These voices – they refuse to be silent. They range from venomous whispers to bellows of rage and disdain. Everything around me is pitch black, and my eyes are sealed shut. I can't open them – nor can I move my body. It is stiff. As though I have been encased in ice for an eon, and floating blindly adrift like a buoyant carcass in an endless darkness.
"This is madness!" Ira exclaims. His words reecho as he reiterates the same lines from before when my other self was reminiscing on their past relationship.
"I won't let you throw your life away. Not now, and certainly not for her."
An additional piece of unspoken dialogue that wasn't included in the main dream sequence has been bespoken into my personal void.
Disclosed to me – why?
His haunting and distraught beseech disallows peaceful quietude to settle within my subconscious. Why are the voices here? Why do they plague me so, and refuse to leave me alone?
"Vonplex!" He desperately calls out. Repeating someone else's name over and over again, vocalising his emotional meltdown.
Unfortunately, it is a name I do not recognise.
Electricity aggresses from my being, striking in all directions as I free-fall from the louring stratosphere and escalating my decline down into Forrine's clouded atmosphere, falling in control. Trespassing into its hyperborean troposphere. Persevering through the onslaught of hail. Subjected to unsparing ice pellets and strong howling winds during my electrically charged descent. The climate here is more of a tolerable transient annoyance than an inimical opposition of any sort.
I'm quite disappointed, actually.
I thought this climate was supposed to be intolerable to outsiders - even if you are wearing the appropriate gear. Most barely escape the planet before freezing or acquiring some degree of necrosis – astral born or not.
Constellations of an incandescent brilliance come into view from beneath the parting clouds. Fully illuminated major city complexes teem with lively activity.
Aromina is the main capital of their world and home to billions of Wa-omme, an incredibly high population.
Sillhaine, the one who is formally addressed as their Esseden, is the founder and creator of their race. Also known as their all-mother and divine matriarch. She was the first of us to create a mortal civilisation – the first in celestial history before Madonis. She begot them in her image; therefore, they inherited some of her lesser abilities and talents. Under her nurture and guidance, the wa-omme became prosperous. They were even capable of defending themselves against intergalactic invasions and grand scale assaults from certain dominant species such as the Hunni or the reserved Eckrhyne - dating back to early post -Wa- omme creation.
The Wa-omme species are seen as a prime example of what a successful relationship between creation and creator should look like. They are widely known for their excellence in universal communication. Constantly redefining the art of language. They prioritize and cultivate their evolutionary talent, honing it from generation to generation over the course of an eon.
They are her proud and endeared accomplishment. Forever cherishing those memories, she poured all of her heartfelt effort into forging her precious souls.
It is truly touching, isn't it?
Forrine was the very first planet she created. In fact, it was the first accomplishment - and where everything began.
But then again, with all of this admiration, it does make me speculate if they are actually competent enough to defend themselves, especially against the likes of me.
How long will their resistance last – or will they bother to resist at all?
I land upon the ocean's thick icebound surface in a crouched poise, instigating a shockwave. Inflicting a crater of splitting chasms from underneath my feet. Multiple bands of electricity expand across the city complex, coinciding with a booming thrum. The subsequent and consecutive rings of electricity paralyze the civilians, as well as their colossal brethren, the Stern, a downgraded imitation of the overseers.
The only distinction is their size.
The Sterns patrol the streets - monitoring and guarding the populous. The civilians are weak and helpless on their own because of their severe lack of outer protection or natural bodily defenses to combat malicious threats. A capability they never inherited from their glorious founder. Instead, they use the Sterns to protect them so they can live a life without worry - without harm.
This is the exact reason why the Sterns exist – to compensate for their weakness.
The civilians' bodies are comprised of pure and natural water, stabilized by an aura of light.
I wonder if she had designed such an obvious flaw on purpose, so no matter how far they advance, they shall never be truly independent from her – all because they have no means of protecting themselves.
But, like their founder, the civilians also have a partially faceless visage with a singular rhombic eye, which can vary in colour.
The one eye is an easily identifiable feature that sets them apart from other races.
I rise, slowly, straightening my posture, as everything around me is stunned and rendered powerless. They are now at my mercy. You see, these founders tend to develop this ugly habit of being possessive and narcissistic when they reach the pinnacle of hubris. It doesn't matter whether they are benign or not. They can never resist the blissful yet addictive stroke of their own ego; thus, they keep their creations bound to them for all eternity to replenish the feeling.
Dictating to the life they had birthed from their immortal essence. Conditioning them to submit to a self-gratifying doctrine. Expressing their right of ownership, as they are worshipped, loved, and praised by all. Existential bondage. Transcendental codependency.
Is it voluntary servitude or slavery to theological hegemony?
You could say I have a personal history of challenging faith, even if it has broken my mind in the process.
I can always put myself back together again, despite the damage.
I do not fear pain. Well, not anymore. Instead, I welcome it, because the pain reminds me of the fact that I am still alive – that I still exist, and not everything around me is falsely imagined.
