Lugubrious Vol. 1

Popped - 01 - Detached Approach

         Herein is my personal prison: that on the eve of emerging as a human before the harsh spheres of living there should come an agent of evil to drag me again to darkness. The arena here might well work as a painting with its frosty shades and industrial antiquity. I spot there in the distance a blue-grey clock tower angled and outlined by a hazy sky. The wasteland is littered with walls of stone that might have fit perfectly onto homes of a prosperous village. In the far distance there is a masking fog that then brings an odd pleasantness to my breast: a peace found from a morning’s walk through a London wood. I see poetry here, were the circumstances not so very grisly, and my companions not now finding their old prejudices under new light in this coming calamity.
          I picture the worst scene I can conjure for the torment now formulating through my being. I see the hopeless seafarer under a dense barrier of clouds acting as a mask of the greater cosmos that cures us of loneliness. There, in the distance below the dark-velvet shades of a weeping sky, comes a black and merciless wave. The seafarer can but pray, remembering then he served under no god, and in his frenzy offers shouted words to nature herself. Could one expect that destructive force then to split in two? No, there is no hope for the straggler, just as there is no hope for me. Do not get me wrong, I am far from fear when it comes to the weapon of my contemporaries, but I look up upon the greater foe. This foe is my own depression.
         I see the man step up beside me. He’s a young one, wearing a baggy jacket with a single earring. His bushy blond hair is all I focus on as he calls forth using a booming voice to the one in robes standing on a stone elevating himself above us. The young one’s words are lost to me but his action is quick to seize my attention. He lifts his defined arm gripping tight to a pistol, pointing and making to blast away at the risen and seemingly glowing figure. The robed one returns the gesture by producing a rifle and shoots a scarlet hole through the blond. My brooding mood intensifies while I eye the fool collapse as if in slow motion onto the hard ground. His expression then is of distorted shock as his eyes roll back. I ignore the gasps and shouts and begin moving away from the small congregation.
         It’s at this moment that the game master, the very same who delivered that fatal shot, departs and leaves us players to our own designs. I cast a halfhearted glance diagonal from my shoulder where I seize the profile of the only stranger (seeing as I know the other two living participants on a rather intimate level) and cannot decide the color of her hair or nature of her character. This spark of curiosity softens each solitary step I take away into the haze of the wasteland and before too long find myself in solitude. In this lonely walk I force my mind from its emotional wanderings into a more practical venue. There are four of us and nineteen Mukian hours—twenty-four Earth by choice of the game master—whereby a minimum of two must be killed in order to end this sick game and return the survivors to their place of kidnapping. There is also the possibility of only one being killed, but then there is only a single survivor instead of two, and that is hardly the best outcome. I come upon a sort of epiphany as I cut across the frosty plain and begin to question the consequence of abstaining from murder. We were told in great detail the rules of survival. However, it was only through implication that he mentioned the cost of failure. Never did the word “die” or “ruin” or any such daunting word slip from the game master’s lips. He but said we would “lose” and nothing more.
          Could this game have deeper layers than the surface suggests? Couldn’t it be a simple test of human nature under pressure when in fact we could but sit in a square for a whole day and all be released to live the rest of our lives in peace? This theory seemed sound to me having experienced other magical realms authored by the same hand. Finishing this thought I come to one of the stone walls earlier mentioned and position myself behind the fortification. I cross my arms over my earthy coat and leer in the direction of the others, now distanced enough that they appeared silhouettes in the fog. After finding no significant activity taking place the clock tower comes to an acute focus. Its dials move ever so slowly around in its circular lens. An antenna on top appears bright silver through the dense air.
         Before I know it I’m approached by a friend who had snuck up while my notice lay elsewhere. Her name is Miranda. She’s a rather intelligent woman in her middle twenties wearing purple city attire. We had been together with the time-witch Orca at the outskirts of Helm before being spirited to this place. Her long dark hair appears dirty and disheveled through our recent retreats from the mechanical armies that plague the war-torn planet of Muk. At her waist there is a belt holding daggers and guns and weapons of the sort quite contrary to her serene nature. I extend a weak smile and have it returned, though hers seems to hold an unbearable sadness. I suppose mine did, too.
