Let's Read The Remnants: jesus christ what the fuck

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Strategic Tea: Sep 1, 2012

I remember being probably too young for these books and very disturbed. The worms hosed me up and not sure I made it much further.

So I'm super surprised not to have any memory at all of the possessed nightmare baby :whitewater:

# ? Feb 8, 2024 12:46

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# ? Apr 27, 2024 08:44

bird food bathtub: Aug 9, 2003; College Slice

Strategic Tea posted:

I remember being probably too young for these books and very disturbed. The worms hosed me up and not sure I made it much further.

So I'm super surprised not to have any memory at all of the possessed nightmare baby

The implication I got was that the possession is going the other way, the baby possesses her somehow.

# ? Feb 8, 2024 13:33

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 6

�I THINK WE NEED TO HAVE A MEETING.�

Wylson ran up the stairs, up to rejoin the others who had already moved ahead. Some of them had seen the fight. Had any of them heard the Marine�s last remark?

�Everything dies, human.�

Had she heard it right? Everything dies, human? Everything human dies? Everything dies that�s human? Tamara was stressed from the combat. The words came out wrong, that was all. Not a time to start going soft-headed, Wylson, she told herself. Time to focus on solutions.

The stairs arrived at the next floor. It was brighter here, though still gloomy. 2Face and Roger Dodger had fanned out to check the limits of the room.

�No way out,� 2Face yelled at Wylson when she appeared. �Except for that way.� She indicated the high, arched doorway that led outside.

Wylson stuck her head out of the arch. It opened onto the spiral path that circled the tower. To the right, downhill, uphill was left. She craned her head up, nothing but blank, yellowed stone wall above. The path was perhaps thirty feet across at this point. Equally far to the left and right were arched doors superficially similar to the one she was in.

�There�s a door over here,� Roger Dodger yelled from back inside.

Wylson pulled her head in. She still held her own spear awkwardly, across her chest. She�d done nothing with it to help Tamara. Tamara twirled her purple-blooded spear with unconscious ease and lounged by the top of the stairs as if waiting for the remaining Rider to come up after her.

Wylson went to where a crowd had gathered around Roger Dodger. There was a door there, too short, too small. It was wood bound with iron.

�Should we open it?� Burroway wondered aloud.

Wylson was on the verge of saying yes, but there was something about the door. Something that made her insides twist.

�Alice in Wonderland,� Tate said. She shrugged. �Maybe there�s a garden on the other side.�

�I don�t think so,� Wylson said. But it bothered her, not being able to pinpoint a reason.

When the Wall Street Journal had done their big feature on her company, they had described Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake as a CEO who could demand the most meticulous research and yet still decide to �go with her gut.� It had been a great piece. A high point in her life, along with getting the cover of BusinessWeek, and of course the first couple of days when her personal wealth had gone from less than a million to better than fourteen million.
What was she worth now? More than a billion.

A billion dollars issued by a government that no longer existed on a dead planet. Wylson had always trusted her instincts and her instincts said not to open that door. But these weren�t her business instincts, these were something else from somewhere else deep in her brain. This was a voice she�d never heard in her head, a shivering, pleading voice.

Don�t open the door.

Don�t open the door.

They were all looking at her. Looking at her and glancing back to the stair where Tamara and the baby stood guard.
All waiting for her to decide.

�Well, open it,� she said impatiently.

Anamull, the big kid, the sixteen-year-old who looked like he should be playing for the NFL, grinned and grabbed the wrought-iron latch. He pulled. Nothing. He pulled harder and the door opened. Inside squatted a creature with a woman�s face, a white scarf, a red dress, and legs and feet that must have belonged to a frog. The woman held a long-handled iron pan over a charcoal fire.

In the pan was a human head, hand, leg. The head was screaming in agony. Behind the woman stood an antlered deer, standing on its hind legs, wearing a robe. The deer just stared at them. Wylson cried out, jumped back. Anamull wailed and slammed the door shut. It bounced open. 2Face slammed it again and this time Anamull leaned his weight into it and the door stayed closed.

�What was that?� Burroway demanded, his voice quaking.

�Not a garden,� 2Face said, breathing heavily.

Wylson was trembling. What was that, what, what? She swallowed hard. Some kind of trick. Some kind of illusion. Not real. Obviously. Her insides had gone liquid. The vision � illusion, surely, special effect � had turned reality inside out for a moment.

Shake it off.

She pried her hands apart, couldn�t look like she was scared. She was in charge.

�We�re trapped in here,� Shy Hwang said. �Can�t go back down the stairs, sure can�t go through that door.�

�There�s the path outside,� Wylson said, recovering enough now to take offense at Shy�s despairing tone. One thing was sure: His daughter had all the spine in that family.

Yago said, �You go right on that ramp path, it takes you back down to the town. You go left, it takes you up. Except we don�t know that for sure because you could see that the tower was damaged.�

�Sergeant? Are the Riders still down there at the bottom of the stairs?� Daniel Burroway demanded.

�Only one,� Tamara answered. �I killed one. One took off.�

�Why?� Wylson wondered aloud. �I mean, why did one take off?�

�Why do you think?� Tamara replied sardonically. �They don�t like the stairs. I don�t think their boards can do stairs very well. So they�re looking for another way.�

�Up the ramp,� Yago said. �They�ll come right up the ramp.�

The baby nodded, eager, excited. His mother smiled.

�You killed one of them?� 2Face demanded skeptically.

�She did,� Wylson confirmed. Feeling she needed to add an explanation, she said, �She�s a professional soldier, after all. Trained with weapons.� The explanation reassured her. That�s all it was: Tamara Hoyle was a Marine sergeant. Of course she�d be able to fight. Nothing unnatural in that.

�We have two spears and one �professional soldier,�� Burroway said darkly. �If the Riders come after us in force, up that ramp, we can�t hope to stop them.�

�Thank you, Mr. Happy,� Yago muttered. �Hey, we�ll just put the freak here in the doorway � that�ll scare them off.� He jerked a thumb at 2Face. �Put Half �n� Half here, and the baby out there, hey, that�d scare anyone. What�s the point of having freaks if we can�t use them?�

Wylson shot a look at Tamara to see if she�d taken offense. Tamara seemed bored. 2Face�s face was turning dark, at least the normal side of her face.

�Hey, did you see those Riders? They�re so ugly even she couldn�t scare them,� Anamull added.

Wylson knew she should shut Yago up; he was sowing discord. But however crude and cruel he might be, Yago was on her side. Besides, Wylson told herself, she was the boss, not some kind of preschool teacher promoting good behavior.

2Face looked as if she could take care of herself, after all; her own father hadn�t exactly jumped in to defend her. And anyway, she surely could have had plastic surgery. She didn�t have to look that way. What am I supposed to do? Wylson asked herself. The boss has to know. The boss has to be in charge. Unless . . .

�I think we need to have a meeting,� Wylson said, trying to sound decisive. �T.R., Burroway, Shy, Tamara, if you . . . and Yago, you, too, to speak for the younger people. Meeting in five minutes: We need ideas, people.� She clapped her hands together sharply.

That was the right thing: a meeting of senior staff.

Get organized. Set priorities. Assign tasks.

She was the woman who had taken on AvivNet and Microsoft and SpongeCom and won. She could do this. Of course, a suppressed part of her mind commented, this really was worse. Business competitors didn�t decapitate their victims and suck the flesh from their skulls. Or fry people in cast-iron pans.

Not even Microsoft.

Do we know that for sure about Microsoft? And just lol about assembling a board meeting in a moment of crisis when every second counts, loving business brain.

quote:

CHAPTER 7

�AN ALL-OVER SQUIRM.�

�This is new damage.� Jobs pointed at the crushed rock, then at the long burn scar. Mo�Steel watched his friend closely. He could see that Jobs was scared for Edward. Maybe for himself as well. That was a surprising thought. Mo�Steel thought of Jobs as fearless, but now that he considered it, that didn�t seem quite right.

�Yeah, it looks like it just happened,� Mo�Steel agreed. They had come to a rest, having circumnavigated about half of the tower. This side of the tower was much more regular in appearance. Miss Blake had explained that they were now on the side that was not shown in the original painting.

�The ship is extrapolating,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel was fairly sure he knew what Jobs meant but the word extrapolating was not one he used. Anyway, the idea seemed to be that the ship was filling in the blanks in the original painting.

�At least that proves whoever is doing all this has an imagination,� Olga said.

�Not necessarily,� Jobs argued. �The continuation of a pattern doesn�t imply imagination. Program a computer with a grid, it can figure out how to extend the grid.�

Violet sighed. Mo�Steel had noticed that she had no patience for Jobs�s explanations. And she showed no particular interest now as Jobs walked deeper into the arched opening, following the scorch mark.

Jobs pressed his hand against the stone. �It�s still warm.�

Mo�Steel put his hand on Jobs�s shoulder. �We don�t want to be going in there any farther.�

�Why not?�

�It�s dark.�

�Not yet it isn�t,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel shook his head. �You don�t get a wiggle off this place?�

�A what?�

Mo�Steel pointed at his own stomach. �A wiggle worm in the guts, �migo. A bad feeling. An all-over squirm.�

Jobs shrugged. �It�s an environment derived from a painting. A creepy painting. That�s all. Some artist was going for a look. That doesn�t make it anything real.�

Mo�Steel shrugged and felt a little foolish. Of course Jobs was right. �Besides, maybe there�s an interior ramp. It would have to be easier than walking the circumference of this whole tower, right?�

�Yeah, well, then we all go together. I�m not leaving my mom back there.�

Jobs nodded. �Of course. Let�s just go in a ways, see what we see. We can always back out.�

They returned to gather Olga and Violet and to lift Billy once more. They entered through the arch, talking animatedly all the while to ward off the sense of being too small for their surroundings. The place had an echoing hush to it, a feeling Mo�Steel associated with class trips to the State House in Sacramento. The room was huge, but finite. There was a pointed archway at the far end, narrower, taller, sharper than the archway they�d entered through.
They peeked through this new arch and found the space beyond no darker, despite the fact that the weak sunlight was far away now.

�Look at this.� Jobs pointed down at the floor. There was a dark smudge, like someone had dragged charcoal. Jobs frowned and moved off to the right, leaving Billy behind.

�It hit here!� he yelled.

Mo�Steel joined him.

�See? So whatever it was, it came flying in through the arch, scraping the wall the whole way, burning, slammed into this wall, fell. Then dragged itself through the pointy arch.�

�Why are you talking like you knew what it was?� Mo�Steel demanded.

�Because I think I do know. I think it was a Blue Meanie. They came this way, we know that. Some of them were damaged. Maybe one crashed here.�

�So why aren�t we going the other way, outta here?� Mo�Steel asked.

Jobs grinned. �Mo, man, these Blue Meanies haven�t done us any harm. And one thing�s for sure: They know more than we do about what�s going on.�

�Uh-huh. Let�s keep going, then.� The bad feeling had not gone away. Didn�t Jobs feel it, too? Maybe not. Jobs could feel when a computer program was wrong. Maybe that ability obscured the more primitive ability to sense danger.

�Shh!� Jobs held up a finger.

Everyone froze and listened. A distinct sound of movement, of heavy steps, irregular, syncopated. Like a horse�s walk, maybe. Mo�Steel handed his half of Billy�s stretcher to his mother and moved out front. His mom gave him a �be careful� look and he winked back.

They had reached the end of the second empty, echoing chamber. Another doorway, not an archway this time, just a big rectangular doorway. Mo�Steel poked his head through and motioned everyone else to stay back. The room
beyond was roughly circular, with two sets of steps climbing the walls, and dark holes where other stairs must be heading down.

And there, turned to face them, waiting at bay, charred and banged up but still alive, was a Blue Meanie.

�Hi,� Mo�Steel said.

# ? Feb 9, 2024 14:35

Jim the Nickel: Mar 2, 2006; friendship is magic
in a pony paradise
don't you judge me

Welp. Any art fans in the audience wanna take a guess at what classic piece of art we'll be heading to next?

# ? Feb 9, 2024 17:26

bird food bathtub: Aug 9, 2003; College Slice

Was the frying head/hand/leg and standing deer from a painting or something?

# ? Feb 9, 2024 17:36

Remalle: Feb 12, 2020

Whose bright idea was it to store a Bosch on the onboard computer's limited storage?

# ? Feb 9, 2024 22:00

Tree Bucket: Apr 1, 2016; R.I.P.idura leucophrys

As noted by Remalle- Heironymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights. The top right corner looks an awful lot like a night time WW2 air raid, for something painted in the year 1500....

# ? Feb 9, 2024 23:04

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Tree Bucket posted:

As noted by Remalle- Heironymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights. The top right corner looks an awful lot like a night time WW2 air raid, for something painted in the year 1500....

Oh yeah those demons def reminded me of Bosch, but perhaps we should read on?

quote:

CHAPTER 8

�IS HE SOME KIND OF MUTANT?�

This would probably be a great opportunity, Yago thought. Except for the very real possibility of getting killed. Wylson knew nothing about fighting a battle. She was out of her depth. Lost, confused, and afraid, and trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

This was the moment when a real leader like Yago could seize the moment. Only he had no idea what to do, either.
They had two spears. Anamull had his dagger. The Riders were likely to appear at any moment. And for the last forty-five minutes Wylson had been conducting a staff meeting that involved the adults plus Yago squatting in a corner, equally far from the arch, the stairs, and the tiny door to hell.

Most of the ideas they came up with had to do with organization. Wylson wanted departments with department heads. Burroway kept talking about a more military structure: platoons. T.R. favored a less hierarchical structure. Shy Hwang said nothing, just maintained his distant silence punctuated by grief-stricken sighs. Tamara Hoyle and the baby were ignored since she�d refused to join the meeting. But Tamara was the point as far as Yago could see. They had one fighter: Tamara. They had one asset: Tamara. Wylson had told them all how the Marine had dispatched the Rider. The meeting was going nowhere in increasingly desperate circles. Time for Yago to offer
his own ideas.

�The first thing we need to do,� he said, �is to make sure we�re all on the same team.�

�Obviously we are,� T.R. Said.

�No,� Yago said. �You think the teams are human versus alien. My question is, how can we be sure some of us aren�t really some of them? You going to tell me the baby is a regular old baby? You can�t win a war when you have to watch your back.�

�This isn�t the time,� Burroway said impatiently.

�Why can�t we at least ask Tamara what�s going on?� Yago asked reasonably. �Don�t we have a right to know what side she�s on? Her and 2Face, both.�

Yago watched their faces and refused to let a smile of triumph appear on his own lips. So easy. It was a lesson he�d learned in his mother�s White House: When people can�t figure out how to come to grips with a hard thing, give them an easy thing to do.

Wylson looked thoughtfully at Tamara. �We do have a right to know what she�s about. Her and the baby.�

�And 2Face and Edward,� Yago added. �The issue here is who is with us and who is against us.�

�There�s no reason to doubt 2Face,� Burroway grumbled.

�Quit picking on my daughter,� Shy Hwang said. �You hate her because her face is burned. You�re a sick person, Yago.�

�There�s nothing wrong with 2Face,� Wylson pronounced with finality.

�Really?� Yago waited till he had everyone�s attention. Then he nodded toward 2Face and Edward. �Look at the kid. Edward. Watch him closely and you�ll see it.�

They watched. Stared. Edward was amusing himself, jumping over cracks between the paving stones. His clothing was torn and tattered like everyone�s, but his seemed to match the color of the walls. He passed in front of the small door. And for just a flicker of time he seemed to be part of the door. Then he was past it and his face and arms and clothing all resumed a coloration similar to that of the stone.

�What was that?� T.R. Demanded.

Yago said, �He�s been doing it for a while now. It�s subtle so you don�t notice unless you look right at him, and since he�s so quiet mostly no one looks. He�s some kind of chameleon. Now that you�ve noticed . . . but you know who would have noticed a long time ago? Who�s been taking care of Edward? 2Face has.�

In fact, Yago hadn�t noticed, either. It was the Twitch, D-Caf, who had pointed it out.

�Is he some kind of mutant?� Wylson demanded.

�And maybe not the only one,� Yago said in a low voice. �Tamara and the baby, Edward, and probably 2Face since she�s been covering up for Edward. Like I said: We have to know who is with us, and who isn�t really even like us.�

�I�m not listening to any more of this,� Shy said and shuffled away. He didn�t go straight to his daughter, but Yago knew he would soon enough.

Fine, let him report back to 2Face. Let her make her move. Yago had things well in hand. Unless the Riders came and killed them all. In which case political game-playing wouldn�t matter very much.

Have to stay focused on the future, Yago told himself. Maybe the Riders would come and kill them all. But maybe they wouldn�t. And in that case Yago had laid the foundation for his own rise to power.

Sure enough, Hwang was sidling over toward his daughter. And she was turning her good ear to hear him. She stared daggers across the room at Yago. Yago made a little kissy-mouth at her and then laughed. Tamara suddenly stood up, baby on her hip, and sauntered to the arch. It was growing dark outside. She seemed to be listening, and while she did, everyone watched. The baby made its obscene little chuckle.

�Pretty soon,� Tamara remarked laconically. �Pretty soon, and a lot of them.�

uggggghhh I hate yago, this is very good!

quote:

CHAPTER 9

�WE COME IN PEACE?�

The Blue Meanie stared. Waited.

He was smaller than a horse, maybe pony-size. Four legs without evident feet. Powerpuff Girl legs. Two serpentine tentacles, one on each side of his low-slung grazer�s head. He might have been made out of liquid night, so black that he was blue only where light touched him directly. He had eyes, one on each side, again like a horse, but there was no life in those eyes, no sign of a soul burning through.

Jobs was probably right: It was a suit of some sort, Violet thought. Something was alive inside it, something presumably more vulnerable than this frightening apparition. One tentacle seemed to have been chopped in half. The midnight armor was scarred and scraped. The rocket-powered hind legs moved stiffly; both were charred black. The Meanie had definitely experienced some trouble. But he didn�t look as bad as he should, for slamming into a stone wall.

The creature waved its tentacles in quick, intricate patterns. Maybe some kind of language, communication. But when none of the humans responded in kind it stopped and simply waited.

�Go ahead,� Mo�Steel urged Jobs. �Talk to it.�

�I don�t know what to say,� Jobs admitted.

�We come in peace?� Olga suggested.

�Actually, we do,� Jobs said.

Violet took a step forward. �He may recognize that I�m female. Maybe that will reassure him.� That was her stated reason for taking the lead. The real reason was that she felt she wasn�t carrying her part of the burden. With her finger she couldn�t carry the stretcher, and that had meant the two boys had done most of the work. Violet was perfectly content with the notion that men and women had different abilities, different duties, and different avocations.

But she wasn�t content being a burden. She had to contribute something beyond her ability to recognize the artistic antecedents of the environments. Besides, she didn�t feel that the Meanie was threatening. It was wary, yes. But it wasn�t interested in killing her.

�Hello. I�m Miss Blake. Violet Blake.� She pointed slowly to herself and repeated, �Miss Blake. I�m very pleased to make your acquaintance.�

The Meanie watched with its soulless eyes. She pointed at Jobs and said his name, at Mo�Steel and Olga, saying each name in turn.

Then at Billy Weir.

She held her hands open, the universal sign (she hoped) that she carried no weapon and meant no harm.

The Meanie stared.

�Hey,� Jobs said.

�What?� Violet snapped, frustrated by the alien�s total lack of response.

�It�s Billy,� Jobs said.

Violet stepped back two steps, turned, hoping this wasn�t some sort of culturally offensive move, and looked at Billy Weir. His eyes were closed. His mouth was moving. Like slow, slow speech. From the corner of her eye, Violet caught movement. The Blue Meanie. It rose slowly, standing awkwardly on its hind legs. This revealed a flat oval panel on the front of its suit, on its chest, assuming always it had a chest.

Violet looked from Billy to the alien. There was no beam of light between them, nothing anyone could see, but something was happening. And then, looking past Billy, through the rectangular door, through the distant peaked
archway beyond, through the nearly forgotten arch that led outside, Violet saw something that brought her heart to her throat.

In a blaze of orange and red, the far-off sun was setting.

Darkness obliterated the outer door. Night had fallen. The darkness did not deepen inside the tower, but night was felt nevertheless. From all around now, from every shadowed corner, came sounds of shuffling, movement, dragging, and now malevolent whispering and sharp, hysterical tittering laughter that rose to a shriek.

�What the . . .� Olga cried.

�Someone�s there,� Jobs hissed.

Filling the rectangular doorway and cutting off any escape, standing on the steps, edging into the room, came every nightmare of a brilliant, twisted, poisoned mind.

Demons and monsters.

�Last Judgment,� Violet whispered.

quote:

CHAPTER 10

�BOSCH.�

�Ya-ahh!� Jobs cried.

�Whoa!� Mo�Steel yelled.

The demons skittered into the room, circling, keeping their distance but getting closer all the while.

�Bosch,� Violet said. �Oh, lord. It�s Bosch.�

An antlered deer stood on its hind legs and stared at her. Across the floor moved a huge fish head. The fish head had two human legs attached. The legs wore black boots and propelled the monster with kicks and scuffs. Protruding from the fish�s gaping mouth was the lower half of a human torso. The fish seemed to be trying to finish the human meal, kicking with its booted feet, trying to swallow more.

A huge rat walked erect and wore a Tin Man funnel hat.

A monstrously big mallard duck waddled past. A man�s hands protruded from either side like an extra pair of wings. The man�s spectacled face was trapped within the duck�s shoulders by a silver net. It was as if a duck had been grown around a man. The man�s eyes were desperate. He said nothing.

There came a rush of tiny demons that looked like children mutated with frog DNA. A blue- faced gnome. A shriveled man pierced through and through with a tree branch. Small, swift, red-skinned demons with cat whiskers. A green dragon carrying a tall, smoldering torch.

They were nightmares of deformity. Perverse creations made of animals and body parts. Walking tableaux of pain and suffering. And worse, delight in pain and suffering. There was no standing before them, no resistance possible, no way to hold on to any brave resolve.

Jobs felt his will dissolve in sheer, bloody panic. He turned and ran. He ran into Mo�Steel, who stood there, transfixed, horrified.

The impact stopped Jobs for just long enough.

�We have to get Billy!� Jobs yelled. He grabbed Mo�Steel�s arm and shook him. �Get Billy! We have to get out of here.�

�Got that right, Duck,� Mo�Steel yelled, voice quavering.

They fumbled for the stretcher handles, hands shaking, eyes bulging. Demons were filling the room. There were screams, giddy laughter, groans of deep agony.

�Let�s get out of here,� Olga moaned, sounding like one of the poor, tortured creatures.

�They�re just Cartoons,� Violet said, but without conviction.

One of the little red demons darted forward and stabbed at Jobs with a sharp stick. Jobs dropped his grip on the stretcher and Billy slammed head-down. Jobs wailed and held up his arm, showing the bleeding cut. The demon had skittered back, laughing and cavorting happily.

�Down the stairs!� Mo�Steel roared.

The Blue Meanie was already moving, heading for the stairs. But he stood aside as the panicked humans rushed past. From behind, Jobs heard a whirring sound, metallic, sudden, short. Then screams of pain and rage and the heavy tread of the Blue Meanie chasing down the stairs after them.

The stairs didn�t go far, maybe twenty feet to the next lower level. This time Jobs saw the Meanie turn and raise one front leg or hand or whatever it was. The whirring sound came again and a cloud sprayed from the Meanie. One of the demons, the fish-headed monstrosity, had descended the stairs. The Meanie�s cloud hit and the demon was shredded.

Fl�chettes, Jobs realized. The Meanie had fired a fl�chette gun, thousands of tiny, sharp-edged shards that hit like buckshot. The demons didn�t follow, but that didn�t stop the panicked flight. Through the only door. Down another stairway. Left. Left again and down farther.

Jobs felt as if he could keep running forever. The horrors were too fresh, too specific, not some vague nightmare feeling but things of flesh and blood that couldn�t be, couldn�t be anywhere outside of a psychotic�s imagination.
But at last exhaustion stopped them. Jobs was sobbing with each breath. His throat was raw, his arms like lead, his feet felt battered. His heart would not slow down, would not stop the hammering.

They dropped Billy none too gently and collapsed onto the stone floor. The Blue Meanie stayed with them, waited, watched.

Jobs raised himself on one elbow, looked fearfully around, saw no demons. He started to speak but knew his voice would come out shrill and hysterical. He closed his eyes, forced himself to think. They were Cartoons. Just Cartoons. Matter suspended and manipulated within very sophisticated force fields. The question of the science, the technology involved, calmed him.

�Okay, Violet,� Jobs said, �what is this? Where are we?�

�Bosch,� she said, eyes wide.