My spirit hasn't faded away into oblivion.
Not yet.
Sometimes I find myself wondering what each founder would have done if they were in my place. What would they have done differently in comparison to me?
Let's see. Knowing Sillhaine, she would have accepted her fate since she has the hallmarks of being a martyr. Madonis would fight to the end - and may make a few sacrifices in the long run, but only as a last resort. Ira would sacrifice everything to survive.
I suppose, he and I do have that in common.
As for the other two members of the second trinity, Orrium and Tion wouldn't use anything overelaborate to show off like Ira. They were more cunning and cutthroat - straight to the point. But I digress. Our universal architect never coerced or tried to instill us into a belief system based on ego. Freedom of self was always encouraged.
When each of us was conceived into the architect's universe, we were all gifted equally with the principle of free will and self-expression. There was no favoritism among us, although Madonis and Sillhaine would strongly disagree with my narrative.
I wish for no soul to follow such blatant falsehoods.
Unfortunately, souls born from a founder don't know any better because they have been taught to follow, not to lead. I know all too well what it's like to be indoctrinated and to pay the price for going against your beliefs.
This is why I openly reject becoming a founder – and unapologetically so.
I've been offered the chance thrice - from Madonis and Rotaerc, as well as Ira. They wanted a conjoined position with me when I had no desire to do so; however, if I were to bring a new life into this universe, a direct offspring of my very soul, I'd want them to make their own mark.
I grin at the notion.
Another soul like myself, what an appealing and unprecedented concept.
An idea possibly worth conceiving, if I may add.
Would my offspring dare to succeed me and drown other celestial beings in shame?
Sillhaine and Madonis have forgotten that there is more to us than self-made, egotistical labels. Our revered universal architect didn't create us so that we would commit ourselves to a singular purpose – and I have grown tired of reminding them. We are here to exist as our authentic selves, as so intended.
Perhaps I've overestimated them.
If none of those idiots can see beyond their limiting role as a founder - then so be it. I raise my arm from my side and hiss as I slice open my right palm. Blood excessively pours from the fresh, crude gash and onto the crumbling rupture of ice, blackening the chasms. Causing the ice to break down furthermore and rest aloft the pallid waves in pieces.
As the blood further spills, it pollutes the water trapped underneath the broken icecaps, corrupting its purity.
The thrill of consequence and the act, which preludes it, has always been so sinfully titillating to me. Deliciously creating my own karma. Actualising it.
From within the darkening cold ocean water, my blood makes contact with the wa-omme's paralysed feet and permeates the maintained fluid. Contaminating their liquid anatomy. Using my blood as an invasive pollutant.
This is darkness in one of its most tangible forms.
The stern's throat panels slide open as they begin to wheeze and cough. The Wa-omme race inherited a body made from both ethereal and material components. Which is also the same for Madonis, Sillhaine, and myself. It is a highly advantageous bestowal, and incredibly convenient for when it comes to functioning in multifarious dimensional planes; Forrine is one such example. A world comprised of minerals and the ethereal.
Alosium is a mineral – a physical component of the wa-omme's biological makeup. It can serve as an equivalent to organic matter, creating an alternative to carbon-based anatomy. Substituting flesh, entrails, and bone. The stern's outer and internal bodily defences are made from the same regenerative mineral - from the external armour to the cords wrapped around the life force, protecting it.
The stern's cords are their last line of defence whenever their souls are in a disembodied state. Sterling silver is their natural colour, and the more transparent their bodies are, the healthier it is, but for them, grey is the colour of death, especially if it rusts.
The sterns regurgitate my blood in an episodic, violent spasm, and the entire structure of their necks collapses, falling prey to decomposition. The civilian's liquid anatomy turns to raven ink. From large to small, bodies begin to drop all around me. Optics reduced to a bleak, moribund slate. The Wa-omme's husks lie motionless and afloat, carried by the ever-growing restless waves.
The bright intensity of colours, such as reds, blues, and greens, becomes flat. Discoloured. Faded. Lost. The civilian's aura of light darkens, emanating despair. Losing their constitution as it merges with the dark ocean water. The sterns decay and sink below the waves.
The slim and sharp crystallised towers that pierced the overbearing, thick, wintry mist hanging over the city crumble.
Then an incoming shape of obscurity hails from above. An enshrouded silhouette descends from the embittered mist, bellowing the slanderous name given to me.
"SINCISTIC MAL!"
Her radiant optic seethes through the smog. Coming down with a raised fist, ready to pummel me. I step aside and out of the way of her incoming straight. She lands with such light-footedness and speed that she didn't even stir a ripple. She swivels and dashes towards me. She tries to strike again – and I hop back. Distancing myself. Avoiding her reach. Disallowing contact. She performs a sidekick. Aiming below my ribcage, with the lower end of her ice-like shin. I grab her ankle before she can hope to land a hit.