         “I came to tell you,” she says and stops abruptly.
         I shrug my shoulders and look away.
         “I came to tell you that the others—”
         “Orca made it pretty clear she’s wanted to kill me long before this game,” I say, “but who is this other one?”
         “A member of Gate.”
         Such defined my situation. Gate is an organization opposing Vann’s divine army and knows every detail of my wicked past.
         “They probably think if anyone has to die so they can survive I’m the logical choice,” I say offhandedly. “I would think the same thing.”
         Miranda puts her fingers through her pant-loops and gazes off in the direction of the others.
         “The game master cannot lie,” I say. “He never said we’d be killed if we didn’t have a point.”
         She gives me a surprised expression.
         “I suppose he didn’t.”
         “Tell the others that thought. I really must be off.”
         “Off? To where?”
         “Who knows. Somewhere far from here. I’m not keen on the idea of being killed.” A sudden thought occurs to me and I continue. “That woman from Gate…”
         “Circe.”
         “Circe, then. How sure are we that’s she’s, how do you say, mentally sound?”
         “What do you mean?”
         “Even if I’m the obvious target to choose what happens if she decides to pick off an easier target?”
         “You mean me?”
         “And if Orca kills me, what will she do then?”
         “I don’t know.”
         “My theory is best. Even if I die someone ‘innocent’ also has to die to reach the best case scenario.”
         “They’ll say your theory is wrong.”
         “It could be. I might even say it’s most likely incorrect.”
         I don’t wait long for response and signal my retreat with a resolute step forward. Miranda seizes my sleeve and slips to my palm a cool and compact
revolver. She doesn’t seem to appreciate the smug grin I give and takes this moment to slip from my presence. I head for the point where the fog seems most distant tossing the smooth piece from one hand to another. I find my depression assuaged by this one, utterly brief exchange with another sentient mind until again the evidence of solitude surrounds me. I am no longer able to see the clock tower or any significant object. I resign to trudging forth into the unknown.
         Why should any of this bother me? Isn’t it true this is a mere situational circumstance fettering me into thoughts and actions I would never chose under normal pretexts? The very notion of this reminds me of the deeper roots that provide nutrients to the body of my black feelings. I have always been lonely, excluded, alien, demonized and dull compared with others of the world. I try reaching out in my own ways and find resistance or even resentment for a past that may as well have been performed by another person entirely. Even Miranda has cause to abandon the amicable manner in her dealings with me. I dare not recall the details backing that justification lest I invoke further pains. I draw forth a familiar strategy when handling the terror of depression. I detach myself, become apathetic, see the world though the lens of an automaton. Suddenly the dull colors become duller still and my mouth loses the energy to frown. Should there have been a world to see here—populated with running children and businessmen crossing the street to complete important affairs—I could have cared no more than the realities before me. The sadness is sealed over with a thick salve leaving me still yet wondering if this new state is truly better than the one that preceded it.
         The haze breaks abruptly and the wasteland drops to a sheer cliff. Peering over I see a plain of white clouds that masks everything below. I have only to assume the drop is fatal and move on to where a flat bridge with no rails connects from the ground and soars over the chasm. The width of the bridge would support a dozen people marching side by side made of concrete or asphalt. Beginning with a rapid gait I start over this sky-road unable to make clear what waits at its completion. I imagine for a moment the road leading to a dead-end where I might be cornered by attackers from one side and a drop at the other, but cannot seem to get myself to care at such a grisly scenario. After about ten minutes the bridge breaks off at a ninety degree angle both left and right, then after twenty or so paces either way precedes two bridges straight ahead parallel to one another. I don’t waste a moment with such an arbitrary choice and veer to take the rightmost bridge. Another ten minutes are spent before I hear the distinct ring of running footsteps closing in from behind.