�What�s that mean?�

�Hieronymus Bosch. He inspired Brueghel. But no one ever beat Bosch for coming up with weird, scary . . . for sheer fantasy, for strange and disturbing images . . . Did you see that back there? Do you know where those things are from?�

Jobs shook his head.

�They�re from hell,� Violet whispered. �A painting called Last Judgment. Bosch painted hell. And now we�re in it.�

I did not know Brueghel, but the description of his painting reminded me of Bosch and now I know why!

# ? Feb 10, 2024 03:01

Mazerunner: Apr 22, 2010; Good Hunter, what... what is this post?

triumphant return of the flechettes

# ? Feb 10, 2024 09:09

Tree Bucket: Apr 1, 2016; R.I.P.idura leucophrys

fl�ch�tt�s
the thermals of Remnants?

# ? Feb 10, 2024 10:41

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Okay, we're gonna have to keep a lookout for flechettes!

quote:

CHAPTER 11

�HERE THEY COME! HERE THEY COME!�

2Face waited, ready for her move, but waiting for the right time. Yago�s goal was clear and simple: By dividing the group, he hoped to rule. It wasn�t even subtle or original. It was high school. If he could decide who was in and who was out, he could basically create the �popular� clique. He would decide who was cool and who was uncool.

And just like any high school clique, the main criterion would be looks. Tamara and the baby were different, mutated, perhaps not entirely human. 2Face was deformed. Edward � unfortunately, Yago had finally noticed Jobs�s little brother � was some kind of mutant. So they were the early targets. If Yago could succeed in defining the four of them as outsiders, uncool, rejects, he would gain power.

That couldn�t happen. Stopping it would be close to impossible. 2Face knew enough to know that there is no appeals process for being labeled an outsider, uncool, a dork, a freak, whatever. Once the label was applied it was almost impossible to scrape it off.

She couldn�t count on her father for much. He didn�t get it. Besides, he was lost in mourning for his wife, 2Face�s mother. He was so preoccupied with one loss that he would do little to stop another one.

�Fine,� 2Face told herself. �I�ll take care of it myself.�

And she knew how.

2Face was going to draw a line between herself and Tamara. Tamara and the baby were real freaks. 2Face was a victim of an accident. There was a difference. If she could turn everyone against Tamara, she could save herself by becoming one of the persecutors instead of one of the persecuted.

It wasn�t pretty or elegant. It wasn�t moral. It would probably work.

Wylson had organized an early-warning system. T.R. and Tate had been sent down the ramp about three hundred yards. Half that distance away were 2Face�s father and Anamull. If the Riders came, T.R. would yell to Shy and Shy would yell to the main group as both sets of sentries raced for cover.

It wouldn�t provide much warning, but it would provide some.

That was it, 2Face had realized with a contemptuous sneer, that was all Wylson had managed to arrange. No doubt Wylson was a good businessperson. She was no general.

�I hear something,� Burroway hissed from his position by the arch.

Then, everyone heard it: Anamull and Shy bellowing, �Here they come! Here they come!�

Every face was turned to Wylson. Wylson was blank, staring. She licked her lips and glanced desperately at Tamara. The time had come. 2Face said, �We only have one soldier.�

Yago frowned, confused.

2Face plowed ahead quickly. �When they killed Errol the Riders took him on in single combat. Same when Tamara fought them downstairs. They seem to have some kind of code. Maybe some kind of alien chivalry.�

�So what?� Yago asked, anxious to regain the initiative.

�So why doesn�t Tamara challenge their leader, one on one?� 2Face said. �After all, not only is she a trained soldier, she�s . . . she seems to have . . . some special powers. We all know she�s different. Her and the baby both. Why don�t they go challenge the Riders?�

The sentries came racing breathlessly in.

�What are we going to do?� Anamull wailed.

�How many are there?� Wylson asked.

�I don�t know, like, like, ten,� Tate said.

�More,� Shy Hwang said, panting, hands on knees.

�Ritual single combat,� 2Face said, trying to keep the desperation and self-loathing out of her voice. They were all that was left of Homo sapiens. All that was left of Earth. They could be building a new civilization. Instead they were playing high-school games. �It�s the only way.�

The baby cooed.

Tamara said, �We�ll do it. We�ll do it for free. This time. But if we win, well, there may be a next time. And next time, there�ll be a price to be paid.�

2Face should have stuck with Jobs and crew, she's taking a turn for the worse!

quote:

CHAPTER 12

�DON�T MESS WITH A MAKER.�

Sergeant Tamara Hoyle heard the words coming out of her mouth and they scared her.

�And next time, there�ll be a price to be paid.�

What did that mean? Why had she said it? What was the baby up to? She had grown accustomed to the presence of the baby inside her head. She could feel it all the time.

At the start, back when she had first awakened from hibernation, she�d believed it was the normal connection of mother to child. At first it had been a tendril touching her own consciousness. A gentle touch, welcome, pleasurable, reassuring.

Then they had cut her umbilical cord and the baby�s touch had become a grasp. The tentative finger had become a fist. At first she�d been confused. Not knowing what was baby and what was Tamara. But as the baby�s control had grown, she�d been more and more clear in her mind about what was Tamara and what was baby. There was very little now that was Tamara, except when the baby became bored or distracted.

The baby never ate.

The baby wasn�t interested in small talk. The baby wasn�t interested in the minute-by-minute matters that were handled by Tamara�s brain. She was free to eat or not, sit, stand, sleep, smile, or frown. The baby had no interest in her as a person. The baby cared only for the serious decisions.

The baby had a goal, though Tamara didn�t know what it was. She could sense it. She could feel the energy, the will. The baby was determined. The baby was confident, but scared, too. Malice. That�s what she felt from that other consciousness. Malice and intent and determination.

One thing Tamara knew, or thought she knew at least: The baby wasn�t really interested in the Remnants. It had other goals and the humans were shadow figures, objects to be used or discarded. All except Billy Weir. Billy was no shadow to the baby. Billy was bright and sharp-edged and dangerous. But Billy was no longer here.

The others . . . Yago, Wylson, 2Face, all of them with their transparent games, they were all beside the point. The baby played a different game. What was the baby? Tamara didn�t know. She thought she saw parts of herself in him, parts of his father. She wanted the baby to be her own flesh and blood. It was. It wasn�t. Her feelings changed from hour to hour. It was human, it wasn�t. It was something else. Something unnatural, or perhaps a natural result of the terribly unnatural circumstances of its birth. She�d been shot, wounded, collapsed. She�d been placed into hibernation, shot and pregnant.

And five hundred years later she�d been revived and the wound was healed and the baby had been born. How long ago? And how had it been born at all from a body that was, to all intents and purposes, dead? An unnatural natural consequence of unnatural circumstances. A mutation. An adaptation. Or something else.

Either way, the baby was in her mind, and she could not resist it.

And when she�d fought the Rider, when she�d done battle, she�d had strength and speed that she knew had not come from her Marine Corps training or her rigorous fitness routine. It was wonderful. Whatever the source, it was wonderful.

Power. From somewhere else.

She felt it now as she sauntered out through the arch. Felt the calm that power brings. Tamara had placed the baby inside the arch. It didn�t matter. The baby�s control did not rely on touch. Tamara shouldered the spear, nonchalant, and stepped out onto the ramp. She took up a stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, free hand resting on hip.

The Riders � she counted six, not the ten or dozen that Anamull and Shy had imagined. They were skimming along on their hoverboards, holding in a rough line abreast. It was happening again. A weirdness in her vision. Like she could see a million miles. No, that wasn�t it, either. It wasn�t super vision, just different vision. She saw the Riders in detail, detail that went below the skin and the bone. She saw them down to their muscles and tendons. It was as if she could see the very nerves, the connection that ran from brain to hand, from hand back to brain. She saw into and through the Riders. She felt she could almost see the thoughts taking shape in their heads.

The Riders saw her and reined in their hoverboards.

�Hi, boys,� Tamara said. �Nice night, huh?�

The Riders glared at her. They could glare, the Riders could. They stared at her with an array of insect eyes, small and large. The writhing snake head, the second head, though Tamara knew it was not a true head, more like an animated mouth, gnashed razor teeth.

The lead Rider � you could tell because the leader�s hoverboard bore a series of small blue daubs attached to the leading edge � let loose the earsplitting shriek. Tamara did not quail. She pointed one long finger at her own chest, then turned it to the leader. �You and me.� She spread her hands wide to make the invitation clear. Right here,
right now, one-on-one.

The Rider�s face turned a darker shade of rust. Anger? No, the baby knew, worry. The Rider�s eating head extended a black tongue and tasted the air. Anxiety. Behind her, Tamara could sense and hear the group gathered in the archway, the bolder ones, anyway. The baby was there. Tamara could see the scene through his eyes. His impossible, eyeless eyes. She could see herself, all alone, before the towering, hovering Riders.

The baby laughed.

Tamara cocked her head. �Well? You here to fight or just to enjoy the view?�

The Rider could not possibly understand her words, of course, but he knew that he was being mocked. A guttural series of clicks issued from his mouth and the other Riders withdrew, forming a semicircle a hundred feet behind their leader.

Now the blood surged through Tamara�s muscles. Now the nerves tingled. Now her every sense was trained, not on the Rider�s face or arms, but within him, down into his core. He would strike with his boomerang.

A flick of movement and a curved, toothed stick flew. It was thrown at Tamara�s head, but meant to miss. It was a trick: The return flight of the boomerang would slice her neck. Tamara didn�t flinch as the boomerang passed the first time. She waited, eyes on the Rider.

The boomerang curved and returned without any seeming loss of blinding speed. Tamara could hear its flit-flit-flit sound. She stuck her spear back, slapped the boomerang�s leading edge, killing its speed. It dropped straight down and she caught it in her free hand and threw it back without drawing breath.

The boomerang flew. The Rider chief dodged. The boomerang flew on and caught one of the other Riders full in his face. A shriek of pain. The injured Rider fell from his hoverboard, landed hard. He tore at the boomerang, firmly wedged into his main head, just between the large upper eyes and the smaller lower eyes. The chief glanced back at his fallen comrade.

�Yeah,� Tamara said with a laugh that echoed from the baby.

The chief surged at her, slid back on his board, and used the underside of the board as a battering ram. The board shot through unoccupied space. Tamara leaped straight up, high, impossibly high, more than her own height. She sliced her spear horizontally. Missed! The Rider chief had dodged just in time.

Tamara fell, but as she fell she ripped the spear point down and scored a deep cut on the Rider�s left forefoot. She landed, stabbed up and at an angle, and buried the point of her spear in the chief�s lower belly, just beneath the beetle carapace.

Things began to happen to her. Things that those who watched would never later be able to explain or even sequence. She rolled beneath the chief�s hoverboard and threw her spear. It hit one of the Riders and skewered his eating head.

On her back, upward kick, she connected with the back edge of the wounded chief�s unstable hoverboard. The chief toppled off and landed face first in the dust. His board shot away, unguided. Tamara back somersaulted, landed, kicked, and flew high to land with both boots planted on the chief�s shoulders. There was a crunching sound, a bundle of twigs being snapped. She snatched the chief�s scimitar and ran, screaming, straight at the remaining four Riders.

She leaped with far more than human muscle and flew at the nearest Rider, sword point straight out in front. The Rider backed up, reared back, and Tamara changed direction in midair. Changed direction without touching anything. Part of her mind registered this fact as impossible. And yet, her wild leap changed direction like some mad curveball and she swept her scimitar across and sliced both heads from one of the Riders.

The last three uninjured Riders turned their hoverboards and raced away at full speed, shrieking, yowling. Tamara landed easily and calmly walked back to the chief, who was fatally injured, but was taking a while to accept that fact.
Tamara knelt by him and looked down at him with interest, right into his faceted, emotionless eyes.

�Don�t mess with a Maker,� she whispered.

�Get their weapons,� she instructed the slack-jawed onlookers.

She winked at 2Face, gathered up the baby, and only with greatest effort of will concealed the exhaustion that was like the ground opening up to swallow her.

Well poo poo.

I guess it's good that Tamara is still in there, but poo poo.

# ? Feb 11, 2024 00:22

bird food bathtub: Aug 9, 2003; College Slice

I feel mentioning that the performance will come with a cost was not an idle statement.

# ? Feb 11, 2024 01:37

Mazerunner: Apr 22, 2010; Good Hunter, what... what is this post?

I dunno I feel like if I was on crazy alien planet-ship threatened by alien marauders and my choices were between a ceo and her shithead teen lackey, versus an alien baby and its badass marine protector-mom who killed multiple of the marauders...

let's break out the gerber's you know what I mean?

# ? Feb 11, 2024 07:25

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Hard agree

# ? Feb 12, 2024 18:09

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Sorry had a couple early days and went to bed without posting. We are half way through this book.

quote:

CHAPTER 13

�MOTHER IS CONFUSED.�

�They�re coming down the steps!� Violet said tersely.

Jobs had seen them. The demons, the tittering, creepy, skin-crawling mob of them were shadowing the humans, following. Lower, always lower. Every path going up was blocked. Every door leading to the outside was filled with demons. Impossible not to conclude that the demons were herding them. Guiding them ever lower. Down and down. To some inferno? To some vision of hell?

Jobs resented it. Beyond being scared, he resented it. This is what came of superstition, he told himself, knowing he was being unreasonable. Some late-Middle-Ages painter didn�t know his painting would become a real-life horror a billion miles away from Earth. Still, Jobs resented it. This is what came of believing nonsense.

The Blue Meanie had become a part of the group. It wasn�t something anyone had decided, it had just happened. They moved together, Jobs, Mo�Steel, Violet, Olga, Billy, and now the Meanie. Down stone steps. Across echoing chambers. Through doors. Around open wells that might go down forever.

No, Jobs reminded himself, the wells didn�t go down forever. They could go no farther than the outer hull of the ship. This was a ship. This was not some version of hell wrapped up inside the Tower of Babel. This was the ship�s attempt to invent an environment based on input it could not possibly understand.

The ship � whether person or machine � was merely using the data it had available. It probably didn�t even understand that the data was art, not some representation of reality. The ship was building a world for them, for humans, and may not know that it was using data derived from an outrageous imagination.

That�s what Jobs tried to tell himself, but a different feeling was growing, a suspicion. What rational creature could fail to see the difference between fact and fiction? The ship, the alien or computer, or whatever it was, could see actual humans, could see what they were, how they looked, how they moved, spoke, ate, drank. Surely the ship noticed that there was a disconnect between the actual humans and the artistic re-creations of them. Surely in all the terabytes of data the ship had downloaded from the shuttle, all the culture and history, the books and photos and recordings, surely the ship had been able to figure out what was real and what was not.

The ship was messing with them. That�s what Jobs felt, though he couldn�t prove it. The ship had an agenda. The ship was up to something.

Or else the ship was just stupid.

Could it � machine or organism � be this powerful and sophisticated and yet be stupid? Possible. Termites made huge mounds, self-contained civilizations of enormous complexity, but no termite had yet learned to read. Powerful and stupid? Was the ship some sort of intelligence so profoundly alien that it simply couldn�t understand the data? Could only plug it in and hope for the best?

�We need a rest,� Jobs said.

Mo�Steel nodded. �I have blisters on my blisters.�

�Okay, right here, then,� Jobs said and he set down the stretcher none too gently. He was also bitterly resenting Billy now. The guy should either wake up or die. Instead he lay there like a vegetable.

�Let�s close that door at least,� Olga said. She slammed a wooden door behind them. It would only delay the appearance of the demons who would eventually arrive via a stairway to the left or perhaps appear in the following open door. Jobs lay back flat on the cool stone. The Meanie stopped, stood apart, but did not move away.

�How is there light in here?� Jobs wondered. �There�s no light source.�

Violet said, �There�s no painting without light.�

�We�re in a maze,� Mo�Steel said. He jerked a thumb at the Blue Meanie. �Maybe he knows where we are.�

�Why don�t you ask him?� Jobs said, snappish.

Violet sat hugging her legs to her. In his present resentful mood Jobs was glad at least that the �Jane� had not managed to find anything to sit on but floor.

�We should never have left the shuttle,� Jobs muttered, daring anyone to argue the point. No one took the bait.

�I kind of hate to bring this up,� Mo�Steel said awkwardly. �But I need some privacy.�

Jobs shot him a frown, then realized what Mo�Steel was talking about. �Just turn away.�

�Not that. The other,� Mo�Steel said primly.

�Sweetie, it�s a natural thing, we all have to go,� Olga said.

Mo�Steel blushed and glanced at Violet.

Jobs rolled his eyes. The truth was, he could use some privacy himself. But the room was nothing but bare, blank stone. There was a well, one of the open holes on the far side of the chamber, but there was nothing blocking it off.

�We�ll all turn away,� Olga said. �Miss Blake? We�re all turning away.�

Violet shook herself out of a reverie. �Excuse me?�

�We�re all turning away. That way,� Olga repeated.

�Ah,� Violet said, grasping the situation at last.

Mo�Steel moved off and Jobs focused his attention on the alien. The Blue Meanie stood at rest. He seemed to be looking, insofar as he could be said to be looking at anything particular, at Billy. And once again, Billy�s lips were moving silently.

Suddenly the Meanie reared up, not standing on its hind legs, but seeming to lengthen its front legs to bare the oval panel on its chest.

This again, Jobs thought.

The panel brightened. Like a low-wattage light had gone on behind it. A stream of letters and symbols appeared, racing by.

�Hey!� Jobs yelled. �Look at this.�

The letters scrolled, widened to fill the screen, shrank, split into multiple lines, then resolved back to one. The scroll slowed. Individual letters could be seen, then clusters forming nonsense words.

Then . . .

I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.

Jobs was on his feet. Violet came and stood beside him.

�It�s communicating,� Violet said.

�It�s writing,� Jobs agreed. �How? And what are we supposed to do, write back? We don�t have anything with a keyboard.�

�Or pen and paper,� Violet added.

�Yeah, that would have worked, too, I guess,� Jobs said. He yelled, �Mo! Are you done? The Meanie�s communicating.�

�Can I have a minute here?� Mo�Steel yelled back, sounding uncharacteristically petulant.

�My name is Violet Blake,� Violet said to the alien.

No answer. The message remained fixed: I AM FOUR SACRED STREAMS.

�Maybe that�s all the language it�s acquired,� Jobs suggested.

Mo�Steel rejoined the group, refusing to meet anyone�s eye. Another time Jobs would have been amused by his friend�s embarrassment. Mo�Steel wasn�t just old-fashioned, he was positively Victorian.

�What�s up?� Mo�Steel asked.

Jobs pointed at the glowing oval and the five printed words.

�Huh,� Mo�Steel said. �Is that his name? Like a Native American name? Or is he saying he actually is four streams?�

�Four streams of what?� Olga wondered.

�Sacred streams,� Violet said with a shrug. �Oh!�

The message had changed.

MEANING UNDERSTOOD VIOLET BLAKE.

�How does he know my name?� she wondered.

�You told him,� Jobs pointed out. �A few minutes ago. You said, �I�m Violet Blake.� It just took him this long to decipher your response.�

�It�s hard to see how we�ll ever have a good conversation at this speed,� Violet said.

Jobs knelt down beside Billy. He turned so he could see the alien and the boy at the same time. �Hello, Four Sacred Streams. What is your species called?�

Billy Weir slowly, silently repeated the words. It took a long time. The alien replied.

WE ARE THE CHILDREN. THE TRUE CHILDREN OF MOTHER.

�Doesn�t clear up much,� Mo�Steel said. �We�re all our Mother�s children.�

But Jobs smiled, deeply happy. He gently smoothed Billy�s hair. �Good job, Billy. Ask him what he wants.�

This time Billy�s lips did not move. The answer came immediately.

I MUST STOP TRANSMISSIONS FROM THIS NODE.

Jobs was more surprised by the speed of response and Billy�s failure to mouth the question. Touch? Was that it?

Jobs pulled his hand away from Billy. �Ask him what he means by node.�

Billy began mouthing the words, slowly, painfully slowly.

NODE 31 PROJECTS THIS ENVIRONMENT.

Jobs held his breath, touched his hand to Billy�s arm, and said, �Why must you stop transmission from this node?�

The reply was immediate.

THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL ME, the Meanie wrote. Then it added, THIS ENVIRONMENT WILL KILL YOU.

Jobs felt his hand trembling. He was communicating with an alien species. How he was doing so he couldn�t say. He�d worry about that later. �Are you saying this ship is trying to kill us?�

MOTHER WILL KILL US.

�Is . . . when you say �Mother� do you mean the ship? Is the ship Mother?�

Yes.

�Why would the . . . why would Mother want to kill us?�

MOTHER IS, the Meanie wrote, then hesitated over the next word before adding, CONFUSED.

Jobs frowned, intent on getting to some understanding. But just then the demons reappeared, a rush of them, running down the steps, led now by a tall, painfully thin man with a bare skull for a head. Mo�Steel yelped.

�Mother has to have downloaded Monet, Utrillo, C�zanne, O�Keeffe . . . but she picks Bosch?� Violet complained.

COMMUNICATE MORE LATER, Four Sacred Streams said.

�Yeah. Run now, talk later,� Mo�Steel agreed.

quote:

CHAPTER 14

�THE CHAMELEON.�

Bad move, 2Face told herself. It had been a monumentally bad move. She had tried to save herself by sacrificing Tamara and the baby. She had played the game of high-school politics and lost. Tamara owned the group now; no one was going to expel her.

Tamara was the toughest kid in school now. She had respect. Which left 2Face and Edward as the designated freaks. With the threat of the Riders receding, Yago would make his move against 2Face. He would win. 2Face would lose and become the all-purpose goat. It was inevitable.

In this place, scared, disoriented, hungry and thirsty, and with shaky leadership, the people were reverting to more primitive models. Good-bye to liberal civilization with its tolerance and inclusiveness. Scared, powerless people needed scapegoats. Yago knew this and Yago knew that the one who is different is always the first choice to play the role of scapegoat.

Burn the witch.

2Face touched her face. Touched the crenellated line where whole flesh met scar tissue. Another few weeks and she�d have been through the surgery and treatment. Another few weeks and she would have been normal. She�d made a virtue of being a freak, back on Earth. In a place where ugliness was merely a curable medical condition, her jarring, disconcerting face was almost a statement: Look, here�s pain, here�s ugliness, deal with it.

In tame, secure, enlightened, early-twenty-first-century America, it was safe enough to be provocative and different. This place was a long way from all that. 2Face looked at the others, scanning, hoping to find some angle she could work. She had to avoid becoming �the other,� the outsider. The only way to do that was to find a substitute victim.
She�d tried to make Tamara that victim, but that was before Tamara had single-handedly slaughtered the Riders.

2Face knew what she was thinking was wrong. Obviously it was wrong. Or would be, back in the world, but here she was fighting for her life. She was the freak. She was the ugly one. By the relentless logic of Yago�s need, 2Face would be the one to be shunned, excluded, blamed, and vilified.

2Face slumped, head in hands. Yago was carefully not looking in her direction. He was waiting till the rush of the victory had worn off. He was waiting for his moment. Hours? A day, even? He hated her for nothing, for a casual blow-off way back on Earth. And for being smart enough to see him as he was.

2Face rocked slowly back and forth on her heels, glared at her father, raged at him silently. Didn�t he know they�d go for him next? He was the father of the freak, after all. Only one thing to do. Only one way. She had to leave. Walk now, before they could make her run. Go to Jobs and his group � if they were still alive somewhere. Exile. Take Edward and go to Jobs. It would be humiliating, but 2Face could work with Jobs and Mo�Steel. Even that �Jane,� Miss Blake.

No other way.

But how? Which way? Not through that little door, that was for sure. The only way was out onto the ramp. She got up and found Edward. �Edward, we have to go.�

�Where?�

�We�re going to find your brother.�

�Sebastian?�

2Face frowned. �Sebastian? Oh, is that Jobs�s birth name?�

�Yeah. His name is Sebastian. Only sometimes people call him Jobs.�

�A good name to change,� 2Face muttered. �Okay, look, I need you to do something first, before we can go. You know that thing where you kind of make yourself look like whatever is around you?�

Edward stared blankly. �What?�

�That chameleon thing. You kind of blend in. I need you to do that because we have to take the spear that Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake has, okay? See the spear? The long, pointy thing leaning against the wall by her?�

Edward rolled his eyes. �I know what a spear is, 2Face. But what were you saying about chameleons?�

�Edward, sometimes you seem to kind of change a little and look like the stuff around you. Didn�t you know? Your skin and even your clothes and all will kind of look like the walls or whatever is near.�

Edward looked down at himself, searching for some evidence of this. He found a gray line that ran up his arm. He touched the line and looked up at 2Face in wonder. �It�s like the line between the stones.�

2Face nodded. �Yes, it is.�

�How did this happen?�

He looked as if he might start crying. 2Face took his hand and held it. �Hey, look, it�s not a bad thing. I mean. . . hey, don�t you ever watch cartoons or whatever about superheroes? Spider-Man? This is like a superpower you have.�

Edward looked unsure, teetering on the edge between crying or embracing this new idea. His eyes went shrewd. �A superpower?�

�Yeah.� 2Face nodded and winked. �Now, look, we need you to get that spear. Try not to let anyone see you. Or at least not notice you.�

�The Chameleon,� Edward said, trying out the name.