The light behind her rhombic lens brightens and is steamed by a hot condensation. I quickly slant my neck to the side as an incandescent ray shoots past my head, not even grazing my cheek. A poor attempt. She huffs as faint vapours ascend from her Alosium eyepiece, and wrenches her ankle from my grip. Then, with steadfast movement, she carries out a left hook to my jaw, which is preceded by a breakneck pace of short-ranged blows to my face, knocking me off my stance.
She increases the speed of her ruthless strikes every time her iced knuckles meet the bruising flesh of her target. There is a part of me who despises the very notion of losing, whereas the other reassures me with twisted reason. In the heat of the oncoming fists, I strike forward again at the same time as she does - sending us both back a foot. We firmly regain our footing from our staggering draw back, and stabilise our stances, then charge towards one another. Locked hand in hand, held above our heads in a clash of strength, aspiring for the submission of our opponent.
I can feel a hot throbbing amassing in the areas where I have been hit. The freezing water gnaws at my heels, and the overall temperature of this climate nips at my skin.
I won't falter.
I refuse to.
Time is ticking against me – and my resolve outweighs my discomfort. I need to make this as authentic as possible – without death. I'm sorry, Ira, for going against your wishes and for the pain I shall bring down upon you. I do not expect you to forgive me once you learn the truth.
My truth.
I strike again and smash her left cheek panel. The two of us dance upon the black ocean, evading and exchanging blows. Counteracting one another.
I have been broken – and experienced death twice before.
Therefore, I know the exact amount of damage I must take.
I want her to destroy me within an inch of my life.
I barge through the offensive strikes and grab her by the throat. Her oculus flickers, before I slam her down on her back and snarl at her.
"Is that all you have?"
I hold her down as I crouch over, and then raise my fist. Her eye brightens even more so than ever before, and she catches my incoming punch immediately. Holding onto it tightly as I squeeze her neck. Threatening to crush her alosium panels. But I go no further, because every time I see her face, it always reminds me of him.
Triggering my returning guilt.
It poisons me again.
Making me ease my grip.
My past.
My memories.
Images of him run circles in my head.
He speaks to me through the moving imagery and entraps me in a mental whirlwind of penance. I began as his Enemy. Then I became his friend when he didn't know any better. When he had amnesia. Now I'm his enemy again, or to be even more precise, I am his creator's nemesis. I am the enemy of his race.
I remember when we first met. I was stranded on board the motherpod, and he was nothing more than an unidentified voice in my head trying to initiate contact with me. A voice that belonged to a raw hunk of alosium I found in an accommodating, oversized chamber; lashing out at anyone who wished to subdue him with his large gunmetal grey vines, which sprouted out from the mineral.
I was brought there from another timeline and was guided to him through an actualised piece of memory from my past.
When we crashed landed on earth, in an era that predated the great biblical flood, he would carry me on his shoulder when I was much smaller; when I was human.
He ran from the motherpod's crash site. He protected me from the local nephilim, who were battle-eager and hungry for flesh.
I came to know a pain beyond my own – his pain.
I became empathetic. More understanding.
Our soul connection made me open up to him.
I showed him my hidden vulnerability for the first time. Then the next thing I knew, he was lying on the ground with his lens smashed in and his chest torn open. Motionless. Grey-eyed. Broken by my hand.
In the end, I always hurt the ones I care about – and the ones I once loved.
Sometimes I'd even hurt myself - over and over again. It is a vicious and continuous cycle.
Seeing myself bleed gives me relief from the building anxiety – and the pain confirms that I am still here. Alive. Existing. Sometimes the pain can be a pleasurable reminder and a source of validation.
It is a euphoric obsession of mine.
I just want to feel.
But, there are times when the pain is utterly intolerable – inside and out. It's insanity. The nightmares are so lucid and clear.
The memory of her cutting me open and analysing me. Dissecting me while I was alive. It does not die. Although I will admit, its clarity and vividness have grown faint over time. Numbing my recollection of the excruciation I once felt.
What she put me through.
What I put myself through.
Then, spikes of Alosium impale my clenched fist. Erected from her occupied palm. I hiss - and involuntarily withdraw my hand from Sillhaine's throat. Not giving me a chance to process what has happened. The trenchant spikes retract. She relinquishes her hold and delivers a left hook to my jaw again. Knocking my face to the side. She shoots a ray from her flaring oculus. The vicious boiling heat scalds my cheek and burns my eyes. I roar at the abhorrent sensation eating through my skin. I stumble back. Standing up.
I can't see through them. My entire field of perception has been halved, which leaves me with just one side.
She wastes no time at all in finding her feet again. She brings her hands together and then slowly parts them as she conjures a straight horizontal stem of light in between, extending from one palm to another. The light encases itself in alosium. Refining its form into a sabre before my very eyes.
Sillhaine holds and twirls the handle in her left hand as she begins to calmly walk towards me.
I spit out a tooth and smile at her. Slightly bent over. Trying to get a grip. Staying where I am.
Waiting for her to come to me.
Finally...