         I turn and let my revolver hand rest by my waist. Emerging into view is Orca, her light hair swooshing with her sprint in what could only be an artificial wind. She comes on the bridge next to me and has slung over her shoulder the belt connecting to an automatic machine gun. I take in that familiar form: tall and slim, having on jeans and a leather jacket over a simple collared shirt. I see her abdomen expand and contract with every labored breath, her face red and eyes giving the slightest hint of yellow. Could I have expected anything but for this time-witch to come charging in with my death on her mind? Before my freedom, when I served Vann in his army and felt only hatred for all of human society, it had been I who discovered Orca when she was young. In those days it was common for the divine army to conscript witches of any type into the service of Vann. I had taken it upon myself to seize the girl from her innocence and thrust her into slavery. What is more, I took the liberty of murdering her parents. I spared no expense in separating her from simple happiness.
         What short arms forgiveness has for a wretch such as I. Here I am, years removed from my wicked ways and unable to comprehend the magnitude of my imprisonment in those distant times. I’ve tried making it up to humanity through good works and through the rescue of countless innocence, pleading for understanding among those I hurt. It wasn’t me, I proclaimed, I had been placed with a cruel child’s mind and forced to act by those with power above my own. What misery it is to wake up abruptly with emotions unlocked—to see for the first time what things I had done and experience my first dose of despair. It would have been better had I remained a prisoner without the concept of sin and died by the hand of some hero. Destiny had other plans. I can see no better justice for the victims of my actions than the horrors of the past few years.
          Orca skids to a stop on the walkway opposing mine and aims the barrel of the gun for my chest. Her expression is the usual one of anger and disgust and her posture is tense. Every survival instinct screams for me to take action but I resolve to stand irresolute like some inert mass.
         “Typical,” she says.
         “What is?”
         “Trying to be all stoic and arrogant, acting like a martyr.”
         “I thought we were past all this,” I say quietly. “When we worked together to storm the old divine army headquarters.”
         “What gave you that idea? Your skill came in handy then.”
         “Then there was the time in the barn outside the capitol Notropolis—”
         “You regenerated. I want you to die.”
         I tense my lips and slip my free hand into a pocket.
         “It’s not like it’s my choice that my body can regenerate.”
         “I’ll say it again: you may have changed, but there are thousands of people who haven’t seen justice served.”
         “I’ve tried taking responsibility, as you have said, even though in my heart of hearts I have trouble feeling guilt over actions done under brainwashing.”
         “That’s exactly what pisses me off about you.”
         “What do you want from me? I can’t weep enough, or save enough lives, or apologize enough, or bring the dead back to life. My blood will not undo what has been done; the idea of justice will not take away the victim’s sorrows. Isn’t it enough that I am ostracized from humanity? That I must endure regrets and loneliness every day?  Yes, this fate is far worse than death, so here I stand. Shoot me as you would shoot a deer without thought of the life you are snuffing out. Kill me and see what peace of mind dawns upon you from this deed.”
         Orca releases a curse while more footsteps close in from the distance. I see the machine gun shake in her hands. Then I see flashes of sunlight and a procession of sound louder than anything. Fresh holes pulse through my jacket and flesh, pieces of my back blowing out from the impact of the string of bullets. My senses zigzag and the world around shakes under rays of intense pain. Before I know it I find myself plummeting from the bridge down towards the clouds where I can envision only a bottomless drop that fates me truly to die.
         I come to consciousness under the mat of clouds lying upon a duplicate bridge, wider and more spacious to accommodate those who have fallen as I have. Already my scientifically marvelous body has expelled those bullets that lodged in my flesh and closed the myriad holes given me by my attacker. Had I fallen a greater distance the damage might have been such to prevent regeneration, for even I have my limits when it came to damage absorption. This new platform was surely provided by the same goddess of fortune that gave me my capacity to feel. I stay there amazed on how the same force that hurts has an equal chance to help.