�Whatever. Get the spear. We need some kind of weapon. Meet me just outside the archway. I�m going to grab one of those meat pies. We need to move fast.�

Edward headed toward the spear, stopped, looked back, saw 2Face�s encouraging smile, and opted to creep along the wall.

Not a true chameleon, 2Face thought. Not yet, anyway. He still looked like the boy he was; he didn�t look like the wall. It was just that his skin color changed somehow. He blended in. It was like a soldier in camouflage � the camouflage didn�t make you look like a bush, but it made it hard for the human eye to pick you out. Edward was helped by the fact that Wylson had decided to call yet another meeting of her board of directors, or whatever she called it. The adults plus Yago.

2Face saw her father, head bowed under the weight of his grief, join the group. His every physical movement broadcast the fact that he would make no trouble for anyone, that he was lost in his own world.

2Face was furious with him. But at the same time, the prospect of setting out alone in this terrifying place, maybe never seeing him again, was daunting. She�d lost too much to want to lose any more. Edward was standing by the arch, spear in hand. 2Face herself had lost sight of him at some point.

She shook herself, tried to push away the intruding edge of self-pity, and went to Edward. No one cried out to stop them as they stepped, alone, onto the ramp.

�Up or down, left or right?� 2Face wondered.

To the right, downhill, were the remains of the slaughtered Riders.

�Up it is.�

# ? Feb 14, 2024 01:42

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 15

�BACK TO THE SHIP.�

2Face and Edward walked up the ramp. The world was dark, stars were few, and the moon was nowhere in sight. But the ramp, the very ground under their feet, seemed to glow enough to remain visible.

At any moment a troop of Riders might loom up in front of them and then, 2Face knew, it would all be over very quickly. She was not Tamara. She could not fight and win, despite the comforting heft of the spear in her hand.

She looked back from time to time, half expecting pursuit. Yago would be furious: He�d be deprived of his intended victims. It was a victory for 2Face, but a pitifully small one.

They walked for a time, maybe a half hour, maybe less. And now 2Face was just weary. The rush of escape was long past and the exhaustion was causing her feet to stumble and the spear to lie very heavy on her shoulder.

�You�re probably tired,� she said to Edward. �Anyway, we won�t find Jobs in the dark, right, kid?�

�I guess not.�

�Okay, well, let�s see if we can find a place to lie down.�

There was an archway, one of the endless series of archways always to their left, always threatening. �We can�t lie down out here in the open,� 2Face said, trying to convince herself.

Truth was, neither choice looked good. Out in the open they might be seen by Riders. But who knew what lay beyond any of the arches? 2Face hushed Edward unnecessarily and strained to hear. Nothing. She stepped closer to the dark, open door. Nothing inside.

�I�m scared,� Edward said.

�Don�t be scared,� 2Face said. �The Riders will worry about the main group back there. They don�t even know we�re here, right?�

She took Edward�s hand and led him through the archway. Her foot landed on nothing and she pitched forward. Instinctively she tightened her grip on Edward and drew him after her. They fell, tumbling, head over heels, screaming, falling farther than she had ever fallen before. Long seconds, flashes of dark red shapes, eerie forms,
and still they fell.

Smothering!

2Face had fallen into something sticky, into and through something that felt like warm taffy covering her entire body. She couldn�t breathe. Then, air! She sucked in deeply. Air. She could breathe and see and yet she felt the sticky,
pliable covering over her entire body, every square inch and �

She fell away from the ship. Fell into space. Fell toward a raging inferno of exploding gas. A billion nuclear explosions. A sky-filling, universe-filling mass of seething yellow and orange fire. She slowed, stopped, hung in midair, only it was not sky but space.

The ship was above her. The hole she�d fallen out of closed and disappeared. With a psychic wrench that left her wanting to be sick, the ship above became the ship below. Her perspective shifted and now she was floating above the ship, above a vast, endless topography of dull metallic extrusions, and glowing bubbles, and snapping arcs of what seemed to be red and purple neon.

It was impossible to understand. Impossible to make sense of. Above her head now, the star. So close she could see whirlpools in the superheated gases, trembling seas of light, and sudden volcanic eruptions that shot planet-sized streamers into space.

The star seemed close enough that she could reach out and touch it. She held up her hand and saw clearly the transparent goo that covered her, that fed her oxygen, that bled away the blowtorchtip heat, that she hoped and prayed would shield her from the murderous storm of radiation.

She saw Edward, just a few feet away, like herself encased, like herself staring wide-eyed. The ship was passing so close to the star that it could only be deliberate. The galaxy was a big place and so empty that all the stars and planets together didn�t amount to more than dust. Yet, here she was, within cosmic millimeters of a star.

The ship slid past the star, fast enough that 2Face could actually see the star passing by beneath them like the ground seen through a car window. It was an impossible speed. A speed unlike anything any human had achieved.
2Face cried out in awe. She was an insect crushed between hammer and anvil. A cinder twirling above the fire.

Suddenly two massive pillars of blinding yellow light stabbed from star to ship. It was impossible to tell the size because it was impossible to tell the distance, but 2Face felt their vastness, felt them to be miles thick, an energy stream of sufficient power to light Earth forever.

Just as suddenly the beams of light terminated. The ship had replenished its energy. 2Face found she was panting, gasping. Not for lack of air but overwhelmed, stunned.

�Back. I have to get back,� she said and heard her voice vibrate through the bone. She began floating back down, falling in slow motion toward the ship. How? A body in motion . . .

What had moved her?

�Have to get Edward,� she said, once again feeling rather than hearing her own voice. She began to drift toward Edward, who still stared at the sun. He could go blind, 2Face thought, but at the same time she realized that she had not. The goo, the film around her had shielded her eyes.

Some kind of space suit for going outside the ship. That was clear enough. She and Edward had fallen down a hole that must have been part of the original architecture of the ship, not part of its art-derived artificial environment.
Whoever had built the ship must use the wells as a quick means for exiting the ship. The gooey suit was applied automatically.

Why? For the ship�s crew to do maintenance? Surely not. A ship this advanced must have easier ways to deal with external maintenance. And was it mere coincidence that the ship was passing so close to a star? What were the
odds?

Sight-seeing? Was that it? Was the ship merely providing her with an awesome sight? Jump down the well and see a star up close and personal from the cozy safety of a high-tech space suit? A trickle of suspicion. A ship with the power to create vast artificial environments, a ship that allowed passengers to literally jump out into space as she had done? It was like an amusement park: rides and Sims and animatrons. It was Disney World and Universal Studios.

Surely not. That couldn�t be it. Who built a ship this vast for entertainment? 2Face reached Edward. She tapped him with a goo-covered hand. �Edward. Can you hear me?�

He turned in response to her touch. When he spoke she could not hear his words. She motioned back to the ship. She mouthed the words, �Back to the ship.�

The two floating bodies began falling once more, slow but steady. The visual field shifted once more as 2Face�s brain struggled to cope with the irrational. Her stomach lurched and she vomited. The vomit passed through the goo. In seconds it steamed and evaporated, leaving nothing but a smudge of dust behind.

Now the ship was definitely above her once more and she felt herself no longer to be falling, but rather being sucked upward. The hole, or at least a hole, appeared again. Together 2Face and Edward fell/rose toward a round, black cave. Shadow wrapped around them, the hatch closed, the absolute loss of the star�s light left 2Face feeling blind.

She could feel the goo covering sliding away, slipping off her body, puddling, and then whisking off on its own. A current of warm air billowed beneath her and she and Edward floated upward.

�That was cool,� Edward said.

That was cool!

quote:

CHAPTER 16

�GET UP OFF YOUR KNEES AND DEAL WITH IT.�

It was one thing for Jobs to act like the demons were just figments of someone�s imagination. Mo�Steel wasn�t so sure. Who was to say that Bosch or whatever his name was, the old, dead artist, who was to say that he hadn�t gotten a sneak peek at what the real, actual hell looked like?

If these things creeping and slithering and chattering in the dark weren�t actual demons, actual residents of the inferno, they were close enough. They were all that Mo�Steel�s grandmother had ever led him to expect of the real, actual hell.

He hadn�t heard much about such things from his parents. The whole family was Catholic, but Mo�Steel�s mother and father were Catholic by way of M.I.T. and U.C. Santa Cruz and Northwestern University. His nana was Catholic by way of a tiny village in the Chiapas region of Mexico.

Olga would have been shocked and a little offended to find such ideas occupying a place in her son�s mind. But Nana�s stories had made a bigger impact than Olga�s lukewarm reassurances. Mo�Steel had always favored the more extreme version of just about any story. Eternal damnation wasn�t much of a peril in Olga�s version of events. Like jumping over a puddle as opposed to leaping a bottomless canyon. Nana�s view was extreme and bizarre and
imaginative, and Mo�Steel liked his risks big. A desire for comfort and security had never registered with Mo�Steel.

Nana had an imagination. She had been a cleaning woman most of her life, married to a handyman. She looked older than she was, probably. To Mo�Steel she looked about ninety, though that couldn�t be the truth. And Nana told great stories. She could have been a writer. But she�d come up with nothing any weirder and more disturbing than the distorted, insane, absurd, half-man, half-beast things that shadowed Mo�Steel and his friends through the Tower of Babel.

That�s what made Mo�Steel wonder if they might not be real. At least real in the sense that the artist had somehow gotten a glimpse of the actual hell. He didn�t mention any of this out loud. Jobs would have rolled his eyes. Olga would have made a face. Violet would have patiently explained that what they were confronting was only an animated version of a painter�s vision.

Mo�Steel wondered about Billy Weir, though. What did he think of it? What did he see?

�Always down,� Jobs muttered, not for the first time. �They�re definitely forcing us downward.�

�Our alien friend seems not to object to the direction,� Olga observed.

�Why don�t they just move in and force us to fight?� Jobs wondered.

�Because the devil don�t live in the attic, �migo,� Mo�Steel said.

�What?�

�Nothing.�

�I wonder how far down we�ve come?� Jobs asked no one in particular. �There has to be a bottom eventually.�

�Four-hundred-nineteen steps,� Mo�Steel said. �The risers probably average about nine inches, so that�s three-thousand-seven-hundred-seventy-one inches, or three-hundred-fourteen feet and three inches.�

�That�s quite a talent,� Violet said. �Do you do square roots?�

Mo�Steel grinned. �Pick a number.�

�Four hundred and seventy-one.�

Mo�Steel considered for a moment. �Twenty-one point seven oh two five.�

�How do you do that?�

Mo�Steel shrugged. �In goes the question, out pops the answer. Just one of those things.�

Olga came over and gave her son a walking hug. �I should have had you earlier. You could have helped me through calc.�

Mo�Steel felt his mother trembling. She kept glancing back at the pursuing shadow. So, Mo�Steel thought, Nana told you some stories, too.

�More stairs,� Violet reported from slightly ahead.

The demon army edged in closer now, just a few arm�s-lengths away. A wall of grinning, insinuating, leering, deformed faces. The Blue Meanie limped down the stairs at an unhurried pace.

�It�s lighter down there,� Violet reported.

Mo�Steel shifted his grip on the stretcher. He glanced back at Jobs, who shook his head, indicating that he didn�t need a rest. Mo�Steel saw the Blue Meanie below. He�d stopped. He was waiting for them to catch up. The mirrored surface of his armor gleamed. They started down the stairs. The demons set up a sudden loud, triumphant squall of catcalls and laughter and curses, and Mo�Steel almost dropped his hold on the stretcher.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and were no longer in a blank stone chamber. In the distance, what looked very much like an old picture of a bombed-out Berlin from World War II. Wrecked buildings, smoldering fires, a landscape buried in ash, air full of sparks, shadows within shadows. Within the blasted landscape Mo�Steel could see things moving, writhing, like maggots on a piece of meat.

Closer at hand, a more vivid nightmare. Scenes of torture, scenes of horror, sights that made the flesh creep and the mind recoil. At the base of a tree a hand reached up out of the dirt, a hand belonging to someone buried
alive, a hand that beckoned for recusal.

On the flat tabletop roof of a low building scurried a creature with a white-bearded human head that seemed to be attached with a sharp stick to two scurrying rat legs. Two men were yoked to a massive red millstone. They pulled it around and around on a spiked turntable. Where the millstone should have been crushing wheat it crushed people.
An army of goblins drove herds of starved men while others were swallowed into the dirt or cooked alive or . . .

Mo�Steel dropped the stretcher from numb hands.

There was a sound coming from him, a low keening sound, a weird unnatural sound like nothing his own voice could produce. Mo�Steel backed up the stairs, slipped, and fell hard. He turned and on hands and knees scrabbled up, stopped when he saw the army of demons descending toward him.

Mo�Steel heard Jobs�s voice coming from somewhere, far away, another planet, a million miles from this place.

�Strap it up, Mo, strap it up.�

Mo�Steel couldn�t answer, could only wail, could only cringe and cry. He felt someone holding his head and heard singing. Singing that couldn�t begin to drown out the screams and shrieks and cries of agony from everywhere.
His mother was holding him, rocking him, but she was crying, too, whimpering like him. Suddenly rough hands shoved Olga away. A startling slap. A sharp pain on his face.

Another slap. Another.

And then all he saw was Violet Blake�s furious face, right in his.

�We already have one coma patient, we don�t need another,� Violet barked. �It�s just a painting. It�s just a painting. Get up off your knees and deal with it.�

Mo�Steel stared, uncomprehending.

Violet Blake slapped him again and winced at the pain it caused her. �Move!� she yelled, furious, red in the face. �Get up and move!�

Mo�Steel stood up on shaky legs. He moved.

Miss Blake is quickly becoming my favorite character. Although, if I were faced with a living, breathing Bosch painting, I think I'd shut down too.

# ? Feb 15, 2024 02:12

wizardofloneliness: Dec 30, 2008

I read these books when I was 11 and definitely did not know who Bosch was at the time, so I feel like I can finally appreciate it now. I remember having a hard time visualizing what the hell was going on and eventually lost interest around book 4-5.

# ? Feb 15, 2024 05:17

QuickbreathFinisher: Sep 28, 2008; by reading this post you have agreed to form a gay socialist micronation.
`

getting a lot of Greg from Over The Garden Wall vibes from Edward.

# ? Feb 15, 2024 06:03

Tree Bucket: Apr 1, 2016; R.I.P.idura leucophrys

wizardofloneliness posted:

I read these books when I was 11 and definitely did not know who Bosch was at the time, so I feel like I can finally appreciate it now. I remember having a hard time visualizing what the hell was going on and eventually lost interest around book 4-5.

I can't really blame Young You for that. Animorphs had the awesome hook of imagining what it would be like to fly or have tiger powers. Remnants has hibernation pods filled with fungal spores.

# ? Feb 15, 2024 06:12

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

We're getting 3 again today because they're short and I accedently saw the header for the third one and could not wait until tomorrow to read it.

quote:

CHAPTER 17

�WE HAVE TO RUN. CAN YOU RUN?�

Edward looked at his arm. It was dark, gray, kind of rough-looking. Like gravel kind of. Like the walls and floor around him.

Too weird.

The Chameleon.

2Face was saying something; he only listened in bits and pieces. Something about how they were lost. Hello? Of course they were lost. They should have stayed on Earth. Everyone said there was no way to survive, but how
about digging really deep tunnels, or those places where they stored nuclear waste? Those were deep tunnels.
It had to be better than this place. At least there weren�t Riders.

Edward turned his thoughts away from the Riders. They scared him and he didn�t like being scared. His mom should be here. Sebastian said she was dead. His dad, too. But Edward hadn�t seen them himself. Another thing not to think about.

Why was this place so creepy? There were all these little sounds, these little scurrying sounds. Rats maybe. That was okay. He was the Chameleon. A superhero.

�It�s like some kind of a maze!� 2Face raged, speaking loudly, too loudly. �Every time we start off going one direction, we end up going another direction.�

The Chameleon. That would be cool. Wasn�t there a superhero by that name already? Probably. But Edward was real, not made up. And anyway, there were no TV shows or comic books here.

TV. That would be great. TV.

And some of his friends. Like . . .

Edward frowned. He couldn�t immediately recall any of his friends. Hadn�t he had friends? He must have. He remembered the feeling of having friends. Oswald. He was a friend.

Yeah, like in kindergarten.

There had to have been friends. Definitely. Anyway, there was TV and some of the people on TV were like friends.

�I don�t know what to do,� 2Face said. �We�re lost. I know I shouldn�t tell you that, being a little kid or whatever, but we�re lost. I didn�t really think this through, you know? This tower is so big. It�s like . . . like being an ant lost inside the world�s biggest beehive or whatever, just rooms and rooms and rooms and they�re all pretty much the same.�

Edward glanced at 2Face. Her normal face was toward him now as they walked along. Edward was disappointed. He kind of liked her melted face. It was cool. It was creepy and gross, but he was used to it. It was something creepy that he could deal with because it was her face, because he knew what it was, what it meant.

�We need to find your brother!� 2Face practically shouted.

She was scared, Edward knew. That�s why she was talking so loud. He could tell from the way she kept touching her face. From the way she kept twisting her hands together.

�Do you think that was the sun?� Edward asked.

�What?� 2Face was confused.

�Was it the sun? Our sun, I mean?�

�Oh. The star?� She shrugged. �I don�t know. Maybe. I don�t know. How would I know? I�ve never flown like ten feet away from a star, so it�s not like I could say, �Oh, look, it�s Aunt Dora�s house down there, this must be good old Sol.��

�Who�s that?�

�Aunt Dora?�

�No.� Edward pointed. �Him.�

It was standing there staring at them. A deer, only walking standing up like a person. It had big antlers and a red cape.

Deer Man. What superpowers did Deer Man have?

�Back up,� 2Face whispered. She reached out for him, took his arm, and squeezed too tight. But as they backed up they heard a sound and spun to face a thing, a creature, with the face of a bird, with a strangely long, sharp beak. The bird creature, too, was walking upright. The two apparitions just stared. The deer blinked. Stared. No one breathed, no one spoke.

2Face dug her fingers into Edward�s arm.

�Just edge away,� she said. �Come on. Follow me. Slowly. Slowly.�

They backed away, keeping an equal distance between themselves and the demons. The Bird Man cocked his head sideways, exactly like an inquisitive robin. Back, through an open archway. Then 2Face released Edward. He rubbed his arm.

�We have to run,� she said. �Can you run?�

�Sure.�

�Stay with me. And run!�

They took off as fast as they could run, Edward straining to keep up with shorter legs. And now that he was running the panic took hold. He glanced back, no one was chasing them, but it didn�t matter, he could feel eyes watching him, could feel his skin tingling as if he were pursued by a cold wind, felt the hair on his neck stand up, felt his heart trip and miss beats.

The sound of their running feet echoed. 2Face panting. Edward panting. Running. A set of stairs. Up! They stopped suddenly. A new monster, a thing made of a screaming, yellow head, barely human, with fire shooting sparks from a hole in its skull. It had no body, just lizard legs starting where its neck should be.

�Back!�

They tumbled back down the stairs, fleeing the hideous thing, trying to outrun fear.

�Run! Run!� 2Face shouted, and this time when Edward looked back, he saw them. Monsters of every description. Things with animal heads and reptile bodies, creatures with absurd boots and body parts that became clay pitchers pouring water or blood. A monster with a distorted, freakish green cat�s head swallowing a human body, swallowing the legs as it bounded along.

Edward couldn�t breathe. He was slowing down and 2Face was pulling ahead. The monsters would get him, the monsters would get him.

�Wait,� he cried. �Wait for me!� And 2Face disappeared from sight, through a doorway filled with night.

2Face, you're letting me down, girl.

quote:

CHAPTER 18

�KILLER EARS? KILLER EARS? WAS THIS GUY ON DRUGS?�

Jobs was stunned by Mo�Steel�s collapse. Not that he wasn�t due. But Mo�Steel was the Man of Steel. He leaped tall buildings with a single bound. Or tried to. He had jumped out of airplanes, snowboarded off cliffs, surfed with sharks.

That he would be scared, sure. Any sane person would be. But didn�t Mo�Steel understand how much everyone was relying on him? He was the strong one. Jobs was supposed to be the analytical one; Mo�Steel was the tough one, the fearless one.

Or maybe not. Maybe Miss Blake was.

Jobs shot her a look. She was grim. Her lips were colorless, her entire face drawn tight. She seemed angry, Jobs thought, angry at herself. And scared, but that went without saying.

The Blue Meanie was in the lead. Jobs wanted to talk to it, ask it to explain. Maybe get some reassurance. The demons were close around them now. They crowded close. But they hadn�t attacked yet, not since earlier when Jobs had suffered the slight stab wound. Maybe the Cartoons remembered the Blue Meanie�s fl�chette gun.

Too many questions. Why would Cartoons fear fl�chettes? They weren�t really alive. Why were these Cartoons behaving with such studied malevolence? Why were they able to generate all the multitude of vocalizations that had been missing from earlier Cartoons? Still, the smell was wrong, the ship hadn�t gotten that, not yet.

Jobs was relieved. The ship was still getting things wrong. That made it easier for him to remember that this was all nothing but force fields and matter generators and no doubt some wonderfully sophisticated programming. What was the ship up to? What was this all about?

One thing was sure, the Cartoons were getting more aggressive. Closer. Louder. A solid wall of nightmares now, all around. Jobs and his friends and the alien were moving in a bubble now, surrounded, cut off, walking straight through some medieval madman�s vision of hell.

They passed by a blue bird seated on a high golden throne. On its head it wore an iron cooking pot at a jaunty angle. It was eating a man, the legs and rear still protruding. Small black birds were flying out of the man�s rear end.
Jobs said, �What is that?�

Violet looked up, saw the eerie thing, and said, �Allegory.�

�An allegory of what?� Jobs demanded. �An allegory about don�t get eaten by a big huge blue bird or else crows will fly out of your butt?�

�I don�t know,� Violet admitted. �It meant something to someone once. Maybe.�

�Or maybe your painter guy was just nuts,� Jobs snapped.

�He�s not my painter,� Violet said wearily. �I�m not running this freak show. If I were running this freak show there�d be a hot bath somewhere.�

The movement was sudden and swift. It would have been ludicrous if not so dangerous. Two ears, human ears, detached from any head, held together by a long spear stabbed through the upper lobe. The ears were twice man-height. And wedged between them was a knife, a knife big enough to carve up an elephant. The blade itself was ten feet long.

The knife-wielding ears were being pushed and shoved by a small army of starved, moaning men, enthusiastically whipped on by demons. And now, accelerated by the constant cracks of demon whips, the knife was coming straight toward Jobs and his friends. There was no doubt in his mind that the ears meant to kill him. The horror was only heightened by his desire to giggle at the lunacy of it.

�This is nuts. This is insane,� he said angrily. �Killer ears? Killer ears? Was this guy on drugs?�

At the same time, he backpedaled, carrying Billy and Mo�Steel back with him. But back where? A wall of demons awaited behind. The antlered deer stared blankly. The gray figure of death lowered its fleshless jaw in what might be a grin.

The knife swung down, like a falling tree, fast, not fast enough. It sliced into the dirt, the point swiping the air in front of Jobs�s nose. The blade popped up and the starved men shoved the absurd ear structure closer. They were
determined now to stab, to stab the point right in Jobs�s heart.

�No! No!�

Jobs dropped the stretcher. Billy rolled off.

The Blue Meanie raised one foreleg. There came the loud whirring sound and the cloud of fl�chettes ripped into the ears, into the men pushing them, into the nearest demons. There was a cloud of red and brown. The ears looked as if they�d been chewed by a dog. They slid apart, the spear no longer linking them. The gigantic knife toppled over and lay there.

�Thanks,� Jobs said to the alien. Then he rolled Billy back onto the stretcher and touched the boy�s head. �Thank you, Four Sacred Streams.�

The alien�s screen wrote, Fl�chette weapon now exhausted. The demon army fell back, hesitant but not in retreat. The deer tilted its head quizzically.

�How far to this node?� Jobs asked.

Not far.

�Why is Mother doing this?�

Mother is serving you.

�Well, tell her to stop!� Mo�Steel yelled.

�Can Mother be stopped? Can�t we turn this off?�

The node must be destroyed.

