of cars and husks of people cluttered the streets, equally left behind when the mental attacks arose. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself in a futile attempt to block out the sorrow and to feel less alone in this dying world. When he reached the harbour, he looked up at a cloudless sky, the stars locked in their position since time immemorial. He felt them look down on him in return, indifferently, yet their familiar patterns calmed him momentarily. He sat on a bench by the pier and surveyed the scene.

The boats were gently swaying, remarkably untouched by the desolation on land. He listened to the gulls crying softly in the distance for a while. As he listened, his eyelids drooped, and his arms slumped by his sides, surprisingly tired by a short brisk walk.

"You're closer now."

The voice snapped him back to consciousness. "Closer than you've ever been before." The Elder lazily turned his head to the left, regarded the woman who sat next to him. Her face was hidden by a cowl, and she sat in a robe, inhaling from a cigarette with slender ring-adorned fingers. "For anyone else, I'd waste words and lifetimes offering them their heart's desire. But you've passed that, haven't you?" He nodded in wary response. She spoke in tones of velvet, each syllable resonating with potent sexuality. Leaning closer, she whispered in his ear. "You've been everywhere you want. Tasted everything this world has to offer, in lots of ways." she purred. As she spoke his hands resumed their shaking, his leg jittering seemingly of it's own accord.

He tried to resist her, recognising what lay beneath her succubus like shell.

"You have nothing more to offer me" he muttered, in a shaking voice that betrayed his fear. She laughed softly. "I'm so glad we agree with each other. It's not what we can do for you. It's what you can do for us. Wouldn't that make you happy? You could guide us, guide humanity to a brighter future." The Elder clenched his fists. Her words made sense, yet worse, put him in the mindset where if he refused, he would be abandoning his species. He thought for a moment, considering her words. "Us?"

She exhaled heavily and as she did her voice cracked, revealing that of her controller. "Yes, us." She scratched at her temple. "Perhaps you forget the number of times we have had this conversation, over the aeons. What fools mortals are..." The Elder stared at the floor, not rising to the challenge of her icy stare. "Once more then, for those you hold within you. Our kind has long since fought for control, to unify the differences between us, to cast aside our mutual Creator that has abandoned us. You have felt our power, used it yourself when the...need...arose. Each time you feed you grow closer to us, yet still you resist."

"We would end the problems on this planet for the rest of eternity. A united humanity without fear of either the ever-present 'alien' threat, or God. Think upon it! With every human moving and acting as one, there would neither be the want nor the desire for violence, the population would rise steadily as it became more space-faring, people's wants would be satisfied, artificially perhaps, but still they can taste pleasures previously denied to them. Her voice had a lilting, child-like pleading tone to it that seemed unnatural in her slender frame. He recognised the thinking behind it, knew how much harder it was to forbid a child of things it (and you?) felt entitled to.

With an effort of energies previously inaccessible to him, he recalled her conversation in its entirety in his mind. He regulated his breathing using long-forgotten methods while he formulated a rebuttal, not just against her of course, but their entire enslaved race.

"What you speak is truth, yet there is an alternative." She tutted, and fidgeted nervously as he spoke. "The path you All foresee is the One we are all on, it needs not to be changed by a different hand. Without your controls, people will be free to do what they want - namely what would be forbidden to them in your service, actions that while not speeding the evolution of the species would still give comfort to others. Yes, you can remove fear from All, yet you forget why All are blessed with the ability to feel it - enjoyment. I foresee vast amphitheatres of warriors, trying to kill each other for the simple pleasure of a crowd's ecstatic screams." "Foresee?" she interrupted. The Elder continued speaking regardless. "I see people filming depraved tortures and passing it on to a willing populace. I see people choose to suffer through these things just as I choose to see them live through their suffering as humans, not enslaved by your Methods, with billions left as shells for servitude to a new machine God. The world is suffering, though was our Creator wrong to instil this in his creation? My answer to that question, and you, are the same. No."

The wind grew steadily around them as the fabric of existence seemed to hinge on her final response, already calculated to be spoken a millionth of a second after the final doom-laden N.

She spoke in a calm that shattered the minds of billions. "So be it. Our conversation grows stale, as does our skin. Once more, God presses reset. Next time, Our will shall be completed." She reached her right hand inside her robe and stroked her fingers along a small metallic object around her neck. Blood dripped, trickled then pooled at the floor between her legs. She raised her left hand out of the Elder's field of vision and curved her fingers into a series of shapes. Figures grew out of the shadows around them, advancing slowly. "One more time." she muttered, as the shadows encircled her neck with talon-like fingers, pulling her back to the Void. The Elder screamed as understanding struck him.

With the clarity of fear that slows down time, he watched her face remain stonily impassive as they pulled her over the chair and howled as they returned to their abyssal dwelling. She had placed something on the bench between them before her reclamation. The Elder picked it up knowingly, his eyes focused on the aqua-marine horizon as he handled it. To think, he had nearly agreed with the Samsara. Or did he? He felt the power oozing out of him. Did he choose wrongly? Damned himself again in contrivance with unity.

He flicked open the blade with the pearl handle, caught the glare of moonlight in his eyes as he turned it in the light.

Knowing with the unerring certainty of the defeated that both sides in this Infinite struggle still needed to change, he drew the blade quickly across his neck in an arch, severing the carotid. As he bled out, the final sound he made served him well as his mantra in the time before waking to his next life, a reminder of his final answer to the question of Life.

"No."

Epilogue

He awakened in a rich, ornate room. Books lined the walls. Mathematical and navigational equipment were scattered about him. His neck felt rough to the touch, bringing with it a distant memory of painful circumstance. He stood up, lost his balance and fell heavily on his hip. Cursing, he rose again, trying to recollect his thoughts. "Boat..." he staggered out of the cabin and saw a young man lying against the aft clutching his wrists with interlocked hands. A crow called overhead. The Elder rises his gaze, sees something glinting in the bird's nest. Perhaps he will see what it is. The crow, perhaps sensing this thought, flies off towards a nearby whirlpool. A bead of blood falls from it's beak, lands on the Elder's upturned forehead. He lets it run down his nose, and laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. The Younger stirs, speaks through dying lips.

"Did it work?"

The Elder recalls his eternal mantra. "One more time." The Younger raises his head and they regard each other, eye-to-eye, unflinching. "One more time" he repeats. The wise man nods, and for a time laughter reigns upon the ocean''s ceiling.

//

Optional, additional Epilogue:

The sound is carried towards the Vortex, unseen by the ship's passengers, filtered down to absolute blackness. A voice speaks a single bubble in response:

"No"

\\

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