         The voices above signal Orca has been reunited with the other players. I hear one that is monotone and terse, and assume this to be Circe.
         “You got him already?”
         “I have,” Orca comments with a shaken voice.
         “God,” cries Miranda. “Didn’t you listen to me? What if we didn’t have to kill anyone?”
         “We can’t be sure he’s dead just yet,” Circe interposed. “He can regenerate and shapeshift.”
         “That’s right,” Miranda says. “Then he’s still alive.”
         “Hardly,” Orca says. “His abilities are limited when in a freefall, and the amount I took out of him should’ve killed him. Still, we have to be on our guard nevertheless.”
         “We can ask the game master if you’ve received a point,” says Circe.
         “I will if I find him.”
         A moment later and then this:
         “What are you doing? Don’t point that at me.”
         “Stop that,” says Miranda.
         I can only picture the drama unfolding above in so rapid a fashion. I see Circe, smug faced and grinning, holding a barrel to the witch’s head.
         “If you have a point, all I have to do is kill you to end the game,” Circe mutters. “You wouldn’t be selfish enough to resist, would you?”
         “You son of a bitch.”
         “Hey, game master, get the hell out here!”
         There is a noisy pop and a thud like someone dropping from a ledge above. The game master, who earlier proclaimed his name as Aku, has a voice both smooth and confident.
         “What is it my dear?”
         “Did she kill the shapeshifter?”
         “I’m not at liberty to release such details.”
         “Like hell you aren’t.”
         “I swear,” Orca says, “put that fucking gun down or—”
         “Everyone shut up,” Circe demands. “And you, game master, how could you do this to us?”
         “I explained before, my dear, that I’m as much a prisoner to this realm as you are. Sure, I sent you here, but the world and rules were all preset by
another. Surely you don’t expect me to go against Vann’s direct order? Come, now.”
         “You expect us to believe Vann is still alive? I went to the ruined headquarters myself.”
         “He lives, or else I am following a very clever doppelganger.”
         “Nevermind. Just tell me if she has a point.”
         “Does it matter?” Orca says. “Now that you’ve done this I’m going to rip you to pieces.”
         “Who has a gun pointed at who?” Circe says. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re really pissing me off.”
         “Enough,” Miranda says. “Enough. I thought the two of you said whoever kills him ‘wins,’ and then you’d put down your weapons and let what fate come that may. I told you killing him wasn’t going to solve anything. I told you!”
          “Shut up,” says Circe. “Be grateful I chose her instead of you.”
         Here I try to rise up and begin my ascent up into the realm of the living, but find my body rebels against even the slightest movement. My heart aches and races at unnatural speeds, pain shooting through every nerve. These sensations usually followed my regeneration and left me helpless. Sometimes even for hours. I could certainly still speak, but what point was there to alert them of my presence? It would be much like committing suicide by inviting those vultures to swoop down and finish me off.
         “If there are no further questions,” Aku says in a bored tone, “then I will resume my observations from afar.”
         “Wait,” cries Circe, “Damn it.”
         “Just the three of us,” Orca seethes, “I dare you to pull that trigger.”
         “I—what’s this? Get off.”
         Again I use my imagination to accompany the scurrying feet reaching my ears. I see Miranda, pouncing upon the Gate woman while Orca quickly evades from the path of the weapon. I half expect gunfire to rattle. Instead, there are inarticulate shouts, thuds of sprinting feet and wails of anger. Did Orca choose to escape instead of retaliating against such an affront? What of Miranda? Did she go with Orca in search of a fortress to defend herself? I allow an ironic smile to cross my lips at this change of antagonists in the game. I am now left wondering. If I made my reentry would Orca choose to turn her gun towards me, who has time and again proven no threat to her life, or to this mad woman who probably lived a saintly existence but now charges to kill her?
         My depression takes on a new form. My apathy gives way to rage.