Jobs kept his hand on Billy�s head. He was shaky after the knife attack. Shaky after seeing Mo�Steel fall apart. He was tired and needed a rest. Mostly, he wanted to understand. If he could understand, he could fix. That was his lifelong belief: What he could understand, he could modify, reconfigure, repair. Render harmless or even useful.

�Aren�t you the people who built this ship? Don�t you control it?� Jobs demanded.

WE ARE NOT THE SHIPWRIGHTS. WE ARE THEIR CREATION. THEY ARE THE MAKERS. WE THOUGHT WE WERE THEIR CHILDREN, BUT WHEN THE AWAKENING CAME, WE SAW THAT WE WERE SLAVES OF THE MAKERS.

�Is this really the time?� Olga demanded. �Maybe we should conduct this interview some other time.�

But Jobs was already asking his next question. �The Shipwrights? They made the ship and they made you? And then . . .�

Yes.

�They kicked you off the ship!� Jobs said as the pieces fell into place. �That�s why you had to fight your way back on.�

Yes.

�The Shipwrights made you to be slaves. You . . . that�s it, isn�t it? You�re the repairmen. You�re the software engineers.�

We serve Mother.

�Mother is a computer.�

MOTHER IS GREAT. MOTHER IS ALL. MOTHER IS OUR TRUE MOTHER. MOTHER LOVES HER TRUE CHILDREN. BUT THE SHIPWRIGHTS POISONED MOTHER AGAINST US.

In an undertone Violet said, �These people never came up with their own Freud, did they?�

MOTHER�S TRUE CHILDREN LOVE HER. MOTHER�S TRUE CHILDREN HAVE RETURNED AFTER A LONG EXILE. MOTHER�S TRUE CHILDREN WILL RETURN MOTHER TO PERFECTION.

Olga shook her head. �The Shipwrights created the Meanies, the Meanies wanted freedom, so the Shipwrights made Mother expel them. Now the Meanies are back to retake Mother and earn back her love. Miss Blake is right: Everyone here needs therapy.�

We know that Tamara/ The Baby are somehow linked to/are a Maker.

quote:

CHAPTER 19

�THE BABY IS HUNGRY.�

you see why I had to post this chapter now, right?

�Riders!�

T.R. came racing in, breathless. �Riders! Many, many this time.�

A second later, Tate confirmed. �They�re coming up the ramp. The sun�s starting to come up, you can see them. A lot. They�re down in the town, coming this way.�

T.R. nodded vigorously. His face was one big cringe, Yago thought. His fear was contagious.

�Check it out,� Wylson told Yago.

Yago actually looked over his shoulder to see who Wylson might be talking to. �Me? What do you mean, check it out?�

�Go look. Get a count. I need to know how many there are.�

Yago swallowed his first reaction, which was that Wylson didn�t need to know anything because Wylson wasn�t going to do anything. Instead he nodded in a businesslike fashion.

�Okay.�

He stepped outside and crossed the ramp. Tate was right, there was light. But not much. Just enough to make out the buildings below, and just enough to see the Riders. They were in the open belt between town and tower. And Tate was right: There were a lot of them. Yago counted twenty-seven before he gave up, overwhelmed by hopelessness.

Maybe he should run, right now. By himself. 2Face had done it. She�d left with Edward. Of course they were probably both dead now, so maybe that wasn�t the best example. What chance did Yago have sticking with this crowd? Wylson play-acted at being in charge, but Tamara was the boss. They were in a war and Tamara was the only warrior.

�There�s a lesson for you,� Yago muttered to himself. �In a war the warrior rules.�

He went back in, still unsure what to do. It came down to Tamara and the baby. Could they conceivably beat this small army of Riders? If they could, then Yago�s future was with the group. If not . . .

2Face had been clever, maybe. Anyway, she had thwarted Yago�s plans. For now. �I count at least twenty-seven,� Yago reported to Wylson, Burroway, and T.R.

A part of him was amused. The grown-ups � the department heads in Wylson�s little fantasy world � tried to look wise and steady, but Burroway was sweating and T.R. had a death-mask smile going on. Wylson was trying heroically to avoid looking at Tamara. The Marine squatted in a corner, leaned back against the stone wall, eyes closed, resting. The baby played with its toes, like any normal baby. Like any freakishly big, eyeless, normal baby who never pooped or ate or cried.

�Recommendations?� Wylson snapped, stalling for time.

�What?� Burroway demanded, alarmed.

�What recommendations do you have?� Wylson asked shrilly.

�Are you insane? They�re coming,� Burroway snapped.

�We have to run for it,� T.R. said. �We have to run.�

�Ask the sergeant,� Burroway said, stabbing a finger toward Tamara. �Go to her! Ask her if she can save us.�

He said it loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear the edge of panic. The baby looked up from its toes and stared with its gaping sockets. A small, ironic smile flitted across Tamara�s face. She didn�t move or open her eyes.

�That�s your recommendation?� Wylson asked Burroway. �Fine. Implement that.�

�You stupid, delusional idiot,� Burroway raged suddenly, all restraint gone. �Shut up, you stupid woman! Stupid, stupid woman.�

Wylson clenched her jaw and glared fiercely at Burroway. �You are endangering your position on this board.�

�We have to stick together,� T.R. Said.

�Now you want to stick together,� Shy Hwang sneered with a darting look at Yago.

�Someone figure out something, all right?� Anamull yelled, barging into the �meeting.�

Tate went to Tamara and stood over her, hands on hips. Tate was African-American, short, decidedly feminine, the polar opposite of Tamara. She had a shaved head except for a spray of dreadlocks at the back, a knotted ponytail that hung to her midback.

Tate said, �Are you going to help us or not, Tamara? Can you help us?�

Everyone froze. Everyone waited. The vital question had at last been asked.

�Me?� Tamara unlimbered herself, stood up, and brushed at imaginary dust on her tattered uniform. She picked the baby up and settled him on her hip.

�There are almost thirty of them this time,� Tate said, standing her ground. �Can you stop them?�

Tamara looked down at the baby and the baby slowly, lasciviously, licked its lips.

�The baby is hungry,� Tamara said.

That non sequitur sustained the silence.

�Are you going to help us?� Tate asked again.

�The baby is hungry. The baby is too hungry for a fight right now.�

�So feed it,� Yago snapped impatiently.

Tamara�s eyes flickered, looked down, almost as if embarrassed by what she had to say. Yago was sure he saw a look of pained incomprehension, quickly replaced by acceptance.

�The baby is hungry for . . . for meat. For fresh meat,� Tamara said. �It doesn�t matter who: Any one of you will do.�

RIP Shy, I guess!

# ? Feb 16, 2024 03:58

Mazerunner: Apr 22, 2010; Good Hunter, what... what is this post?

oh hmmm, maybe breaking out the gerber's was a little presumptuous

# ? Feb 16, 2024 09:15

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 20

�I�D RATHER BE AT DISNEY WORLD.�

Edward froze. 2Face was gone. He froze, stood still, as if his legs were turned to stone. The monsters were behind him; all he had to do was turn around to see them. Monsters more horrible than anything from any nightmare. When he was little he had dreamed of dinosaurs. His dreams had been jerky, sped-up movies of dinosaurs, Triceratops and Tyrannosaurus moving like claymation figures, only bigger, so big they could have stomped his room flat.

Sometimes he had dreamed of bogeymen, of all the creatures that populated his Tolkien and Rowling books. They danced around him, taunting him, taking his toys. Sometimes they would creep out of his dreams and hide in his bedroom closet. Once he saw goblins dancing atop his dresser, saw them as clearly as anything could be seen.

But this was different. These monsters made his stomach hurt. These monsters made him want to go in his pants. Even the ones that weren�t ugly were horrible in a way that made his skin crawl over his bones.

And now he was alone with them.

They were coming closer. Edging around him. One poked him and he yelled, �Cut it out!�

He turned slowly, slowly, and tears spilled down his cheeks. He faced the monsters. He was sobbing, his chin quivering, his throat seizing.

�Leave me alone,� he begged.

One of the demons, a creature with a cat�s face and a frog�s body, whipped out a two-foot-long tongue and slurped Edward�s face. The demons all laughed at that. The red one danced jigs.

A troll woman � that�s what Edward thought it was, anyway � came waddling up. She was fat and blue and short. She carried a cast-iron pot filled with some black liquid that steamed and popped. The troll woman set the pot down and with a rush two demons seized Edward�s arms and held him tight. They lifted him up off his feet and carried him toward the pot.

�No! No! No!�

The demons just laughed and lifted him high. He could feel the heat from the pot; it was burning his legs and bottom as he screamed and writhed away from it.

�Yaaaaahhhh!�

A spear erupted from the chest of one of the demons. It stuck out almost a foot, stuck straight out from where his heart should be.

�Aaaahhhh!� 2Face yelled and thrust with all her might, leaning all her weight into the spear, which pushed on through the first demon and into the second. The demons released their hold, Edward fell, grabbing onto the spear, scrabbled wildly trying to hold on. If he slipped he would be in the pot. 2Face lunged at him, pushed him hard so that he fell backward, off the spear, onto the ground.

He jumped up and 2Face was there, grabbing his arm and pulling him with her. The demon mob seemed startled by this new turn of events. The two skewered monsters tried ineffectually to remove the spear that bound them together.

Edward and 2Face ran, out onto the ramp, out into gray dawn, out into a cold slap of air.

�Sorry I ran away. I was scared,� 2Face gasped.

�I messed my pants,� Edward moaned.

�Yeah? Well, you were entitled, kid.�

�Where are we going? Are we going to find my brother?�

�How about we just put some distance between us and those Halloween characters back there?�

�Okay.�

�Let me just say this, if this whole ship really is some kind of amusement park or whatever, it is for some sick, messed-up people. Tell you one thing, Edward: I�d rather be at Disney World.�

glad to see 2Face came back!

quote:

CHAPTER 21

�I THINK THEIR BOSS IS COMING.�

�Stay close, stay tight,� Mo�Steel said. �Mom? You okay?�

�I�m fine,� Olga said through gritted teeth.

�I think maybe I better drop back and see if I can keep these guys off us,� Mo�Steel said. �Mom, you better take the stretcher here.�

�What can you do?� Olga wondered. �We have no weapons and the alien says he�s out of fl�chettes.�

�I can maybe scare them a little,� Mo�Steel said, not believing it for a moment. But he�d disgraced himself in his own eyes. He�d bunnied. Things got a little woolly and he�d lost it. Jobs had been right all along: Nothing real here. Yes, real in that the monsters were not like some kind of projection or whatever; they were flesh and bone or something material, anyway. And when they poked you with a sharp stick it hurt.

But they weren�t real demons. Maybe that painter a long time ago had some kind of vision, maybe, but this was just like a kind of movie or whatever of that. A computer game. That�s what it was. Too bad Mo�Steel had never liked computer games. He didn�t know how to play. He�d always liked reality. And now reality was a computer game.

�Mom, you take Billy. I�m going to drop back and give these creeps something to think about.�

Olga reluctantly took the stretcher. Mo�Steel spared a moment for a reassuring look. �Hey, it�s me, Mom. You know nothing can kill me.�

His mother�s face was gray with worry.

�What are you doing, Mo?� Jobs demanded.

Mo�Steel turned and crossed the five feet to the nearest demon in a matter of seconds. It was a peculiar mix of huge fish and rat walking on two heavily booted feet. On its back was a man�s helmeted head.

�How about this?� Mo�Steel said. He jumped up and kicked the helmeted head. It toppled off the ratfish and ran off on twisted arms.

�Not all that tough, huh?� Mo�Steel crowed.

A swollen golden monkey was next. Mo�Steel slapped him across his monkey face. �Yeah! Bring it to me,� he yelled at the demon. �Back up is what I�m saying. You�re crowding us. Back up or I�ll have to do some more butt-kicking.�

Over his shoulder he saw one of the monsters dart in and stab his mother in the side with a knife. Olga screamed and dropped the stretcher.

�Mom!�

Suddenly a shriveled, gray-skinned female creature swung at Mo�Steel with a sword as long as her own body. The blade sliced across his chest, cut through the rotted clothing, and cut into the flesh. Mo�Steel yelped in pain and surprise. The little demon giggled and ran. Mo�Steel dove after her, grabbed her by the neck, twisted her around, and yanked the sword from her bony hand.

A dozen demons piled onto him and he was smothered by flesh � human, animal, and none-of-the-above. Now the pain and fear combined to generate a rage like nothing Mo�Steel had ever felt in his easygoing life. His mind went black. He seemed to be staring through a veil of blood. Fear was gone, nothing but rage, screaming fury.

�You want to hurt my mom!� he screamed again and again, as his fists punched and legs kicked at anything within reach. He stabbed blindly with the sword, unable to swing because there was no room, no room for anything but stabbing and kicking and screaming into the reeking, horrible faces pressed in all around him.

All at once he rolled free, gasping for breath, each breath causing a red-hot stab of pain from his chest wound. The muscles of his chest felt like they were burning. His head was swimming. He saw his mother on her knees, surrounded by demons. Jobs was waving something and yelling in a shrill voice. Billy Weir had rolled into the dirt, facedown in filth. Violet was shrieking, flailing away at a pair of rats as big as she was.

It had all happened in a heartbeat.

Mo�Steel staggered to his feet, ran, jumped feetfirst into one of the demons tormenting his mother, and knocked the creature sprawling. They had Violet down on the ground, spread-eagled, one on each hand, each foot. A crone
with the legs of a frog was holding a long, sharp pole. She was going to impale Violet. A huge swollen bird played its horn of a beak, wild, discordant music.

Violet was screaming, screaming, screaming, like an ambulance siren.

Mo�Steel swung his sword and sliced the head from the demon he�d knocked over. He ran full tilt at the frog-woman and hacked at her neck. He caught her in the hump of her back and the blade stuck. The frog-woman barely seemed to notice. She shrugged and steadied the aim of her stick. She drew back and thrust as Mo�Steel yanked ineffectually at the sword blade.

The Blue Meanie stepped between the crone and Violet. With one leg he snapped the sharpened pole. He whirled with impressive speed and slapped the crone with a hind leg. The crone flew ten feet and crashed into the mass of demons.

The letters on the Meanie�s chest read: MUST DESTROY THE NODE .

�Where?� Mo�Steel rasped.

The Meanie understood the question without Billy�s interpretation. It pointed. There. Mo�Steel glanced and saw a forge. The coals glowed yellow and red.

�That?�

THE NODE.

Something hit Mo�Steel from behind. He staggered, blind and whirling. He fell hard. His head was swimming. He saw dream shapes: demons and monsters and his friends. His mother. He tried to get up, collapsed, tried again, and gained his feet woozily. He was beyond rational thought now, his brain too rattled to think clearly. He kicked a monster in the leg and laughed when it fell. He bumped into another and toppled it.

He fell again, headlong, too dizzy. He fell beside Billy Weir. Billy�s face was in the dirt; he was breathing worm-wiggly mud. Mo�Steel gently pushed Billy�s head, freeing his mouth and nose.

�Could use some help here, �migo,� he said to the blank eyes.

�Mo! Mo! Are you okay? Can you hear me?�

Mo�Steel rolled onto his back and saw Jobs�s face looking down at him. Mo�Steel smiled sweetly. �Hey, Duck.�

�Oh, man, Mo, I thought you were dead.�

�Me? Nah, man. When I die I won�t be coming here.�

Slowly his head cleared. He got to his knees and threw up. He felt weak all over, shaky. He felt gingerly for the lump at the back of his head. It wasn�t big, not yet anyway, though he suspected it would be in time. He�d had concussions before: He knew what they felt like.

�My mom?�

�She�s okay,� Jobs said. �But we have to move. We have to move. Something is coming.�

Even in his near delirium Mo�Steel didn�t like the look on Jobs�s face. �What�s coming?�

�I think it�s why the demons backed off.�

�Oh, man.�

�I think their boss is coming.�

Fuuuuuuuuuck. That was an intense little scene!

# ? Feb 16, 2024 21:25

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Three chapters today and we finish this book tomorrow

quote:

CHAPTER 22

�FEED A FREAK TO THE FREAK.�

Yago was ready for most anything that would allow him to seize power. He was not sure he was ready to designate a victim to be fed to the baby.

�What?� he said.

Tamara shrugged. �The baby is hungry.�

�So feed it,� Wylson said.

Tamara looked embarrassed. �It won�t feed that way. It doesn�t want milk. I�ve tried.�

�Well, try again,� Yago snapped.

The baby leered at him and made little popping sounds with its mouth. It had a mouth full of teeth.

�There are limits,� T.R. said, as though he wasn�t sure he believed it.

�The Riders are coming,� Burroway snapped.

�Are you volunteering?� Wylson yelled, turning angrily on him.

�I hardly think I should be the one to . . . to be sacrificed,� Burroway said. �I have knowledge and skills that are vital to the . . . to . . . to this mission,� he ended lamely.

�No, no, no,� Yago said. �We go this way this time, it�ll be eating us one after another.�

The baby laughed as if confirming this.

�They�re on the ramp!� a voice cried from outside. �The Riders are on the ramp!�

�They�ll be here in a few minutes,� Burroway said. �We have to do something.�

�Excuse us, would you, Tamara?� Wylson said with exaggerated politeness.

Wylson, Yago, Burroway, and T.R. huddled and spoke in frantic whispers.

�It�s some kind of sick game,� Yago said. �I don�t think they mean it. The baby is just ��

�The needs of the many outweigh the needs of ��

�How would we decide who is �� Not one of us, we�re all needed!�

Yago saw a blur of movement, a rush of people backing away. 2Face and Edward came racing through the arch.

�Do you people know there are Riders coming?� 2Face demanded.

�Her,� Yago hissed. �Feed a freak to the freak.�

�It�s the only way,� Burroway said. �It�s terrible, but we can�t sacrifice everyone for the sake of one life.�

�Burroway is right,� Yago said quickly. �I didn�t want it to be, but it is the right thing, Wylson, we have to. No choice.�

Wylson gulped. She shook her head. �No. I�ll talk to Tamara.�

�No time!� T.R. hissed. He grabbed Wylson�s arm.

She shook loose, stared at him like she was seeing a monster, and stalked off.

�She�ll come around,� Yago said. �We have to be ready.�

�What do you mean?� Burroway asked, frowning.

�I mean, we need to have 2Face ready to be served up. Let me get D-Caf and Anamull. They�ll help.�

�Ask me, it ought to be D-Caf we give her,� Burroway grumbled. �He�s the killer.�

Yago knew Burroway would do nothing more, but it gave him an idea. He grabbed D-Caf. �You know what�s going on?�

D-Caf nodded fearfully.

�They all wanted it to be you, Twitch. They all said we should feed you to the baby. I stopped them. You remember that, someday. You remember you�re alive because of me.�

D-Caf swallowed hard and nodded, still fearful.

�It�s going to be 2Face,� Yago said grimly. �Go get Anamull. Keep your mouths shut, both of you. But I want you both near 2Face, you got me? When I give the word, you guys grab her, knock her out or something.�

D-Caf ran off and Yago fought down the queasiness in his stomach. This was way off the charts. This wasn�t politics, this wasn�t anything but messed up and wrong. Still, it was working out for him. He would get rid of 2Face and make D-Caf and Anamull his guilty accomplices. He�d own D-Caf from here on in, and Anamull, too. Maybe he should see who else he could use to his advantage.

He caught sight of Wylson arguing with Tamara. Wylson�s hands were waving, chopping the air. Tamara slouched, bored, while the baby seemed to stare at Wylson�s throat. Sick. All of it sick. But this was a sick place and a man had to do what a man had to do to make it. 2Face�s return had been like a gift. She was already an outsider. After all, hadn�t she abandoned everyone and run off with Edward? She�d already been a traitor. He should remind everyone of that. No one would stop to wonder why she�d run off to begin with.

D-Caf, with Anamull in tow, lurked within arm�s reach of her. It was almost over for the freak, Yago thought. Almost over and she doesn�t even know it.

oh man, Yago almost showed a hint of humanity there for a second.

quote:

CHAPTER 23

�SING TO MY PEOPLE OF MY DEATH.�

As artwork, Satan didn�t impress Violet very much. Bosch had used all his imagination to invent every conceivable variation on the creepy, startling, disturbingly funny demons and denizens of this hell that when it came time to reveal the demon of all demons, the ultimate evil, he had little new.

Not that the oversized monstrosity of whipping tail and blazing eyes of fire wasn�t enough to make the flesh creep. But aside from the deference paid to it by the other demons, it seemed like nothing special. On the other hand, the monster seemed to be rallying his troops to a final, all-out assault on the interlopers.

�Is that supposed to be Satan? I thought he�d be redder,� Mo�Steel said. �I thought red.�

Violet was relieved that Mo�Steel had, at least for the moment, conquered his fear. He was not the type of male Violet preferred, but he was strong and brave and those two attributes were paramount in this place.

�The Meanie�s saying something,� Jobs said. �Look.�

THE NODE. TIME IS SHORT.

The alien pointed with his one remaining facial tentacle. He pointed at the blasted, burned-out, half-collapsed building where the demonic Vulcan was feeding another of the damned into the roaring flames. Four Sacred Streams started to move more quickly, impatient. Violet and the others fell into step behind him, glad to have anyone to follow.

Satan � there was no other way to think of him � moved on spindly rat legs to cut them off. His minions came at a rush to join him. Demons who had been busy torturing the doomed now dropped what they were doing and came at a run or a crawl or a scurry.

�The ship has figured it out,� Jobs yelled above the rising cries of demonic alarm. �It knows we�re after the node!�

Even as he spoke, an arrow flew, a bolt from a crossbow, and struck in one of the stretcher poles. Four Sacred Streams broke into a run. It was easy enough now to see that it was hampered by the damaged armor. It was meant to fly and no longer could. And Violet was sure it was meant to be able to run more quickly and evenly than this. The alien barely kept pace with the running humans.

Violet stumbled over broken stony ground, running despite the burning in her chest. She cursed the long dress and useless shoes that stabbed her ankles with each step.

�Jane Austen, meet Dante,� she muttered, giggling insanely at the witticism, anything to keep from crying and collapsing.

Something leaped at her from the side. She felt claws rip at her, tearing at her hair. She screamed and the demon fell away and she forgot the pain in her feet and hand and ran in all- out panic. A thing made of amputated body parts rushed at her. Faces were thrust close to her from all around, hands and claws grabbed, mouths snapped, all in a swirl, all around, touching her, grabbing, pushing, trying to trip.

She ran, heedless, pushing back, slapping wildly, kicking awkwardly.

She ran straight into an open pit filled with tar. Faces contorted in pain and disbelief stared up at her. She fell in, sank into the hot tar, felt it against her flesh, felt it clog her clothing. She screamed in shock and heard her scream echoed from a disembodied head floating beside her. She slapped her hands on the edge of the pit and tried to haul herself up, but the pull of the tar was too strong. Like a fly trying to climb out of cold molasses.

She sagged, held on with her elbows. She was crying freely now, tears blurring everything into a crazy carnival of fantastic faces and weird, impossible forms. She slipped and held her head free only by virtue of sticking her arms straight out in front of her. She was holding on by her armpits as the faces of the tormented souls bobbed around her, rising to scream, sliding down with a gurgle.

A bird-man, a bird with an impossibly long, razor-sharp beak walking erect on booted feet pecked at her arms.

�No!� she cried. �Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Please, please, please just leave me alone.�

A gray-skinned gargoyle with a hideous fright-mask grin laughed at her, laughed in her face and began to pry her fingers up from the ground. She slipped farther.

�No, no, no. Please don�t hurt me. Please stop. Please.�

Violet lost her hold and slid backward, inexorably sucked into the pit. She saw demons dancing jigs around the edge of the pit and then her face slid under the tar.

�Where�s Miss Blake?� Jobs cried. He looked but there was nothing to see, nothing but the mob of taunting demons, the foul fantasy creatures all around. One stabbed at him with a short spear and he felt a jolt of pain in his behind. He clapped a hand on the wound and dropped the stretcher. He felt the spear still protruding and with a desperate cry pulled it free. He swung the spear awkwardly and hit nothing. He searched for the stretcher but somehow he had been swept past it. The tide of evil creatures hid everyone and everything from sight.

�Mo!� he yelled. �Mo! Mo!�

A stunning blow caught him from behind and he fell hard, facedown. The wind was gone from his lungs. Hands were everywhere, holding him, lifting him up. He cried out as he rose, carried aloft like some kind of prize.

�Mo! Help me! Help me!�

Demons carried him high, then turned him over, facedown. Facedown they stretched him, pulling at his legs and arms, pulling him till he thought he might be torn apart. They carried him at a run and then Jobs saw what they planned. The knife�s blade was turned up, the knife horizontal, four feet off the ground. It was ten feet long.

They carried Jobs till he was suspended directly over the knife, lengthwise, so that dropping him would slice him in half. Jobs wanted to scream but his voice was gone. He tried but no sound emerged. The demons did not drop him. They lowered him with extravagant care and gently laid him on the knife�s edge. He lay there with hands hanging, legs hanging, the blade creasing his belly and chest and lips and nose.

One move and he would die. One slight increase in pressure and the blade would cut him.

And now the demons turned a crank that rattled and creaked and slowly raised the knife point high. Jobs was facing downhill and in a few eternal seconds he would begin to slide down the length of the knife blade.

Mo�Steel was alone, no Jobs, his mother gone, surrounded and attacked from all sides, cut and bruised and slashed. He glimpsed Four Sacred Streams, the only familiar sight in a landscape of evil.

He heard Jobs�s scream.

�Jobs!� he yelled. But he couldn�t see his friend. Could do nothing at all, nothing but slap aside a spear thrust and keep running after the Blue Meanie.

The alien was under sustained attack, but the spears did not penetrate his armor, and the claws that snatched at him slid off the deep blue Mylar, unable to gain a hold. The Blue Meanie pressed forward, pushing now against the sheer physical weight of a howling mob. Pushing his low-slung head into the belly of the devil himself. Mo�Steel ripped a spear from a demon�s hand and threw it. Threw it straight at the eyes that glowed bright red from beneath a turban.

The spear hit the devil a glancing blow, and in return, for taking his attention away from self-defense, Mo�Steel was punished with a raking, skin-scoring slash from a talon like a hawk�s.

The Meanie pushed on and Mo�Steel could do nothing but follow, nothing but try and keep going forward. Where was his mother? His best friend? The Blue Meanie stopped, unable to go any farther. He twisted around and faced Mo�Steel. There were words scrolling across his chest.

Mo�Steel could barely make sense of them. Nonsense words.

SING TO MY PEOPLE OF MY DEATH.

�What?�

The blow that knocked Mo�Steel down made his ears ring. He felt himself flying, flying low, with his face just above the ground.

A fire. He could feel its heat.

A huge round pan, sizzling hot, held over the fire by a reptilian crone. The demons swung him back, forth, back, building up momentum, and then threw him, tumbling, through the air.

This is very intense, it would have freaked me out as a kid!

quote:

CHAPTER 24

�MMM, BABY WANT SOME NUM NUM.�

2Face felt as much as saw the presence of Anamull and D-Caf. She knew they were watching her. She knew they were tensed, ready to spring, waiting for a signal. But she didn�t know why until her father came to her and embraced her awkwardly.

�I�m glad you�re back,� Shy Hwang said. �But this may be a bad time.�

�It�s always a bad time now,� she answered warily.

�It�s the baby,� he said with a significant look.

�What about the baby?�

�It�s hungry. It wants to eat. And if we don�t feed it, then Tamara won�t fight the Riders, and they�re coming, a lot this time.�

�So feed it.� She searched his face for some deeper meaning. He looked away.

2Face shook him but he didn�t say anything. She looked up, mystified, and saw Yago. Yago didn�t look happy. He looked haunted, ragged. He met her eyes and then shifted focus to just past her. He nodded. Anamull grabbed her upper arm in an iron grip. He still had his dagger. He put the tip near her throat.

�No!� Shy Hwang cried. �No, you can�t do this.�

D-Caf said, �Yago said. Yago said.� Tentatively he grabbed 2Face�s free arm.

�This is wrong. You can�t do this!� Shy yelled, but he didn�t move. �Not my daughter, too. I�ve already lost my wife. No!�

�Move,� Anamull whispered in 2Face�s ear.

She felt herself propelled forward, passing faces that first looked in horror and then turned away. �What are you doing?� she demanded and tried to shake free.

�Baby hungry,� Anamull said with an idiot giggle.

�It has to be someone,� D-Caf said, arguing with himself. �And she did leave. She ran off. I mean, that�s like you abandoned us. Has to be someone.�

�And she�s already half-cooked,� Anamull said and exploded in laughter.

2Face�s heart was in her throat. She saw Burroway, his face hard, eyes meeting hers then going vacant.

�What is going on here?� 2Face cried. She saw Tamara in the corner. Saw Wylson with her back to Tamara. The baby, perched on Tamara�s hip.

�No,� 2Face whispered.

�Baby hungry,� Anamull said in his heavy parody of baby talk. �Mmm, baby want some num num.�

Yago loomed before her. �I really am sorry about this. I doubt you�ll believe me, but I am sorry. There�s no other way.�

�The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one,� T.R. Intoned.

�We�re doing this?� Yago asked Wylson.

�We�re trying to survive,� Wylson said. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pulled back in a parody of a smile. A fear smile, like a terrified dog.

�Give the word, then,� Yago said softly.

�We all know what we�re doing,� Wylson said evasively.

Yago nodded. �But you�re the boss, right?�

�We all agreed,� Wylson said. �And you said it should be 2Face.�

Tate thrust in between them. �This is wrong, you cowards. Let�s fight the Riders ourselves. This is wrong, you can�t do this.�

�You go fight the Riders,� Yago snapped. �Or maybe you want to trade places with 2Face?�

�We�re in a new place, we�re all that�s left of the human race, you can�t do this!� Tate cried.

�Not volunteering, huh?� Yago nodded to Anamull. �Okay, to the baby.�

2Face began kicking, dragging her heels, squirming. But D-Caf tightened his grip and Anamull was powerful. Her mind was reeling, eyes swimming, turning everything bright and blurry.

�You can�t do this!� she cried.

�Guess we can,� Yago said calmly. �It�s about survival. Not my idea.�

�No, you just named the victim,� 2Face spat.

Yago nodded thoughtfully. �Yes, I did.�

�What do you think you get by killing me?� 2Face asked desperately.

Yago said nothing. She dug in her heels and cursed but she kept moving toward Tamara and the baby. The baby clapped its hands happily. From far off, 2Face heard Tate still shouting, demanding others act, demanding that
someone show some spine.

�Once I�m gone you�ll have no scapegoat,� 2Face pleaded desperately.

�I�ll find someone.�

�Or someone will find you, Yago. You think you�re safe? You�re not killing me because I�m weak, you�re killing me because you know I�m dangerous � don�t you think someone will feel the same about you?�

Yago�s cat-DNA-enhanced eyes flickered.

�Eliminate competition, that�s the game, right? Get rid of anyone who might stand in your way, right? Whose way do you stand in, Yago?� She was talking a mile a minute, still kicking and squirming but thinking and rattling out the words. �Wylson, Yago. You don�t think she has you in mind for the next time? She�s smarter than you are, Yago; she�s going to blame you for this, pin this on you and then sacrifice you the next time � you�ll never be the boss till she�s gone and you�re killing the wrong person and she�ll get you because she�s smarter and stronger and more focused and she�s not stupid enough to let some stupid blow-off force her hand, not Wylson, she�ll ��

She stopped talking. Yago had motioned Anamull and D-Caf to stop. Yago stepped close. Behind him 2Face could see the backs of all who had turned away.

�Look behind you, Yago,� 2Face whispered harshly. �Everyone turned away. They�re making you carry the weight. You�ll be blamed for murder. You�ll be the scapegoat. That makes you next on the baby�s menu.�

Yago glanced back, stared, slowly turned back to 2Face, eyes mean, face pinched. �You have a suggestion?� he asked.

�You want to be boss?� 2Face said. �Wylson is boss now. As long as she�s around, she�s boss and you�re not.�

Their eyes met and locked.

�If I turn against her I�m still the scapegoat, I�m still the killer,� Yago said.

�I�ll do it,� 2Face said. �Get her over here. Let me get away for just a minute, I�ll take care of it.�

Yago�s eyebrows shot up. �You�ll take her down?�

�I�ll knock her out. If she�s unconscious, who�s going to argue with her being the sacrifice? No one likes her. And the blame will be on me, so I won�t be a threat to your being in charge.�

�You�re a cold little lizard, aren�t you?� Yago said, nodding in admiration.

Then, in a loud voice, he said, �Wylson! You�re the boss. If you want this done, you come over and do it in person.�
Yago smiled at 2Face. �Well, well,� he said, �we�re two of a kind.�

I am very invested in 2Face and how she navigates this whole situation. Getting rid of Wylson is a good move anyways, her leadership style is unsuited for their current reality.

# ? Feb 18, 2024 00:38

Tree Bucket: Apr 1, 2016; R.I.P.idura leucophrys

So the last CEO in the universe is about to be eaten! This book might have a happy ending after all.
More seriously, 2Face as unwilling co-conspirator with Yago is a way more interesting dynamic than I thought the author was going for.

# ? Feb 18, 2024 02:02

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Oh wow, we only had a single chapter left, I didn't expect this to be a 4 page chapter with how short they've been!

quote:

CHAPTER 25

�DON�T TELL ME YOU ENJOYED ALL THAT.�

Violet flailed, legs kicked, arms waved, slowly, slowly, sinking, down and down, darkness, mouth smothered, eyes blind, ears full of grunted screams, sank and needed to breathe. To breathe. Lungs on fire . . .

Olga was strapped tight to a long pole, bound with rawhide strips, arms behind her. And now the demons carried the pole to the fire, walked through the fire unharmed themselves, and laid the ends of the pole into the forked uprights. She was on a spit, hanging facedown above a fire. Waves of heat, searing, impossible heat burned her eyebrows and eyelashes and crinkled her hair. She breathed in the stink of her own burning hair and knew she would soon hear the crisping of her own skin.

Jobs pressed his palms against the blade and pushed upward, trying to raise his weight off that fatal edge. But as he levered himself up he felt the blade begin to slice into him. He lowered himself back down, sobbing. He had to keep his weight perfectly still, perfectly balanced; one move, one shift, so much as a vibration and the blade would begin slicing and then his weight and his every movement would work the blade farther and farther into him. He couldn�t slide down, couldn�t slide, no no no no, they were raising the blade higher, palms pressed hard, had to hold on, if he slipped along the blade, if he let go, if his sweating palms slipped . . .

Mo�Steel felt himself flying. Flashed on the fire, the pan, the demons cackling happily. He yanked his legs under him. No way to land on his feet, had to be knees, in and out, hard but not impossible. He landed on his knees, absorbed the shock into his hips, held his hands back so as not to burn them, and sprang up and away like a scared grasshopper. Had to keep the momentum, had to use the speed, had to work with Mother G.

He went butt-over and landed on his back with his head in the fire. He used the very last of his momentum and all his strength, flung himself forward and onto his face, out of the fire. There was a roar of concern from the disappointed demons. They rushed at him and now he had no momentum, no strength, and no hope. They lifted him, faceup, held him and this time readied to lay him in the pan and hold him there till he was too far gone ever to jump again.

Mo�Steel bellowed in rage and twisted his head up to spit fury at his tormentors. He saw the Blue Meanie, far away now, ascending the ruined wall of the node. Climbing slowly as the demons piled on him.

�Help!� Mo�Steel screamed.

But the alien was past helping anyone.

* * *

�Can�t you handle this yourself, Yago?� Wylson snapped savagely.

�You�re the boss,� Yago said with an insolent shrug.

�What good are you!� Wylson raged. �This is your kind of thing, isn�t it?�

Yago moved away, knowing Wylson would turn to face him, knowing she would expose her back to 2Face.

�You know �� Yago began to say.

Anamull released 2Face. 2Face clasped her hands together, raised them over her head, and brought them down with all her strength on the back of Wylson�s neck. Wylson staggered forward. 2Face hit her again and Wylson fell flat.

�What are you doing, 2Face?� Yago yelled in a believable parody of surprise and outrage.

�I think you may have killed her!�

�Riders are here!� Tate screamed from the archway.

2Face played out her role. �Wylson�s out. She�s food. You want me, I�ll fight and it�ll take time.�

�She�s right,� Yago wailed. �Anyway, Wylson would understand.�

2Face bent over and grabbed Wylson�s ankle. She dragged the softly moaning woman toward Tamara and the baby. Tamara looked upset, but the baby was giggling, almost hysterically. 2Face fell on her rear as she lost her hold on Wylson, and now Tamara put the baby down beside the half-conscious businesswoman.

�The Riders!� Yago gasped at Tamara.

�A deal�s a deal,� Tamara agreed.

The baby, with surprisingly strong hands, gripped Wylson�s ankle.

* * *

The Blue Meanie cross-cut the power lines, sequenced the surge for maximum overload. The armor was almost out of power. It was the only way, and still it might not work. Mother must be saved from herself. The node must be destroyed. It was the only way: Mother really needed her scheduled maintenance.

But it was a pity. So long in exile, so many generations. Four Sacred Streams had been privileged to return at last to the Sacred Mother of his people. To return, but never to enjoy Mother�s love in a peaceful world.

Three seconds. Two.

The armor blew apart and Four Sacred Streams died instantly.

Violet knew she was dying, knew it and bitterly resented it. Smothering to death. Smothering, unable to resist breathing, her conscious mind no longer in control, breathing in the tar. It filled her mouth and began to surge down her throat.

She gagged, a last reflex. And then, she was gagging on water.

Water!

She opened her eyes; she was in water � was she crazy, had she lost her mind? Was this death? She waved her hands and met only moderate resistance. They moved! Her arms moved! No sticky tar, water. She was rising, slowly, hampered by her dress, slowly through the water. Her head emerged. She could breathe!

�Finally,� she gasped. �A bath.�

* * *

This time the Riders did not pause to play games with Tamara; they came swooping up the ramp, six abreast, weapons at the ready, determined. No more single combat. No more ritual. They knew what she was now � what the baby was, in any case � and they were afraid.

Tamara glanced back through the arch. Wylson was struggling to regain consciousness. 2Face stood over her, harsh, determined. Yago watched in fascination. The baby grinned at Tamara. A glance was all Tamara could spare. The Riders wouldn�t slow or stop, they would try to ride right over her, trap her between the first and second ranks of warriors, and finish her off with a 360-degree attack.

And they might well succeed.

Tamara had taken two boomerangs, three spears, and a long scimitar from her earlier opponents. The weapons were draped around her body or lying nearby, within easy reach. She lifted a boomerang and held it between thumb and forefinger. She took careful aim and threw it with all her unnatural strength.

The boomerang was not meant to kill on the first pass, or even on the return flight. It was aimed to cripple � a very un-Riderlike move, one they would not expect. The boomerang hit the lead warrior�s left legs and sliced them neatly in half. The warrior toppled into the Rider to his left and sent that warrior�s board careening farther into the outermost Rider.

The three of them collided and tumbled.

�Too close,� Tamara commented to no one. �They should have learned to keep an interval.�

The three Riders still standing in the front row swerved. They did not fall, but neither did they keep their aim true. They swooped past Tamara, revealing the second line. Six spears flew.

Tamara dropped to the ground and suddenly there was no ground.

She, the baby, the Riders, the others inside the tower that no longer existed all fell through the air.

* * *

Mo�Steel landed in a red-hot frying pan that was no longer there. He was wet! Underwater? He twisted, fast as a cat, and kicked hard for the surface. Only, he was disoriented. He hit bottom. It knocked the air from his lungs and water filled his mouth. Turn around, Mo, he told himself. Turn around.

The water was no more than a few feet deep. He swarmed up to the surface and shot up and halfway out of the water like a dolphin. He heard distant splashes. He twisted wildly, looking for others, looking for something to
make sense of this madness.

The Tower of Babel and everything in it was gone. He was treading water in the middle of what could only be some sort of marsh. The water was warm and still and opaque with silt or microscopic life, or who knew what? He saw something bobbing nearby and swam toward it. It was Billy Weir, lying faceup, rigid, floating too high in the water for it to be normal. Floating like a cork.

Mo�Steel wiped the water out of his eyes and cradled Billy�s head unnecessarily. He could see his mother and Miss Blake together and felt a wave of relief. Jobs was not far away, walking more than swimming. Mo�Steel put his legs down and realized that the water now was no more than four feet deep.

�What�s up, Duck?� Mo�Steel asked his friend.

Jobs shook his head and let out a long, slow sigh. �Just one thing, Mo: Don�t tell me you enjoyed all that. You�re my friend, I love you like a brother, just don�t tell me you enjoyed all that.�

�No, no, man.� Mo�Steel shook his head emphatically. �I�m cut, I�m bruised, I�m burned. My head�s not right, still.� Then, in a thoughtful tone, �Although . . .�

�Don�t you �although� me. I�ve been stabbed in the butt.�

�I�m just saying . . .�

Violet and Olga slogged over to them. They looked wet and bedraggled. But Violet at least was smiling a survivor�s smile: shocked and dazed and amazed to be alive.

�Hi, Mom. Hi, Miss Blake. So, Miss Blake, what crazy artscape is this?� Mo�Steel asked and swept his arm around at the marsh.

The light was dim, hazy, as if the air was full of smoke or steam, though no one was coughing and the air was cool. The water was dotted with low-lying islets, none seeming to be more than a few hundred feet long. There were trees of a sort, with slender, pliant trunks that waved in exaggerated response to even the breath of a breeze.

�I don�t know,� Violet said. �I don�t . . . It�s not like anything, really. Nothing I can place, anyway.�

�Default,� Jobs said.

�What?�

�The Meanie blew up the node. The ship isn�t creating an environment anymore. I think this is the default setting. It�s like a screen saver. I think this is what the place is like when the ship isn�t actively creating an environment.�

�This water isn�t cold, but we still need a boat, �migo,� Mo�Steel said.

Jobs shook his head. �No, a hoverboard would be better. That�s what it is, you know, that�s what it�s about.�

�What what�s about?� Violet asked.

�This is why the Riders are trying to kill us. This is the default setting. This is where they live, their country. This is their environment, except that Mother has changed it all � because of us.�

�I thought the Blue Meanies were the ones who owned or whatever, who inhabited this place,� Olga said.

�Yeah,� Jobs agreed. �But the Meanies have been away for a long time. The Riders, the Blue Meanies, and us now. It�s a three-way contest for control of Mother. And Mother . . . well, like Four Sacred Streams said: Mother is confused.�

�Maybe we should have just stayed on Earth,� Mo�Steel said. �You take it all together, Duck, and maybe it would have been easier just to get hit on the head by an asteroid.�

Jobs nodded and sighed. He was glad to be out of the tower. But this landscape wasn�t exactly inviting. �My butt hurts.�

�My finger hurts,� Violet said.

�My side,� Olga muttered, �hurts pretty bad.�

�My everything,� Mo�Steel said. Then his tone shifted. �On the other hand, we escaped from hell, right? How much worse a mess can Mother come up with?�

�A malfunctioning alien supercomputer loaded with all the horrors the human mind has ever conjured up?� Jobs said. �We don�t want to know what else it can come up with. Let�s go find the others. Maybe they had an easier time.�

* * *

2Face had fallen like the others when the tower simply ceased to exist. She had fallen and splashed in the water and hit the bottom. She�d been stunned silly and barely crawled her way back to the surface. Now she dog-paddled in a place where the water was too deep to stand.

There was a low island nearby; she could see dim lights through the gloom. And she could hear the noises of the Riders. Celebrating, maybe. Or preparing for renewed battle. And she could see some of the others, the other Remnants, huddling together, wandering, swimming, standing.

She should join them. She had no choice, really. No choice. Nowhere else to go. Her hands were bruised from hitting Wylson.

�Did what you had to do,� she told herself. �You just did what you had to do.�

# ? Feb 18, 2024 23:42

Fritzler: Sep 5, 2007

Wylson is Miss Blake�s mother? Can�t wait to see what she thinks of that. This is a very abrupt ending.

# ? Feb 20, 2024 05:16

Edna Mode: Sep 24, 2005; Bullshit, that's last year's Fall collection!

Glad to be done with the demon painting people... For now?

# ? Feb 20, 2024 05:25

Coca Koala: Nov 28, 2005; ongoing nowhere; College Slice

I got behind in the thread and ended up binging a good chunk of chapters at once. I definitely would not have enjoyed these books as a kid. What was the contemporary reception of them like, I wonder? I remember reading a bunch of Animorphs and a few Everworld books, but I never heard of this series at all and I have to wonder if it�s because I aged out of the target demographic or if they were just very quietly received and never made a big splash.

Edit: also yeah I really wonder if Mother understands the Bosch stuff - did Mother figure �oh, this is their art, surely it will be familiar and comforting to these creatures� or was it a deliberate �I have no mouth and I must scream, thank god I don�t have to invent tortures for you and can just cop from the nightmare journal you decided to bring with you for some reason�

Coca Koala fucked around with this message at 18:15 on Feb 20, 2024

# ? Feb 20, 2024 18:09

Jim the Nickel: Mar 2, 2006; friendship is magic
in a pony paradise
don't you judge me

Coca Koala posted:

I got behind in the thread and ended up binging a good chunk of chapters at once. I definitely would not have enjoyed these books as a kid. What was the contemporary reception of them like, I wonder? I remember reading a bunch of Animorphs and a few Everworld books, but I never heard of this series at all and I have to wonder if it�s because I aged out of the target demographic or if they were just very quietly received and never made a big splash.

Edit: also yeah I really wonder if Mother understands the Bosch stuff - did Mother figure �oh, this is their art, surely it will be familiar and comforting to these creatures� or was it a deliberate �I have no mouth and I must scream, thank god I don�t have to invent tortures for you and can just cop from the nightmare journal you decided to bring with you for some reason�

Jim the Nickel posted:

God Remnants scared the poo poo out of me as a kid, in a way that I didn't feel again till years later when I read Annihilation. So much so that I never finished it, so I'm looking forward to finishing it here.

6/10 on the weirdness scale so far btw

# ? Feb 20, 2024 19:52

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

Coca Koala posted:

Edit: also yeah I really wonder if Mother understands the Bosch stuff - did Mother figure �oh, this is their art, surely it will be familiar and comforting to these creatures� or was it a deliberate �I have no mouth and I must scream, thank god I don�t have to invent tortures for you and can just cop from the nightmare journal you decided to bring with you for some reason�

Something happened, because initially the cartoons were totally passive, ignoring the humans. Maybe when the Blue Meanies came back, it triggered something in Mother to get her to act more hostile? New book will start tomorrow

# ? Feb 20, 2024 22:35

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

REMNANTS#4

NOWHERE LAND

CHAPTER 1

�I�VE CROSSED THE EMPTINESS.�

He had dreamed in the year 2011.

Five hundred years had passed since Billy Weir�s dream. Five hundred years since he had dreamed of a loneliness so profound that no human had ever before experienced the like. Five hundred years since he had dreamed of the copper-colored sea and the huge, bouncing creatures and the sails, the white sails, and a grinning, wild-eyed kid hanging from the rigging and yelling at the top of his lungs.

A lot had happened since that dream.

The asteroid had destroyed Earth, broken it apart, obliterated all hope of human survival. The Mayflower had departed only hours ahead of that catastrophic finale, carrying its hastily assembled human cargo.

Five hundred years since the still-experimental hibernation equipment had experienced failures that left some of the people shriveled and desiccated like mummies; caused others to sprout a persistent mold that ate the corpse; nurtured the growth of a mutated worm that tunneled through bodies, making Swiss cheese of loved ones.

For Billy Weir the failure had been different. The hibernation equipment had shut down his heart, lungs, kidneys. It had stopped cell division. For all intents and purposes, it had killed him � as it was designed to do. But where the others all lay unconscious, unaware of the worms, the mold, the dehydration, the impact of micrometeorites, unaware even of their own deaths, Billy Weir had remained awake.

For five centuries of silence he lay completely paralyzed, incapable of even the slightest movement, but awake, alert, aware of his own predicament. In that time he had dredged through every memory in his own mind. He had even � so he believed, anyway � found a way to tap into the minds of his fellow human Remnants. Certainly he had changed in some profound way. From this unique life he had acquired abilities no human had ever owned.

He looked no different, as far as he knew. He was still slight, dark-haired, pale, with sunken dark eyes and a determined mouth. He was still the gloomy Chechnyan orphan who never quite became the sunny Texan his adopted parents hoped for.

Others had changed, too. Some didn�t even know it, yet. But five centuries of radiation combined with the hibernation equipment�s questionable reliability had caused mutations. Or perhaps something else entirely had caused the mutations. Billy wasn�t sure. During the long emptiness he had crossed and recrossed the line into madness. Sane, mad, normal, real, and unreal were all obsolete terms for Billy.

Billy had slowed down. Way down. When at last the Mayflower was captured by the impossibly vast ship the Blue Meanies called Mother and the survivors were revived, they seemed to Billy like buzzing flies. They flitted by at speeds so great he could hardly track them. They spoke in blurts of hyper-speech.

Billy knew things had changed. He knew he was off the Mayflower. He knew that Jobs and Mo�Steel had carried him on a stretcher for a long time. He remembered draining the life from his pain-wracked, worm-eaten adoptive father, Big Bill. He remembered the way he could transmit Jobs�s speech to the Blue Meanie back in the Tower of Babel.

But Billy also remembered other things: growing vast golden wings and flying into the sun; seeing his fingers and toes become roots and branches of a tree that then withered and died; listening to his birth mother�s voice telling him to rise up and destroy the invader.

He remembered things that may have happened, and things that probably did not. He no longer had any way to know which was which. Billy Weir knew he was insane. But then how could a madman know he was mad? He had dreamed of copper seas and vast, bouncing creatures as big as blimps. He had dreamed of tall masts with vast sails and Mo�Steel � yes, it had been Mo�Steel in the dream, he saw that now � shouting from the rigging, shouting at the wind.

I�ve crossed the emptiness, he told himself. The circle is closing. Or maybe I�m still on the Mayflower, and none of this is real.

And maybe it doesn�t matter.

We're back, friends. Book 4 is clocking in at 66 pages. I have a feeling that things are going to kick into high gear now that the setup is all over.

quote:

CHAPTER 2

�ALL YOU NEED�S A SCREWDRIVER, DUCK. A SCREWDRIVER AND SOME DUCT TAPE.�

�Jobs!�

2Face almost collapsed with relief. She�d hoped it was him, but in the gloomy light, and with only glimpses through the low, swirling fog, she couldn�t be sure. Now the intelligent face, the distracted, slightly bulging brown eyes that gave Jobs the look of a person surprised in the middle of doing something else, the mess of blond hair were clearly visible.

�Hi, 2Face. Is Edward with you?�

2Face nodded. �Edward is fine.�

�We saw Riders chasing you guys. I thought . . . it looked like they . . .�

�We�re all still alive,� 2Face said. She could have added more. �Still alive� didn�t exactly bring Jobs up to date on what had happened. But not right now. There was just too much to tell.

Jobs waded slowly through chest-deep water. Just behind him, partly hidden from view, was Mo�Steel. They were rarely far apart. 2Face knew they were best friends. Mo�Steel had dark eyes, hair, and complexion. His face was broad, eyes far apart. He was an altogether less serious-looking person than Jobs. He seemed to vibrate with energy, like he was bouncing even when he was standing still.

Jobs and Mo�Steel had something between them, a floating log maybe. And coming up behind Mo�Steel were Violet Blake � Miss Blake, as she liked people to address her � and Olga Gonzalez, Mo�Steel�s mother.

�What�s up, 2Face?� Mo�Steel asked cheekily, as though they�d all just run into one another at the mall.

�Nothing good,� 2Face answered.

The log between Jobs and Mo�Steel was no log. It was a human being, a pale, skinny boy named Billy Weir. He was floating faceup, presumably alive. Or what passed for life in Billy�s case.

2Face had the thought that it was a pity Billy hadn�t been with her and the others earlier, back on the tower. When it had come time to feed a living sacrifice to the baby, he would have been a natural victim. An unworthy thought, she knew. But then again, she�d been the baby�s original designated victim, and she figured she had a right to try and live, whatever the cost to someone else. It had been a bad time.

And things weren�t much better now. The Remnants, both groups, were wading through a seemingly endless marsh. The water was as deep as seven or eight feet in places, as low as two feet elsewhere, but generally about chest-high.

Here and there were islands. The fog would part to reveal them for a moment, then whisk them away, a magician�s cape. The islands were little more than sandbars clotted with drifting vegetation, clumps of reeds, and some bizarre trees that looked a little like skittish palm trees, overreacting to every hint of a breeze. The trees were always swaying wildly, inappropriately, drooping way over before springing back.

A small fire had been seen on one island. No doubt it was the Riders. If the Riders came after them now, not even Tamara and the baby would be able to save them. The Riders skimmed about on hoverboards. They were formidable enough on dry land. With the humans all wallowing in the thick, warm water, the two-headed Riders would be entirely in charge.

Jobs stopped. He kept a hand on Billy Weir�s foot. They weren�t carrying the boy, just guiding him. He was rigid, lying straight and flat and somehow riding too high in the water, as if he weren�t a real person at all with a real person�s mass, but an inflated doll of himself.

�What are you doing out here by yourself?� Jobs asked 2Face.

2Face raised the eyebrow on the unburned side of her face. �You want a wisecrack or the truth? The truth will take a while.�

Jobs focused past her, taking in the huddle of humans perhaps fifty yards farther on. �Is Edward with them?�

2Face shook her head. This would be interesting. �He�s right here. Edward, quit playing around, say hi to your brother.�

�Hi, Sebastian,� a voice said.

Even knowing where she had left him, 2Face couldn�t immediately make Edward out. He was a wispy little kid and short enough that only his head was above water. 2Face was gratified to see Jobs�s blank stare. Then the wide look of surprise when Edward moved and at last he could see his little brother.

�What is that, camouflage?� Jobs asked.

�I�m the Chameleon,� Edward said proudly. �It�s like a superhero.�

�This is something you do?� Jobs asked.

Olga Gonzalez said, �A mutation? Like the baby?�

�I�m going to change my name,� Edward said. �From now on everyone has to call me Chameleon.�

�Don�t be stupid, you�re not changing your name to Chameleon,� Jobs snapped.

�Why not?� Edward wailed, outraged. �You changed your name, Sebastian. If you can call yourself �Jobs� I can call myself �Chameleon.��

�He�s got a point there, Duck,� Mo�Steel said to his friend.

�2Face�s name used to be Essence,� Edward said helpfully.

�How about if we don�t do this right here and right now, standing up to our teeth in water?� Jobs said. �I got stabbed in the butt and it hurts. What�s left of Violet�s finger is still a mess. Mo�s cut and all burned and ��

2Face saw him glance guiltily at her own half-melted face. She didn�t have time for his pity. Her face had almost gotten her killed, and might still. No more time for pleasantries. 2Face had to ensure that Jobs and Mo�Steel and Olga and Violet were on her side.

�Things have gone bad with us,� 2Face said in a low, hurried voice. �Yago is trying to divide us, make us fight amongst ourselves. He tried to set up me and Edward for being . . . for being different. Tamara and the baby. . .� She took a deep breath and glanced anxiously over her shoulder. �Tamara�s the only one who can fight the Riders. The baby, it has some kind of power or something, it can make her almost invincible. I saw her kick butt on six
Riders. But the baby . . . you think I�m crazy, don�t you?�

Violet Blake laughed dryly. �We�ve just come from hell as conceived by Hieronymus Bosch. We escaped with the help of a Blue Meanie who blew himself up to shut down some kind of node that�s part of a big computer he calls Mother. Maybe we should agree that none of us is crazy.�

2Face frowned. As crazy as her own story sounded, theirs sounded crazier. Maybe they were all crazy.

�2Face stabbed these two monsters with a spear,� Edward said. �They were hurting me.�

Jobs looked sharply at 2Face and nodded in recognition. 2Face was relieved that Edward had brought it up. She had saved Edward�s life. She wanted Jobs to feel obligated.

�The baby demanded food. Human food. Meat,� 2Face said quietly.

�What?�

�Yago wanted to sacrifice me. I . . . I convinced him otherwise.� How much should she tell? The truth? All of it? Or a lie that was close to the truth? �He changed his mind and decided to make it Wylson.�

�Okay, slow down here,� Olga said. She gave a little, nervous laugh. �You sound like you�re talking about the baby consuming someone. A person.�

�It almost did.� 2Face nodded. �It almost ate your mom, Miss Blake. But then the whole tower just disappeared and we were falling through the air and landed here in the Dismal Swamp.�

�How is my mom?� Violet asked, showing no readable emotion.

�I think she�s okay. But I think maybe she got the idea I was responsible. You know, since it was supposed to be me, and it ended up being her,� 2Face said in a rush. Then, to keep them from asking questions, questions that might uncover the fact that 2Face had set up Wylson, had in fact delivered the treacherous blow that had felled Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake and left her helpless before the baby, she asked her own question.

�What�s this about a Blue Meanie?�

�His name was Four Sacred Streams,� Mo�Steel answered solemnly. �He destroyed the node, which is the only reason any of us is alive right now.�

�And what�s this about his mother?�

�Not his mother. Mother.� Jobs waved his arm around. �All of this is Mother. This ship, inside and out, is Mother. All of it operated by a computer that hasn�t had so much as a scan in probably thousands of years. Mother is a computer. A messed-up computer that�s been loaded with all the cultural and historical data we brought on the Mayflower.�

2Face felt the strangest flicker of hope. �You�re some kind of big computer genius, right, Jobs? That�s your thing, right? You�re a hard-core techie.�

�If it runs on electricity, my boy Jobs can fix it,� Mo�Steel said proudly.

Jobs snorted dismissively. �Yeah, I�m a real techie genius. Just one thing: Mother is about a million years more advanced. It�s almost certainly some sort of quantum computer, with some unimaginable number of Qu-bits. Me fixing it�s like some caveman who is real good at making stone wheels suddenly deciding he knows how to fix a car.�

�All you need�s a screwdriver, Duck,� Mo�Steel said, and laughed. �A screwdriver and some duct tape. Fix Mother right up. That�s what we do.�

# ? Feb 24, 2024 02:12

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 3

�THE SUN RISES, AND WITH IT, HOPE.�

Yago saw them coming: Jobs, his creepy mutant brother, his monkey-boy pal, Mo�Steel�s mother, the lovely and definitely time-worthy Miss Blake, Billy Weird, and, of course, 2Face. What to do now? That was the question. What to do, and who to do it to. How to play it? Like he and 2Face were allies? Or should he try to switch back to Wylson?

And what about his two toadies, D-Caf and Anamull? Hard to know how it was all going to play out. Mostly, Yago realized, he was wet.

�This is so weird,� D-Caf said.

�You think?� Yago said with nasty sarcasm.

�The sun is coming up,� D-Caf offered helpfully.

�Yes. The sun rises, and with it hope. Hope for a better world. Hope for peace and love and uncomplicated happiness.�

�Really?� D-Caf asked.

Yago glared at him. �Are you the dumbest human being left alive? We�re up to our armpits in water. We�re lost and probably surrounded by Riders. We have a leader who thinks she�s running a business seminar and our only fighter is an alien baby who likes meat. We have no food, no weapons. . . .�

D-Caf grinned and raised something from below the surface of the water. �I have a weapon. Do you want it?�

Yago stared. A Rider boomerang. It was a cruel-looking thing, toothed blades all along one edge.

�When everything was dissolving and right before we fell, I picked it up,� D-Caf explained.

�Give it here,� Yago said, but without any great pleasure. He wasn�t a weapons person. He had no clue how to throw the thing. In fact, it seemed likely he�d end up cutting off a few of his own fingers. On the other hand, it was probably a good thing to �

�Aaahhh! Aaaahhhh!�

A cry of shrill panic.

Yago�s head snapped around, looking for the cause. It was Roger Dodger, a kid, going wild, slapping at the water and looking like he wanted to jump up out of it. The kid went still. He said, �I . . . I felt something.�

�You nearly gave me a stroke!� Burroway snapped.

�Maybe it wasn�t anything,� Roger Dodger said doubtfully.

Then Burroway shrieked. �Something bit me! It�s in the water, something in the water bit me.�

There was a pause, everyone waiting, staring, all conversation done for now. And then it was Shy Hwang yelping and holding up a bloody arm with something still attached, something squirmy and muscular. Panic took hold and everyone was running, Yago included, running through the water, an absurd slo-mo parody of actual running.

At first the herd of people had no direction; it darted and circled like a flock of startled birds, then headed toward the nearest of the low islands. Hwang kept shouting, complaining, yelling, though Yago could see that whatever had
grabbed his arm had let go now.

�My leg!� someone screamed.

Yago splashed, digging his arms in to propel himself forward, taking giant moon-gravity steps. His leading foot landed on nothing and he plunged facedown into the water. He sank beneath the surface. Claustrophobia shot syringes of adrenaline into his bloodstream and his brain began to slip gears, catching, slipping again. No air, no air, no air. His eyes were open, blind, nothing but brown silt, swirling mud choking him.

Then he felt it, the slide of flesh over flesh, the slimy touch of it across his belly. He slashed with the boomerang and came within an inch of gutting himself. Yago screamed into the water and kicked against nothing. Something grabbed his arm and pulled. He broke the surface, gasped, and tried to shake loose D-Caf�s grip.

�Let go of me, you moron!� he yelled. He lowered his legs and touched ground. The water was up to his chest, no more.

�You were kind of splashing a lot,� D-Caf said, giving him a sideways look. He held up the boomerang. �I got this back. You must have dropped it.�

�One of those things attacked me,� Yago said.

D-Caf held out the boomerang, ready to surrender it again.

�Keep it,� Yago said. No way could he act as if the blade meant something. No way could he put himself any more in D-Caf�s debt.

Rather than risk hitting another hole, Yago leaned into a swim. He was a strong swimmer, though only on the surface � not underwater � and he was soon well ahead of D-Caf. The little twitch had seen him panic. Okay, everyone was panicking, but D-Caf had been calm and he�d seen that Yago was not. That was bad. No one could know about the claustrophobia. It was a glaring weakness. Someone would use it. Maybe even D-Caf himself. He was a twitch, but he was also the one who�d shot one of the Mayflower pilots. If you�d do that, you�d lock someone in a box without a second thought, lock them in a closet with no light and no handle on the door, bury them alive in a casket and . . .

�Get a grip, Yago,� he told himself. �Get a grip. You�re Yago. You�re Yago, man.�

Yago went through his ego mantra: Yago was the First Son. Son of the first African-American female President. He held undisputed title to �hottest teen� in America. The world. Everyone loved him, or else feared him. How many letters from how many girls? Hundreds of thousands. Millions. I want a picture, a lock of hair, a worn T-shirt, to see you, kiss you. He�d been on the cover of just about every magazine. TeenPeople had named him �Sexiest Teen Alive.� The New York Times Magazine had called him the �Brat-in-Chief.� When he�d changed his hair to spring green, half the kids in the country had followed suit. When he�d had the cat-DNA eye treatment, it had suddenly become one of the most common cosmetic procedures.

He was Yago, after all. Even here, even with no White House, no magazines, no fans, no letters, no . . . he was still Yago.

The mantra calmed him. The claustrophobia terror had replaced the fear of whatever was in the water. And now, with the suffocation fear receding, he could see the other fear more objectively. The herd was still in full flight, wallowing heavily toward the island. Jobs and his little gaggle were vectoring in, too, the fear having proven contagious.

Yago slowed his pace. You didn�t want to be the last person out of the water but, he sensed, you also didn�t want to be the first person to step on that island. He bobbed high, looking for Tamara Hoyle. She was moving at a leisurely pace, carrying the baby up on one shoulder. She wasn�t worried about whatever was in the water. And she was in no hurry to reach the island. In fact, she was slowing down. Yago stopped dead. He tread water till he realized he was now in shallows, less than waist high.

Yago�s instinct for survival was ringing a big, loud bell. Tamara knew something. He didn�t know how, but she knew something more than any of the rest of them did. Her and that mutant, eyeless freak of a baby. He was a hundred feet from the island�s edge. The sun was coming up behind it but the mist still seeped through the strange trees and alternately revealed and concealed it.

Wylson, Burroway, and Tate reached the island at about the same moment. They climbed soggily up onto the shore and immediately came the earsplitting metallic shriek of a Rider. Two of the alien monsters appeared, stomping on foot through the mist. They stood there, staring balefully down at the humans with their faces full of insect eyes.
Wylson raised her hands as if in surrender.

�We don�t want to fight, we don�t want to fight,� she practically sobbed.

The humans still in the water froze. Even Tamara was stock-still, waiting, watching. She seemed to feel Yago�s eyes on her and turned to glare at him. Suddenly, a sharp pain on the back of his thigh. He flailed, reached around, and touched something slime-coated and powerful.

It had him.

I was wondering about them just all walking through a swamp without any gross leeches or gators or stuff.

quote:

CHAPTER 4

�THE UNHUMAN LIVES.�

Chirismontak Hadad-Chirismon, Warrior of the Vanascom Clan, Acolyte of the Unseen Star God, had fought the human-not-human and survived. Others had not. This was destiny. The Gods chose some to burn in the fire, chose others to drown or behead or feed to the worms or invert.

Death came from the Gods and was many-form and beautiful. Rebirth was a birth into a new death, and each new death would bring greater pain until the end, when the cleansed and renewed warrior would become one of the Sanctified Ancestors.

Chirismontak had gone into the battle with the human-not-human expecting death. The human-not-human creature, the Unhuman as some were calling her, the dark-skinned female who drew her power from the smaller Unhuman, had already defeated great warriors. Chirismontak had known only two deaths himself. He was no great warrior, not compared to warriors who had already died a dozen deaths.

Greater warriors had been killed by the Unhuman, to their great honor. Chirismontak had been spared by the sudden collapse of Mother�s artificial environment. They had all fallen through the air. The mounts couldn�t fly so high, of course, but the fall had not been far. The surviving battle-partners had repaired to their lands to dismount and reflect.

It was puzzling. The Clan had attacked the human invaders, knowing them to be the cause of Mother�s betrayal. Mother had changed the world for the benefit of these interlopers. So had warned the heralds of the Bonilivak Clan who had first met the human creatures. The herald Sincomantak Hadad-Sincoman had the first human kill. He had said the humans were slow and weak. And yet Mother had remade the world for them. Mother was a Great God, but
the Gods were to be feared, not obeyed. A warrior stood strong against the Gods when the Gods turned against the Clan.

In the Clan Council there had been agreement: Destroy the humans and Mother would restore the world as it should be, the world of the Riders. But they had not destroyed the humans and yet Mother had restored the world.
It was a mystery.

And now the humans, including the Unhuman and the smaller Unhuman, were wallowing in the water, unable to float, with no mounts to ride.

�They seemed defeated,� Chirismontak said to his battle-partner, Demscatilintak Hadad-Demscaltilint.

�The Unhumans live,� Demscatilintak said. �The humans live. And yet, the world is restored.�

�Mother has given us back our world.�

�In Clan Council we said that Mother would not relent until the humans were destroyed. And yet, Mother has given us back our world.�

�It is troubling,� Chirismontak agreed.

Mother had surrendered, and the thought stuck hard in Chirismontak�s mind that the victory had been no victory, that the Clan�s courage had been . . . irrelevant.

�Victory comes from courage and death,� Demscatilintak said. �What courage? What death?�

�This was a victory granted from some other cause.�

The humans sloshed closer. They were speaking now in their barbaric, grunting, and slithering tones. The Unhuman was there, plain to see through the mist. The power radiated from her, from the baby. It was a halo of red and green. A bright red arc connected the two of them. Much brighter than the dull lights that waxed and waned around the other humans.

But now Chirismontak saw a different light. One of the humans was floating at rest, it seemed, silent. Around him a halo of pale blue. A single color.

�Tell me what your God Eye sees, Demscatilintak.�

Demscatilintak peered closer, then he looked back at his companion. �My God Eye sees what cannot be.�

�We must tell the Council. A single-hued halo from that human. Maybe one of the great warriors can . . .� Chirismontak couldn�t complete the thought: He knew that not even one of the many-deaths would have seen such a thing.

�They approach. They hurry. Are they attacking? Should we kill them?�

Chirismontak�s eating head snapped greedily, but his soul felt troubled. His board, at rest, leaning against a tree, hummed in response to his distress. He and Demscatilintak could attack the Unhuman now and kill her. The water would hinder her movements. The humans were rushing but were still very slowly going through the water.

They were vulnerable.

Maybe.

But how could a good battle come from a troubled soul?

�See: They have a fish.�

oooo an alien pov!

# ? Feb 25, 2024 00:45

Mazerunner: Apr 22, 2010; Good Hunter, what... what is this post?

quote:

Mother was a Great God, but the Gods were to be feared, not obeyed. A warrior stood strong against the Gods when the Gods turned against the Clan.

hell yeah, reach heaven through violence

# ? Feb 25, 2024 03:44

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 5

�IF WE HAD A ROPE . . .�

�Ah! Help! Someone help!� Yago screamed.

Yago twisted, twirled crazily, as absurd as a dog chasing its tail. D-Caf watched, amazed. There was nothing he could do. If he tried to help, then Yago would yell at him.

D-Caf looked past Yago and saw that the two Riders were watching, too, staring. Watching and beginning to tremble. The bifurcated legs were wobbling; seams that joined the two halves of their beetle carapace creaked. The teeth-gnashing mouth/ head even stopped gnashing.

�They�re laughing,� D-Caf realized with sudden insight. The Riders were laughing as Yago did his mad dance.

The baby joined in with a high-pitched squeal and Tamara grinned reluctantly. Her grin was for the Riders. She came striding over, shaking her head ruefully. Tamara grabbed Yago by the neck with one hand and bent him forward across her bent knee. This shoved him facedown in the water and the reaction was instantaneous: He slapped the water with his hands and tried to kick.

Tamara grabbed the gray thing attached to Yago�s thigh. It was two feet long, a sort of eel, D-Caf supposed. Like an eel with an oversized sucker mouth. Tamara gave the eel a practiced twist and it came loose with a wet, sucking pop. She released a spluttering, cursing Yago. She gave a slight nod toward the two Riders and then heaved the eel through the air.

The eel looked as though it would land in the mud. At the last second one of the Riders snatched it out of the air with one four-fingered hand, ripped the slimy thing in half, handed one piece to his companion, and tossed the rest into his own mouth. The mouth/head chomped sloppily, noisily, as the main head stared impassively. The mouth/head then disgorged a tangle of clean bones.

�If I were you, I�d get off their island,� Tamara said.

Wylson, Burroway, and Tate all complied instantly.

The two Riders watched as the humans began to move away. D-Caf wasn�t sure if he should catch up to Yago or not. Yago was touchy, probably on account of his claustrophobia. Yago thought no one knew, but D-Caf had noticed it before. D-Caf noticed a lot of things other people missed. For one thing, he had known Edward was becoming some kind of chameleon long before anyone else noticed.

D-Caf had been raised by his brother, Mark. Their parents had died and Mark had managed to maintain the household by himself through deception and manipulation. D-Caf would always be grateful to Mark for that, for not being sent away to live with relatives or even to end up in foster care.

But Mark had his problems. And D-Caf had learned to get along with his mercurial, amoral older brother. And now, Yago. Not so different from Mark. D-Caf knew how to take abuse. And he knew how to keep his focus on the big picture. Yago was not his brother, or even his friend, but Yago needed him in a way, and no one else did. No one else would ever look past the killing � the panicked, accidental killing � of that shuttle pilot.

The group sloshed away from the island, wandered on without a goal, then, as individuals began to stop, the group came to a halt, centered around Wylson. D-Caf was surprised by this. He knew that Yago had betrayed Wylson. He and Anamull both were present when 2Face made the case for trading her own life for Wylson�s. Yet the group still gravitated to Wylson as leader, not to Yago.

D-Caf waded closer, instinctively moving toward Yago and Anamull. He watched Wylson closely. He had both her and her daughter, Miss Violet Blake, in the same frame. Once Wylson had looked much harder than her daughter. But now that difference was gone, almost reversed. Wylson had scared eyes now. She was uncertain. Insecure. She glared suspiciously at Yago. But interestingly, she seemed to be ignoring 2Face. She didn�t know, D-Caf realized. She didn�t know that 2Face had hit her from behind.

Miss Blake still wore the lace and frills of a �Jane,� but the effect was completely ruined now. Her pale hair hung long and wet, with strands plastered on her cheeks. The dress was tatters and shreds. Everyone�s clothes looked bad, but there was something especially noticeable in the decay of such a feminine garment. The Jane�s visible restraint, the deliberately portrayed self-possession, and the don�t-touch-me aura were mostly gone. Violet Blake had lost a finger, nothing left but a filthy red bandage. She had also lost most of her reticent mannerisms. She was thin and tall, and before she had looked like someone who could snap in two or at least faint. She was still thin and tall, maybe thinner, like all of them had become, but now she definitely didn�t look like she�d faint. Maybe it was the pain, D-Caf thought. Maybe the pain from her hand had changed her. Or else what she�d seen and done since waking to the nightmare of this world.

Have I changed like that? D-Caf wondered. He didn�t think so. He still felt awkward and inappropriate. Yago called him �Twitch.� Why haven�t I changed like that? he wondered.

�We have to find some dry land,� Burroway said. �The water�s warm, but the human body can�t survive half-submerged forever. We need dry land.�

D-Caf thought of a joke. �At least now we can pee without having to go and . . .�

The joke was not welcome. Burroway, the cranky old professor of whatever, looked as if he�d like to strangle D-Caf.

�See?� D-Caf told himself. �Inappropriate.�

�We should pick a direction, fan out, keep moving, and search for dry land without Riders,� Yago said forcefully.

It sounded good to D-Caf.

�Shut up,� Wylson snapped at Yago. Her teeth were actually bared. Like a dangerous animal. Yago recoiled. Wylson stepped closer to Yago. �You don�t think I know what you did? You hit me from behind. You knocked me out. You don�t think I know, you manipulative little monster?�

Yago didn�t take another step back. He stood his ground now. �You�re paranoid, Wylson.�

�You tried to feed me to the baby!�

Yago laughed. �What, are you nuts? You were trying to feed 2Face to the baby. Don�t you remember? The fall must have scrambled your brain. You told me to grab 2Face and I said you had to do it yourself, and when you tried, 2Face nailed you.�

�Liar!� Wylson said, but without as much conviction as might be expected.

Yago sensed it, too, and shook his head sadly. �You were sacrificing 2Face and ended up almost getting sacrificed yourself. So don�t go all outraged on us, Wylson.�

Wylson�s gaze flickered over to 2Face, who stared stonily. D-Caf knew he�d made the right choice: Wylson was smart, but Yago was more ruthless and determined. D-Caf needed a protector, and only Yago would do.

�I saw it,� D-Caf said, speaking up despite worry about yet again saying the wrong thing. �It was just like Yago said.�

Wylson frowned. She wasn�t sure. Yago was impassive. And D-Caf felt a rush of pleasure: He�d said the right thing. Yago would be pleased.

Violet Blake said, �I have an idea: How about if no one eats anyone? I can�t believe you, Mother. You�re sickening.�

�It was the baby,� Wylson said, seeming to collapse into herself. �Tamara and the baby. We had no choice. The Riders . . .�

�I think we should focus on what to do now,� Olga Gonzalez said quietly, scarcely concealing her disgust.

Her son, Mo�Steel, pointed. �What�s that?�

�The sun coming up,� Tate answered. �Or whatever they have for a sun here.�

�No. No. Something moving.� Mo�Steel shaded his eyes. �Like a . . . like a hippopotamus or something. Jobs, man, up on my shoulders.�

Jobs climbed onto his friend�s shoulders, the better to see. �Hey, it is moving. More than one. Like . . . like blimps or something. Maybe coming this way. I can�t tell how far away they are because I don�t know the scale.�

Jobs slid back down into the water. In response to all the silent stares he shrugged. �I don�t know what they are.�

Wylson tried to regain control of the situation and formulate a plan, but all the focus was on the Blimps now. The sun was up, the sea was taking on the color of a new penny, and the Blimps were coming closer, ever closer, and could be clearly seen.

�Maybe we can hitch a ride on . . . whatever they are. If we had a rope . . .� 2Face said.

�Lasso it?� Jobs asked. �They�re the size of blue whales.�

�Pitons,� Mo�Steel said. �You can�t rope it, but if you had something sharp, a rock-climbing rig or, you know, spikes, or . . .� He shrugged.

�How about one of those Rider boomerangs?� D-Caf suggested.

Yago rounded on him, furious. In a flash D-Caf had undone all his good work with Yago. �Okay, give it to him,� Yago snarled.

quote:

CHAPTER 6

�I THINK THIS IS OUR BUS.�

Mo�Steel knew he shouldn�t be happy. It was wrong. Clearly wrong. But, man, whatever else negative you could say about Mother�s world, there were some omnipotent rushes to be had here. He was playing matador to bulls the size of cruise ships.

They were cool creatures, the Blimps. One had come bouncing past, too far off to reach. They were a hundred feet tall and twice that in length and yet they bounced as lightly as balloons. Clearly they were filled with air or gas or something other than flesh and blood, because nothing that big and solid could do anything but sink and squash.

They had a few hundred very short legs, like cilia, under the back third of their bodies. The creepy thing was that the cilia were about the size and about the color of a Caucasian human leg, so they looked like someone had attached a hundred amputated limbs onto the bottom of the Blimp. These motored wildly, undulating in sequence. Each time the Blimp touched down, the cilia would hit the water and paddle the beast into its next forward bound.

If the vast, salmon-colored animals had any other external feature, Mo�Steel had not seen it. No eyes, ears, tails, or arms.

�Here comes one,� Jobs said. �I think it�ll come close.�

Mo�Steel squinted. The sun was pretty bright now, at least by contrast with the last few days. And the copper sea reflected it in blinding flashes.

�I don�t know, Duck. I�m thinking he�s too far to the right. But some of them have to come close.�

The Blimp herd�s size was hard to guess: They blocked one another from view. Mo�Steel had counted at least seven, but that might be all. Or there might be five hundred more coming right behind them. Mo�Steel had taken the boomerang and with Jobs�s help knotted and weaved together belts and shirtsleeves and underwear elastic to make a ten-foot rope of sorts. The boomerang was attached to the rope at one end, and the other end was looped around Mo�Steel�s left wrist.

Ten feet wasn�t much: The Blimp would have to come close.

Twenty minutes passed till he was able to take his first shot. The boomerang hit, stuck, then tore loose, and the Blimp was past. Impossible to chase the creature in the water. The Blimps were moving at only about five miles per hour, but that was faster than even Mo�Steel could run through chest-high water.

Then, just as he was about to make his second attempt, he was struck by an eel that glommed onto his knee and made him miss his chance. An hour passed. And another. And now it was clear that the herd was mostly gone. Just a handful of the behemoths were still on approach.

Mo�Steel tried to ignore the rising chorus of complaints, advice, and bitter accusations that wafted toward him from the group. They were sick of standing helpless in the water. They were hungry � although no one at least was thirsty after they broke down and decided to sample the copper-colored water.

More than hungry and bored, the Remnants seemed to Mo�Steel to be dispirited. A fistfight actually broke out between Burroway and T.R., but the water kept them from doing too much damage to each other. A three-way shouting match involving Wylson, Yago, and 2Face came shortly thereafter.

Mo�Steel made a disgusted noise.

�We�re not an impressive bunch of people, are we?� Jobs commented as they watched another Blimp float past, well out of reach.

�I don�t know, �migo,� Mo�Steel said. �I guess everyone�s pretty shook up, is all.�

�This should be the cream of the crop. I mean, look who we have: a bunch of people who were either brilliant or successful or else the children of people who were brilliant or successful. Burroway and T.R. slapping each other?� Jobs shook his head.

Mo�Steel had to smile. Somehow anytime Jobs grew depressed or morbid it always shook Mo�Steel out of his own bad mood. �Having a Ph.D. isn�t quite the same as being a saint.�

�No. I guess not. But, man, we�re it. We�re all that�s left of Homo sapiens. We have a responsibility not to be complete sphincters.�

Mo�Steel laughed. �Sphincters?�

�Hey, my butt hurts, all right? I got stabbed in the rear, remember? Who knows what this water is doing to it. Probably a thousand alien germs and viruses. So, sorry if my mind is on the butt area, in general.�

Mo�Steel squinted. Definitely a Blimp on track. Ten minutes away still. �My mom says probably not. The germs, I mean. She is a biologist. So . . .�

Jobs shrugged. �Yeah, probably not. This is Mother�s default setting, but why would she stock the program with viruses? Let alone viruses that feed on humans? Come to think of it, we�re the virus in this environment.�

�It�s kind of pretty, though, isn�t it?� Mo�Steel said. �I mean, if we weren�t standing in it, but we were on a boat just looking at it? The water and the weird shaky trees and the Blimps and all?�

Jobs gave him a sour look. �Sometimes you just get on my nerves, you know that?�

But Mo�Steel knew he�d pushed one of Jobs�s buttons: The boy was a sucker for beauty. A well-formed tree, a sunset, a suddenly revealed panorama, they could freeze Jobs in midword, make him forget what he was doing, leave him staring, silent, oblivious to anything else. And that�s what he was doing right now. Mo�Steel heard the silence. Jobs was taking it all in, getting around the fact that he was in a mess and appreciating the beauty of the mess.

Mo�Steel returned his own attention to the Blimp. It was coming straight on. Maybe a little left. Yeah, a little left.

�I think this is our bus,� Mo�Steel said.

Jobs gave a startled jerk, focused, nodded. �Oh. Yeah. Looks good.�

Mo�Steel began drifting left. Then he started running, slo-mo steps through the water, thrashing and splashing as the Blimp closed in.

�Get it this time, get it!� someone shouted.

�Go, Mo! Go, Mo!�

Mo�Steel shot anxious looks over his shoulder, ran, plunged into a hole, and went under. He came shooting right back up but now had to swim to catch the Blimp, and swimming with ten feet of rope and a boomerang was not easy.

His feet touched down, and now the water was only thigh-deep. He ran in great, splashing bounds as the gigantic balloon loomed over him. It was huge, an impossibly vast volume, yet not frightening. Mo�Steel was a tick trying to hitch a ride on a passing Great Dane.

He would get his shot, he realized. He would get his shot. He stopped, poised, took a steadying breath, and threw the boomerang.

It hit and slid off.

�You idiot!� someone shouted, probably Yago.

Frantically Mo�Steel reeled in the rope, cut his hand on the boomerang, ignored the blood, felt an eel suddenly hit his calf, ignored it, ran straight at the wall of salmon flesh, and rather than throwing the boomerang, reached as high as he could and slammed it hard into the skin. The barbs of the boomerang blade held, the rope yanked in his hands, and all at once he was being dragged through the water.

He coiled up, drew his feet forward, and extended them. Too slow for real water-skiing, but maybe he could gain a sort of foothold on the water itself. He wrapped the rope around one wrist again and dug his free hand into the flabby skin of the Blimp. It gave way, poked inward, almost without resistance. Mo�Steel pulled his hand back out, frowned, considered as he passed the others at jogging speed. He spread his fingers wide and kneaded the flesh, gathered it, and yes, was able to grab a handful.

�Ha,� he said.

He repeated the move with his other hand and now he had two flabby handfuls of the Blimp. He released and grabbed and pulled himself up. And again, released and grabbed and pulled himself up. He climbed slowly, slowly past where the boomerang stuck. Up till his feet were out of the water.

The Blimp was turning ponderously away from the boomerang.

Mo�Steel took a chance and yanked the boomerang out, holding on by nothing but a handful of loose skin. He reached up high and slammed the boomerang back in. Using the rope and the flab-grab technique, he pulled himself up till he was a dozen feet above the water. And now the physiology of the Blimp was working in his favor. The Blimp�s mass spread out at the bottom. This resulted in a bulge that was nearly vertical for about ten feet but that then began to slope gently inward.

Mo�Steel actually felt himself sinking a little, like he was facedown on a soft bed. His whole body now formed a seal with the Blimp and he no longer worried much about sliding off. He rested, arms spread wide, breathed, and considered. He was on the Blimp. Now what?

How to get the others up?

The rope�s end dangled just a foot or two above the water, but the Blimp was well past the marooned humans. Past, but coming slowly around. The boomerang was turning the Blimp, like a spur in a horse. The Blimp was trying to move away from the source of discomfort.

�You can be steered, huh?� Mo�Steel asked the beast.

Maybe. Maybe it could be steered. But it would be like trying to steer an oil tanker. The Blimp was not fast or nimble.
Mo�Steel left the rope hanging and resumed his ascent. He would need to use something else to cause the massive beast some motivating pain. And he didn�t have much to work with.

Yay, more gross monsters!

# ? Feb 27, 2024 02:02

Mazerunner: Apr 22, 2010; Good Hunter, what... what is this post?

Mo'dib

# ? Feb 27, 2024 02:20

Tree Bucket: Apr 1, 2016; R.I.P.idura leucophrys

I love how this series takes the "whale flying through the sky" image of beauty and splendor. Then adds hundreds of severed human legs to it for funzies

# ? Feb 27, 2024 03:58

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 7

�MAYBE THEY�RE BUFFALO.�

�Is he biting it? Is he biting the Blimp?� D-Caf asked.

Jobs shielded his eyes and squinted. Mo�Steel could be seen quite clearly atop the Blimp as it circled slowly, slowly back. His friend was bent over, seemingly digging his face into the Blimp�s flesh and shaking it like a terrier with a rat.

�I think he�s biting the Blimp,� Jobs admitted. In the back of his mind was the suspicion that this was just some kind of weird rush for Mo�Steel. Though he was hard put to figure out why biting the animal � if that�s what it was � would be much of a thrill.

The Blimp was coming around slowly and Wylson had organized everyone to be ready. They were going in what she described as �reverse life raft� order: The strongest would go first to help the weaker coming behind. That had led to some disagreements and hurt feelings, but Tamara and the baby were first in line, followed by Anamull with T.R., and then Yago. The rest were parsed out in a long line with hundred-foot intervals. Jobs was at the tail end, playing tugboat to the floating Billy Weir. He was about a quarter mile from where Tamara waited, and he had absolutely no idea how he was ever going to get Billy up the side of the Blimp.

The Blimp bounded closer now, definitely in line to intercept the Remnants. Mo�Steel was racing in big trampoline steps from one side of the creature to the other, pausing to stare, measure, then bend over and savagely bite the flanks of the behemoth.

�He�s steering it,� 2Face said.

�It�s funny,� Edward said and laughed.

The three of them, along with Violet and D-Caf, were the tail end of the line. They had moved a little closer for sociability. The Blimp was bouncing along in line now and Mo�Steel leaned out over the side and yelled something Jobs couldn�t hear.

Tamara slung the baby onto her back, snatched the rope, and all but ran up the side of the Blimp and then, ignoring everyone else, she used the altitude to take a good look around. Anamull grabbed the rope and pulled himself up quickly and easily. He then lay flat against the Blimp and stood by as T.R. grabbed and hauled. Mo�Steel, Anamull, and T.R. flattened themselves against the Blimp, each holding handfuls of skin, leaning in to create depressions. Yago joined them and now, as the subsequent passengers boarded, they were passed roughly up along this human chain. Burroway missed his grab. So did Wylson and Tate and Violet. 2Face and Edward both succeeded in boarding.

Jobs waited, poised, with Billy Weir floating like a log. He was in shallow water, so he could at least give Billy a good heave-ho. Mo�Steel slid down the rope, wrapped it around his arm, and extended a hand.

�We�ll have to come back around for you, Duck,� he yelled.

�Yeah, I know. Just get Billy.�

�On three. One. Two. Heave!�

Jobs raised one of Billy�s arms and shoved Billy Weir up and out of the water as hard as he could. Mo�Steel�s hand caught Billy�s stiff arm. All at once Billy was up and Jobs was watching them bounce away. Jobs sloshed toward where Wylson, Burroway, Violet, and Tate stood. It would be half an hour at least before Mo�Steel would be able to bring the Blimp back around.

They were an uncomfortable little group. Burroway hated the world, as far as Jobs could tell. He was a bitter man, weak and petulant. Miss Blake and her mother were not cozy at the best of times, and now Violet could barely conceal her loathing of a woman who admitted to having supported human sacrifice to the hideous baby. As for Tate, Jobs had barely said a word to her. She was a nice-looking African-American girl with appraising eyes, a determined look, and a very cutting-edge hairstyle.

�Hi. I�m Jobs,� he said and awkwardly held out his hand.

She shook it. �Tate. I�m from L.A.�

�Monterey,� Jobs said.

They shared wry grins at the weirdness of it. The references to hometowns that no longer existed, that hadn�t existed for five centuries.

�I hear you get a lot of fog up there,� Tate said.

Jobs nodded. �Yeah, but only down by the water. Besides, fog can be nice. The way it kind of ��

A metallic shriek of outrage killed the words.

�Riders,� Jobs hissed. He stared hard toward the island where the two Riders had let them walk away alive.

Tate nodded. �Yeah. That�s a sound you don�t need to hear twice.�

�Maybe it�s nothing,� Wylson said, though she didn�t look as if she believed her own words.

�There!� Burroway cried, pointing.

The two Riders were in view, now atop their hoverboards, floating at the edge of the island. All their attention was on the Blimp as it came around. Again the sound of clashing steel gears and this time there came an almost instantaneous answering cry from an island a thousand yards off. An echo. Another. The cry was being taken up from all sides.

�It�s because of the Blimps,� Jobs said.

�Of course,� Violet agreed. �Maybe some kind of sacrilege.�

�Or maybe it�s simpler than that,� Tate said. �Maybe they�re buffalo.�

It took Jobs a second to process that idea. Of course. The Blimps, they could be prey animals. They could be the Riders� main source of food. One thing was clear from the concentrated stares of the Riders: They didn�t much approve of humans riding on the Blimps.

The two nearest Riders zoomed suddenly, leaning forward on their hoverboards. Jobs felt their wind as they blew past, oblivious to everything but the approaching Blimp. He ducked instinctively. The Riders flashed past and he could see them unlimbering their weapons.

�They�re going to kill the Blimp!� Tate yelled.

Jobs knew it wasn�t concern for the health of the Blimp. But if the Blimp was killed, the entire day�s effort was wasted and the Riders might go on to slaughtering the humans.

�There goes Tamara!� Tate cried.

Tamara had run to the front of the Blimp. She still carried two Rider spears. The Riders were on the attack, ready to throw their javelins into the Blimp, and then they noticed Tamara. The Riders shifted aim and threw. In the same instant Tamara threw her spear, dodged one spear, caught another attacker�s spear in midair, and laughed as one of the Riders was skewered through the neck of his eating head.

�Did you see that? Did you see her?� Tate cried giddily.

The speared Rider sheered away from the Blimp but his board wobbled and he fell forward. He crashed into the Blimp and the spear in his neck stuck fast in the Blimp, pinning him like a butterfly in a display case. The Blimp continued on toward Jobs and the others. But now Riders were vectoring in from other islands, racing to intercept.

�He�s veering off! They�re going to leave us!� Burroway yelled. �Get us! Get us out of here!� he cried.

�He�s coming. Spread out!� Violet said. �We have to spread out.�

�Everyone back from me,� Wylson yelled. She shoved past Burroway to try and seize the first spot. Burroway grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

Violet tried to get between her mother and the enraged scientist, but Burroway had already disengaged, accepting the second spot in line.

�Come on, I�ll take the end spot,� Jobs snapped.

Violet and Tate ran with him, ran directly away from the Blimp, hoping to spread out enough to allow each to be picked up. But the Riders were sure to foil the plan � they skimmed inches off the water, spears ready.

�Tamara will get them,� Tate gasped as she ran.

�She�s good, but she�s not that good,� Jobs grated. �Too many of them.�

The Blimp was closing in on Wylson.

�Come on, Mom,� Violet whispered. �Come on, you can do it.�

One thing all three of these series have been excellent at is ratcheting up the tension. I feel I've said it before, but it bears repeating.

Way to improvise, Mo, but BITING the monster?

quote:

CHAPTER 8

�ACT AS IF IT�S REAL.�

He had dreamed in the year 2011.

He had dreamed of a great and terrible emptiness spanning eternity. And he had dreamed of a copper sea and of great, bouncing beasts as big as zeppelins. During the time of silence, while he floated in the chasm between a dead past and an unimaginable future, he had crossed the line of madness many times. He had long since lost
the capacity to judge what was real and what was not, what was seen by his eyes and what his mind alone saw. What was reality? He was the least able of any human being to know the answer.

But he remembered his dreams, even the ones he never really had. He remembered everything, and he remembered this one, this dream, from so long ago, from the past, from Earth, from a Billy Weir who was a child.
The dream of the copper sea, and the great, bounding beasts like pink elephants, and the wild-eyed boy in the rigging of a tall ship.

Yes, the circle was closing.

Billy had touched the mind of the Blue Meanie called Four Sacred Streams, had passed Jobs�s words through himself and into the Meanie�s mind. Or thought he had. Maybe that was imagined, not real.

He remembered drawing the life from his tortured father. Unless that, too, was merely a fragment of memory, a dream, a nightmare, his or some other person�s. But this he remembered. The copper sea. The bouncing beasts. He remembered from so long ago.

And now . . .

And now . . .

Billy felt himself picked up and hurled through the air. Rockets were strapped to his back and fired. He was a bullet blasted from the barrel of a gun. The world tore past him, a blur, colors all run together, sounds all just shrieks and buzzing, felt as if his skin might be torn from his face by the sudden acceleration. He wanted to scream. From dead stop to full speed in a flash. He had floated, slowed, slowed almost to death, floated apart, above the world, distant from it, feeling it through gauze, hearing it through thick walls, seeing it through a reversed telescope.

Now he was a volcano eruption. An explosion. All distance shattered. The speed of the world matched by his own.

The circle was closed. Billy was back in sync.

He sat up.

He was atop the Blimp. No one noticed him; their backs were all turned away, all of them watching the Riders approaching.

He could feel their fear, so close and sharp and real. He could see their sudden, birdlike movements in real time. He could hear the words they spoke and understand them. Billy Weir�s hands rested on the spongy flesh of the Blimp. He touched the animal�s mind as easily as he touched its skin. A herd animal. Unafraid. It had no ingrained fear of humans. Nor even of the Riders.

It feared only one thing.

Billy tried to make sense of the half-aware, deeply stupid creature�s memories. An image. A smell. A tingling in the air . . .

Lightning?

Billy formed the image of a bolt of lightning coming out of the sky, striking the Blimp, igniting the gas within. A fireball!

That�s what the Blimp feared.

�Not yet,� Billy whispered. �Not yet.�

Then, to Tamara, or more exactly to the baby, he spoke in a clear voice. �Can you hold them off? If you can hold them off till we pick up the others, I can make this creature . . . hurry.�

A dozen faces stared at him. Only Tamara�s showed fear.

�Billy?� Mo�Steel said.

�I can make this creature go faster, Mo,� Billy said. He felt unsure. Unsure even of whether he was actually speaking words, of whether indeed any of this was real.

�Act as if it�s real,� he whispered to himself.

�Act as if what�s real?!� Mo�Steel demanded.

�Tamara. Do what you can,� Billy urged.

The Marine sergeant looked confused. The baby bared its teeth at Billy and made a low, hissing sound. Then the baby�s shrewd face closed in, its empty eye sockets looked away, and Tamara set the baby down on the living floor.
The baby spoke. Maybe. Maybe to Billy. Maybe only to Billy, because Billy could see that no one else heard the baby�s voice, no one else looked at it. Had it spoken? Billy had heard it.

He heard the baby say, �Stay out of my way.�

�I am not your enemy,� Billy whispered.

The baby snarled. �Be sure you don�t become my enemy.�

W E L P

# ? Feb 28, 2024 01:48

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

quote:

CHAPTER 9

�THAT�S STILL A FART, DUCK.�

Things happened all at once. Suddenly, and yet as if in slow motion, with each element clearly observed.

Tamara ran to the front and without pausing, launched a spear that flew faster than anything Mo�Steel had ever seen.

Wylson grabbed for the rope and slipped.

The spear hit the carapace of a Rider, failed to penetrate, but by sheer force of impact knocked him backward off his board.

A Rider threw a boomerang. The blade bounced off the hide of the Blimp and, with most of its speed lost, tumbled into Olga, who picked it up.

Wylson made a second, desperate grab, held on, and Anamull grabbed her arm and yanked her up brutally.

Tamara aimed and threw.

Burroway grabbed the rope.

The spear went in one of the large spider eyes of a Rider.

Burroway was being dragged through the water, yelling curses.

Mo�Steel flopped down, slid facedown, straight down the flabby wall of flesh, and caught himself with double handfuls of skin. He dug his knees in, snatched Burroway�s shirt, it tore, Mo�Steel snatched again and grabbed an arm.

A pair of Riders were right there, right alongside, not three feet away, staring hate, drawing back to stab at Burroway.

Mo�Steel hauled with all his strength, felt 2Face holding onto his ankles, felt Burroway come up, saw the spear flash and strike a shallow stab into the Blimp.

Ahead, Tate, at the ready in the water, arms outstretched. Mo�Steel felt Burroway crawling up over him, gouging his kidneys with his heel.

A spear flew, two, three, all at once as a wave of Riders threw.

A cry of triumph from above, Tamara�s voice, wild with glee.

A ripped-steel screech from the Riders.

Tate�s hand. Grab. Not heavy, at least. Mo�Steel swung her up with the momentum, landed her to be grabbed by Yago.

He was worth something, at least, Yago was.

Now, for Violet.

But the Riders were concentrating their force dead ahead, just beyond where Jobs crouched. If the Riders charged they�d run right over Jobs. If the Blimp kept its direction it would surely bounce into the Riders.

Violet�s hand, the missing finger, he gripped too tight, blood flowing anew from the stump, Violet gritting her teeth, slipping! Roger Dodger, just a kid, sliding down like Mo�Steel, facedown, using the friction to hold on, grabbed her other arm. Roger wasn�t strong but he gave Mo�Steel the split second he needed to shift his grip and yank Violet up and away.

The Riders attacked! Full speed, shoulder to shoulder, seven of them in a tight formation looking for a head-on collision with the Blimp. They rode with spears held tight and raised, looking to slash the Blimp�s underside on the next bounce.

�Duck!� Mo�Steel cried.

�What?!� Jobs yelled.

�No, duck! I mean, duck, Duck!�

Jobs dropped and buried his head in the water.

Mo�Steel grabbed the rope and swung out into the air, released, and splashed in the water, all but knocking Jobs down.

The Blimp jerked, suddenly rose. Up, up, over their heads. Inches from the upraised spear points of the Riders.
Mo�Steel dragged his friend�s head up into the air, turned him around, and yelled, �Grab a leg!�

Like the propeller of a speedboat, the rows of cilia came rushing, churning the water, flailing madly. The Riders raced on, sure they would gut the Blimp.

Jobs and Mo�Steel grabbed cilia. Mo�Steel was kicked in the face by his, wondered if he�d lost a tooth, felt the cilia go limp and passive, felt the wind billow beneath the Blimp, saw the water fall away below, saw the Riders gaping up, helpless, knew that he and Jobs were airborne, and knew it wasn�t going to last.

The Blimps bounced, they didn�t fly. This one had bounced right over the heads of the Riders, but it wasn�t going to get away, not when the Riders could outrun it by twenty miles per hour to five.

�Who�s flying this thing?� Jobs gasped.

�I think Billy is. Can you hold on?�

�We�re coming back down!�

�Wrap your arms and legs around it,� Mo�Steel yelled.

The water rushed up at them. The cilia/legs were already motoring, preparing to touch down. Glancing back, the Riders had turned and were in close pursuit. The rear of the Blimp dropped and hid them from view. A shiver ran through the Blimp. More than a shiver, a convulsion, like the thing was going to throw up. The flabby skin gathered into wrinkles and folds. There was a sudden release, a very loud, recognizably embarrassing noise, and a burst of speed that shot the Blimp forward at twice its normal speed.

The descent stopped, the Blimp rose a dozen feet, and Mo�Steel saw the pursuing Riders wallowing in the water, their boards skimming away without them. They�d been knocked off.

�The Blimp farted?� Mo�Steel asked, incredulous.

�Must be some kind of pressure-release valve,� Jobs said. �The gas pressure inside the Blimp must build up in the heat of the day.�

�That�s still a fart, Duck.�

�How do we get up onto the Blimp?� Jobs asked.

They were dangling from the back third of a zeppelin, contemplating climbing up on top. Mo�Steel was always optimistic where the physically impossible was concerned, but it was still hard to see in what universe that was going to happen.

�Hey, we�re going down!�

�Headfirst!�

The Blimp had suddenly plunged, not rear-down, but head-down at a sharp angle. Like a jet out of control and looking to dig a hole.

�Hang on!� Mo�Steel yelled. �It may work!�

�What? What may work?�

�Hang on!�

The Blimp hit the water �face� down. The shock of impact was absorbed by the gas balloon, squeezed the sides out, and tossed Mo�Steel and Jobs forward, clinging madly to their cilia.

Then the ball bounced.

The energy absorbed into the flesh of the Blimp now rebounded, bounced it up and over into a forward somersault of gargantuan proportions.

�Get ready!� Mo�Steel screamed. �Get ready to let go!�

�Say what?!�

The rear portion of the Blimp accelerated up as fast as a roller coaster coming off the first big drop. Mo�Steel and Jobs were yanked up at a shocking speed.

�Ready . . .�

The Blimp rolled ponderously forward into the somersault and came completely clear of the ground. At the point of maximum centrifugal stress, Mo�Steel yelled, �Let go! Let go!�

Mo�Steel and Jobs released and flew high, spinning out of control through the air. Beneath them the Blimp rotated, spun in midair, and fell. Mo�Steel and Jobs fell. Mo�Steel hit the trampoline flesh and grabbed frantic handfuls.

�Jobs! You okay?�

�I�m here,� Jobs yelled, his voice shaky.

They were no longer on the bottom of the Blimp, they were on the side, almost all the way back, hanging on by their fingernails. The Blimp had completely reversed direction.

�Climb upward, Duck. Hand over hand. You can dig your knees in, especially now; the skin�s looser after the big fart.�

Mo�Steel glanced down and saw a solitary Rider keeping pace with the Blimp as it turned back onto its original heading once again. It was impossible to read any specific emotion on that utterly alien face, but Mo�Steel was prepared to guess that the Rider was astonished.

I have no words for what we just read.

Except lol

quote:

CHAPTER 10

�WE HAVE TO TAKE IT AWAY FROM THEM. WE HAVE TO MAKE IT OURS.�

�Billy? You okay?�

Billy Weir looked up at Jobs. His eyes were dark, but they moved. They focused. He was sitting very still, but he was at least sitting.

Jobs leaned closer. �Billy. You know me, right? You remember me?�

Billy frowned, looked unsure, like he was running through a mental list of possible answers, each more distressing than the last.

�I know you, Jobs,� Billy said at last. His voice sounded strange. Halting. Vague.

�That was some impressive work back there,� Mo�Steel said with a huge grin. �You�re a serious Blimp pilot.�

Billy stared blankly. He frowned and seemed to be thinking or remembering. Then his eyes darted to the left, avoiding contact.

�Well, anyway, thanks,� Mo�Steel said. �You have any idea where we�re going?�

�There�s . . . there�s a ship,� Billy said. �Sails, anyway. I think so. I think maybe there�s a ship. I dreamed it.�

�Uh-huh,� Jobs said dubiously. Billy might be awake and more or less alert, but he was still not exactly back to normal. In fact, he had the disconnected, off-center look of a street crazy. Back home, back in the world, Jobs would have crossed the street to steer clear of him.

�I�ll decide where we go,� Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake said, looming up behind Jobs. �It�s something we need to discuss.� She looked at Jobs. �We need a new spokesman for the youth. Yago will not be performing that duty any longer. I�m appointing you, Jobs.�

�I don�t speak for anyone but me,� Jobs said.

�Burroway? Shy? Olga?� Wylson yelled. �You, too, T.R. We have to hold a board meeting. Tamara, of course you�re welcome to attend as well.�

Yago said, �You don�t just decide to exclude me, Wylson.�

�You�re out,� Wylson snapped.

�No, I don�t think so.�

�Jobs will represent the minors,� Wylson said.

�No, I won�t,� Jobs said, growing testy at being referred to as if he weren�t there.

�Put it to a vote,� Yago purred. �You want to play games, Wylson, put it to a vote of the kids. Me and Jobs. Let�s see who the people choose.�

�You�re calling a meeting?� Burroway demanded. �We�re on the back of a Blimp in the middle of a swamp, Wylson.�

�And going nowhere, Burroway. So let�s meet, see if we can�t formulate some options.�

�You people are all nuts,� Violet Blake said. �But if it�s coming to a vote, I vote for Jobs.�

�No one is voting,� Jobs yelled.

�I vote for Yago,� D-Caf said.

�Me, too,� Anamull chimed in.

�You believe this?� Mo�Steel asked his friend.

�How about you, 2Face?� Yago asked.

She glanced at Jobs and hung her head. �I have to go with Yago.�

�That�s four votes for me, counting my own,� Yago said. �Edward and Roger Dodger are too young to vote � besides, Edward is a mutant, and we don�t let mutants vote.�

Jobs looked up sharply. �What is your malfunction, Yago? Ten minutes ago we�re all dead and now it�s time to start playing divide and rule again? Can�t you take a vacation?�

Yago returned Jobs�s stare, unflinching. �We�ll give you Miss Blake here, although what you see in him, Miss Blake, is beyond me. Plus you�ve got your monkey-boy pal and your own vote. That�s three. Leaves just Tate, and all she can do is give you a tie, Jobs.�

�Billy has a vote,� Jobs pointed out.

�Mutant,� Yago said with a self-satisfied grin. �A freak of nature.�

Jobs met his gaze and felt himself flinch, though he didn�t show it. Jobs knew what he was: a techie. Techies were respected in his old school, but they weren�t on a par with guys like Yago. Yago was bigger, stronger, richer, famous, cocky, and inhumanly good-looking. He was the President�s son. Never mind that the President had been dead for five hundred years, that she�d been President of a nation that no longer existed and a prominent member of a
species that just barely existed. Yago was still Yago, and Jobs was still just Jobs.

Jobs was sure he�d hidden his internal surrender, but Wylson at least must have seen it. �How about this: You�re both in,� Wylson said. �Jobs, you�re in. Yago, I can�t seem to get rid of you, so you�re in, too. Now let�s get on with this meeting. I want a clear agenda.�

2Face started laughing to herself, a low chuckle, but one that gained momentum. �This is insane. This is just insane. We�re all crazy.�

T.R. said, �I think you should leave mental health diagnoses to the experts. That would be me.�

�Oh, shut up, you fatuous nitwit,� 2Face said through the laughter. �Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake, no offense, I�m sure you were a great business tycoon or whatever, but right now you�re not being very smart. Hold a meeting? Look around you. We�re a handful of scruffy, raggedy, smelly, dirty humans sitting on the back of a giant bouncing hippopotamus, wandering around lost inside an alien spaceship so big it could hold a million people. And you�re going to formulate a plan? Like what we really need is a business plan to present at the next shareholders� meeting?� She jerked a thumb at Yago. �And this fool thinks what we really need is to split up into factions? And we�ve got some psychotic Marine sergeant with an alien baby and, no offense, some creepy kid who just woke up out of a coma who�s doing a mind-meld with this gasbag we�re on, and Riders and Blue Meanies and living artworks and . . . and you want an agenda?�

As she talked the laughter stopped and now the untouched half of her melted face was red with anger and contempt. �We�re not big enough or strong enough or smart enough to have an agenda. We�re trapped inside the universe�s biggest video game and we don�t even get to touch the game pad. Since we woke up from hibernation, how many have died? Set aside the Missing Eight. How many have died?�

No one answered her.

She held up her fingers. �The doctor, Connie Huerta. Killed by the baby. Errol, massacred by Riders. Billy�s dad, eaten by worms. Three dead since we woke up. And everyone injured to one degree or another. The rest of us alive. By luck.�

�You have a point?� Burroway demanded.

�Yeah, I have a point,� 2Face said. �We�re not a company, Ms. Lefkowitz-Blake. And we�re not the White House, Yago. And we�re not high school, Miss Blake. And we�re not at some university, Burroway, and we�re not a family, Dad, and we�re not on some kind of thrill ride, Mo.�

Jobs shook himself out of a spell cast by her words and face. He glanced around and saw that everyone, absolutely everyone, the entire human race, he thought mordantly, was listening. No one was listening more intently than the baby.

�We came here on the Mayflower Project. Maybe that ought to tell us something,� 2Face said, quiet now. �We�re the human race. All of it, as far as we know. Strangers in the strangest land anyone ever saw. But as strange as it is, it�s all we have.� She waved her arms around, encompassing the vista of swamps, the Blimp herd, the Riders watching from afar. �They own this place now. Mother does. The Riders. The Meanies, maybe. Maybe others we don�t know
about yet. We have to take it away from them. We have to make it ours. Kill them all if we have to: Mother, the Riders, the Meanies. Anyone else who tries to stop us.� She paused, obviously spent. With a sigh, she added, �You want an agenda? That�s our agenda.�

2Face took a deep breath, collecting herself, and walked away. She passed close by Yago, and only he and Jobs could see the look of triumph in her eye. No meeting took place. The Blimp bounded on, hour after hour, pursued, kept in view by a tag team of Riders. Billy kept the Blimp moving, long after the rest of the huge, comical herd
had slowed and stopped to rest.

Jobs was thinking, his mind far away when he felt 2Face touch his arm.

�You know why I had to vote with Yago,� she said.

�No. I don�t,� Jobs said. �But it doesn�t matter.�

�Yago is the enemy here. As much as the Riders or anything else,� 2Face said. �He�s very clever. He wants an �us against them� thing, normal people, as he defines them, versus freaks. He needs there to be factions.�

�Yeah, I get that,� Jobs said.

�He never expected to win a vote. It wasn�t about voting. It was about him finding an excuse to say �Freak,� or �Mutant.� That�s his game. Any chance he gets. So I voted for him, left him the choice of either rejecting me as a freak or accepting me as a supporter. He was too slow: He accepted my vote, gave me credibility in his little scheme.�

She smiled with the good half of her mouth. Jobs wondered what it would be like to kiss her and instantly felt a wave of revulsion. Not for her face, but for her. She had saved Edward, looked out for him. But 2Face was as shifty as Yago.

In part to cover for the unexpected feelings of antipathy, Jobs said, �That was some speech you gave before. Kill them all?�

2Face nodded. Again the slight, sly smile. �Was I wrong?�

�Four Sacred Streams saved us all by giving his own life,� Jobs answered.

�He gave his life for his own cause,� 2Face said.

�You said it yourself, Mother is a big place. Maybe we can all fit. Us, the Riders, the Meanies.�

2Face shook her head. �No. Only we can fit. And not even all of us, Jobs.� She looked pointedly at Yago, lying down for a rest, and then at Tamara, who stood, with baby on hip, gazing out over the landscape.

�So you play the same game as Yago.�

�No. I�m one of the good guys, Jobs, just like you. I just don�t like losing.�

Awww man 2Face, not like this.

# ? Feb 29, 2024 03:15

Soonmot: Dec 19, 2002; Entrapta fucking loves robots; Grimey Drawer

We are halfway through this book

quote:

CHAPTER 11

�GOOD NIGHT, BEULAH.�

It was strange to be happy, Mo�Steel realized. But there was no point in denying feelings. He was happy. Jobs wasn�t, that was the only crab. If Jobs was down, it was hard for Mo�Steel to feel too up.

Of course there were other problems: the infighting between Yago and 2Face; the tension between Miss Blake and her mother; and of course, the great crushing weight of tragedy that hung over them all.

Then there were the Riders.

But, man, riding the Big Balloon, bouncing across the exotic swampy wasteland, an alien wind in his face, the memory of thrills that had nearly ruptured his A gland . . . It was good.

The landscape had begun to change. The watery vistas had given way to a sea of yellow grass cut through by endless, wandering streams and dotted with clumps of shaky trees. He perched as far forward on the Blimp as he could, spread his arms wide to feel the breeze, feel the speed, feel the weird slow bouncing, feel the unusual, the bizarre, the amazing, the never-seen-before, life-hanging-on-by-its-fingernails thrill.

�You think we�ll stop when it gets dark?�

Mo�Steel opened his eyes and saw that the question had come from Tate.

�I don�t know,� Mo�Steel said. �Maybe the sky pilot back there knows.� He indicated Billy Weir. �Or maybe Beulah will tell us.�

�Beulah?�

�The Blimp.� He grinned. �The Big Balloon. Beulah the Bouncing Bag.�

Tate smiled back at him, a nice smile. �You get off on this, don�t you?�

�You have to take it minute by minute,� Mo�Steel answered. �People mess up extending too far forward or back. You go far enough back, far enough forward, you�re always going to find something to feel bad about. But if you keep it all on local time, stay present tense, hey, ninety percent of right now is good.�

�The threads of past and future run through the present,� Tate said.

�Who said that?� Mo�Steel wondered.

�Me. I said it.�

�It sounded good. Like maybe it was a famous quote. Anyway, though, it�s not right. The future doesn�t exist, not yet. Neither does the past, not anymore. All you know for sure is right now, compa�ero. And right now, this is good, isn�t it?�

Tate looked skeptical. �This plus a hot shower, food, a big glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, that would be good.�

�No, that would be perfect,� Mo�Steel admitted with a laugh.

For a while they were silent, standing close but not very close. They rode the bounce, knees taking the rippling shock, absorbing the upswell, enjoying the slight sensation of weightlessness at the top of each low arc.

�Mo? I can call you Mo, right?�

�Sure.�

�What do you think about her? Them.�

Mo�Steel had to turn his head to see who Tate was talking about. She was looking at Tamara and the baby, who were riding comfortably toward the rear, behind the main knot of people.

�I don�t know,� Mo�Steel admitted and felt a bit of his inner glow dim. �The baby creeps me out.�

Tate said nothing and seemed not to have heard. �You know what I think? I mean, no, what I feel?�

Mo�Steel said nothing. Tate wanted to talk, he�d let her. Although he regretted the loss of his carefree moment.

�I feel there�s a connection between Tamara and the baby that�s not like anything anyone knows about. And I have the same feeling that there�s a connection between the baby and Billy Weir. I can�t . . . I can�t touch it. It�s like when you join a group of people who were already talking among themselves, and they�re polite to you, they talk to you and all, but it�s like you can feel an echo of a conversation that was going on before you showed up and is going to continue after you leave.�

�Billy worries the sergeant,� Mo�Steel agreed.

�Tamara and the baby on one end, Billy Weir on the other. But I don�t feel like that�s all of it. I don�t feel like it�s a line, two sides. It�s not a seesaw. I feel like it�s a triangle. I feel like there�s a third person balancing things.�

�Yeah?�

Tate aimed her dark eyes at Mo�Steel and he felt a squirming discomfort.

�Yeah, Mo. You.�

He shook his head. �I�m just me, Tate. I�m not anything more or different or whatever. I�m just me.�

Tate winked. �Yeah, I know. Everyone else has an agenda, even your friend Jobs. And everyone else has an ax to grind, another dimension to them. Only not you. You�re exactly what you are, aren�t you?�

Mo�Steel laughed. �I guess I am.�

Tate shrugged. �Hey, at least it�s not cold, huh? Nice and warm. Like any L.A. Evening.� She left Mo�Steel to ponder her words, but he didn�t. Instead he wondered if he should go to sleep. The sun was plunging toward a horizon that was maybe not exactly real. He was tired.

His mom was already curling up and resting her head on her arms. Billy was driving. Jobs was in one of his occasional contemplative funks, writing poetry in his head.

�Might as well sleep,� Mo�Steel decided. �Good night, Beulah.�

quote:

CHAPTER 12

�IT�S GOING TO END HERE.�

The sun rose. A new day.

Violet Blake had slept surprisingly well. She was ravenous and thirsty. But the flabby, living balloon made a soft bed, and she had needed sleep even more than food or drink. She woke and took stock of her fairly pitiful condition: Her dress was a wreck, literally falling apart, shredded and decayed. It was on the edge of being immodest. There was dirt under her fingernails. And more troubling, she had only nine fingernails. The wound where her missing finger had been seemed finally to have stopped seeping blood. There was a hideous crust of scab, but when she looked at it she didn�t see the pus or bright redness that would indicate infection. Nor did she feel feverish.

Her hair . . . Forget the hair, it was a dirty mop stuck on her head.

Shampoo, such a simple thing. Back home she�d had about three different brands. Aveda. That�s what she wanted. A bottle of Aveda shampoo. Plus a new finger or at least a decent bandage.

Her mother was already awake, of course, and striding back and forth putting on a show of being in charge and concerned. Yago was sitting up, scratching his leaf-green hair till he realized he was being watched. He gave Violet an insolent leer and she looked away, simultaneously revolted and flattered.

Maybe her hair didn�t look so bad.

Billy Weir sat still, eyes open, but with a stricken look of exhaustion. He was sweating despite a morning chill in the air. He looked as if he might at any moment lapse back into his coma.

Violet stood up, wobbled slightly as she missed the rhythm of the bounce, mistaking a bottoming for a rebound. The Blimp felt strange. It shuddered. There was a gentle lurch, almost as if the beast had missed a step, almost tripped.
Then she stared, and blinked, and stared again.

The landscape had changed, all grass now, end-less fields of grass, like unnaturally yellow wheat or sea grass. The streams no longer appeared.

But that wasn�t what stopped her heart from beating. Two hundred Riders, maybe more, maybe less, but far more Riders than they had ever seen before, were following in their wake. They rode their boards at grass-top level, surfing the wheat.

So many. Far too many.

Tamara held the baby on her hip and glared back at them. There was tension in her every fiber. Her face was an angry mask, but anger covering fear. The languid cockiness Tamara had always shown when facing the Riders was gone.

�We�re in for it now,� D-Caf remarked, then giggled nervously.

Yago spotted their pursuers and, Violet thought, nearly fainted. Jobs had his hand on Edward�s shoulder, comforting, reassuring. Edward was barely distinguishable, having long since adopted the coloration of the Blimp.

�There are too many,� Tate said. �She can�t do it. Not even she can fight this and win.�

The rim of the sun popped over the horizon quite suddenly, and the dim dawn light blazed brighter. The Riders screamed a fierce welcome. The noise was a wave that rippled through the exhausted skin of the Blimp.

�I don�t think we�re going to Blimp-fart our way out of this,� Olga Gonzalez said in a flat attempt at humor.

�Here they come,� Burroway said without affect.

The Riders surged forward, picked up speed, leaned forward on their boards. It was a sea of mouth/heads, like ravenous worms, the main, insect-eyed heads intent, focused on their target. It�s going to end here, Violet thought with deep sadness. The human race died on this unknown date, in this unknown place, at the hands of these monstrous creatures.

�She�s weakening.� Billy�s voice was a harsh croak. �She�s dying. Needs to rest.�

Violet knelt beside him. �Who? Beulah? I mean, the Blimp?�

�I�ve pushed her too long. We won�t make it. Another few minutes at most.�

�I�ll tell . . .� Who? Who should she tell? Her mother? Jobs? �Billy, is there anything we can do?�

�Maybe. Go inside. Hide inside her.�

�What?�

�Make as small a hole as possible. The healing will draw strength away, but it may help.�

�You�re telling me we can crawl inside this Blimp?�

Billy nodded, then his head slumped forward onto his chest and he might have been dead but for the fact that sweat still seeped from his forehead.

Violet jumped up. �Jobs! Where are you?�

A Rider boomerang sliced through the air, veered just inches from her face, and flit-flitted around on its return trip.

�They�ll be in range soon,� Jobs said grimly, appearing at her side.

�Jobs. Listen to me. Billy says we can cut our way inside. Inside the Blimp. But the Blimp is dying.�

Another boomerang fluttered by. They were clearly still at the extreme range of the Riders� primitive weapons. But that situation wouldn�t last.

Jobs yelled, �Sergeant!�

Tamara snapped her head around with a poisonous look that mirrored the baby�s expression.

�Billy says we can get inside the Blimp,� Violet told her.

Tamara nodded curtly, as if this was not news to her, but merely an unwelcome reminder. The Marine sergeant searched the forward horizon, seemed to be taking her bearings, then knelt to touch the skin of the Blimp. She glared at the pursuing Riders. The baby stared daggers at Billy. The eyeless sockets aimed directly at him and the tiny mouth bared teeth in a snarl.

�Okay,� Tamara said. �Get everyone here.�

Tamara made the cut. It was a two-foot-long slit. The lips of the cut flapped as the gas began escaping.

�Keep the opening spread or it�ll reseal itself,� Tamara ordered. Then, without waiting, she slid down, feetfirst, through the hole, holding the baby up above her head. Once the baby was inside, Violet and Jobs each grabbed a side of the cut.

�Everyone go!� Jobs yelled. �Go, go, go!�

Anamull was next.

Then the Riders saw what was happening and set up a murderous shrieking. They no longer kept to a line � the faster Riders surged forward, eating up the distance. A dozen boomerangs flew.

�Drop!� 2Face shouted.

Most fell on their faces. Only Burroway and Edward failed to respond. Only by dumb luck did the boomerangs miss them. Jobs grabbed his brother and yanked him down. Burroway stood paralyzed, white-faced, realizing only belatedly how close he�d come to being sliced up.

�Down, you jackass!� Olga shouted and rolled into him, collapsing his knees just as a new covey of boomerangs converged where he had stood.

Panic set in. Everyone wanted into the slit. Yago elbowed past Roger Dodger, pushing the smaller boy aside. They crawled over and around each other, grabbing at the slit.

�One at a time,� Violet yelled.

The Riders were closing in all around. And suddenly, there was one of them, face just peeking into view as he climbed the side of the Blimp. Mo�Steel gave a wild yell and trampolined into the Rider. The Rider fell backward and
almost carried Mo�Steel with him.

Wylson squirmed up next to Violet. �Get in, Dallas,� she said. �I�ll hold the flap.�

Violet flinched at the use of her given name. �No, Mom, you go.�

Wylson rose up, wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind, and shoved hard. They fell together through the hole and into the Blimp.

# ? Mar 1, 2024 02:28

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# ? Apr 27, 2024 08:44

bird food bathtub: Aug 9, 2003; College Slice

So what's their deal with the survivors at this point? Are gasbags sacred animals and the humans are profaning their rituals or something? I thought they got what they wanted when their world came back (and the interesting crisis of faith that introduced, that I think is going to have much longer legs in the story)? That's the first thing I could come up with that is a motivation at this point and also means going inside the gasbag would mean anything besides "Oh they're not moving, now they're easier to kill".

# ? Mar 1, 2024 18:06

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > The Book Barn > Let's Read The Remnants: jesus christ what the fuck

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