Parallel Trial
“Day 6
This is out of control. I am out of control. I don’t know what the flying fuck is going on, but I know it’s something unbelieveably wrong. This is all going somewhere real bad. I have to write fast. Will probably have to do a double-take, try again when I’m better. Here’s the gist. I really hope this ends up being useless, but here it is:
I am not pretending anymore. I am actually losing my memory. I keep having to ask the nurses what day it is. As far as I know, I came here with a fever, tried to settle in with the little yellow shit and then got packed to the hospital, simulating amnesia symptoms so that it would be pointless to ask why I was sent here. I think I remember that, the other entires point to that. Now I am actually starting to forget. I can barely remember anything… anything I would ever want to remember.
But it’s worse. I remember, sometimes. The things I remember… I don’t want to write about them. If I’ve forgotten it all and am reading this, then I will only do myself better if I don’t describe them here. They are impossible. There is no way in hell that any of them could have happened. I am afraid to even think of what I see in there.
I fear greatly for my life. I fear that what I saw in the forest. I fear for the others.”
---
The unpleasant feeling of a disproportionate cold brought him back to his senses - lying awkwardly on something soft, miraculously intact after the fall. He had lost himself shortly before the impact, departing into whatever depths his mind used for dreams. There was nothing he remembered having seen in them - perhaps, for the better.
Flinching and flexing his muscules, with pain being the primary feedback, Fixer coughed up something wet and slimy and got his leg to lift up from where it dropped off, the cold that engulfed it being far too unpleasant.
Still dreamy and dizzy, the unicorn opened his eyes, which let through a stream of tears, the fever taking its toll yet again, and showed him what it was that he laid upon. It was a sofa - an old, torn up sofa, well fit for the scrap heap, even more so after him dropping on top of it. A familiar burning sense of recall in the back of his head erupted yet again at the sight of it. Shaking from the pain, Fixer got himself to turn over and face the ceiling, glad to see that the lamp was still there, lying on a coffee table not far from him and illuminating the otherwise murky room. It could not possibly have been intact after such a fall, and yet it was, and that was good.
To compensate, of all the things he could see in there, it was the only one that gladdened him.
“That… is a long way down.”
The ceiling above had a huge gaping hole in it, positioned right over the sofa. It went on for a great distance, but seemed to end somewhere with weak, dim lights - lights that he recognized still. His mouth involuntarily twisted into a scowl, the horrific memories of the thing that he had stricken down coming back. So did the remainders of the insanity he had faced - they took their time to come back, his mind still not fully awake.
Not anymore.
“It was.”
Moving to get himself into more of a sitting position and hopefully dispose of the nausea that had built itself up while he was lying, Fixer looked at the other thing that was highly unnerving - this time directly under him, all over the floor and on his leg, which dropped down into it while he was sleeping.
The whole floor was overflown with some liquid. It was rather clear and seethrough, one could almost take it for water. However, the unicorn retained his sense of smell even through the sickness. It was not water. He sniffed the air, which resulted in a violent cough - more from the roughness of the inhale than the liquid.
“It’s so salty. Like the sea, just worse… Why would it be here all over the place? The hell is this?..”
Having looked around, Fixer saw that what little of the chamber was visible held various pieces of furniture, like if it was a living room at some point. He could scarcely make out the walls and the corridor that went ahead from the feet of the couch. However, it was silly to assume that it. as a whole, really used to be something before. His bet was on another amalgamation of bits and pieces. He set to find out, taking the lamp in his telekinetic grip and giving it a swirl around, using the advantage he had from the sofa and seeing if there was anything dangerous or curious.
As it turned out, the bet he had made could hardly have been more correct.
---
He was as grateful for the improvements as a living being could be, but the meek inside him made his body retch and boil - worse yet when it erupted outside. He laid on the dirty, blood and vomit-stained floor and took in the smells of pain and misery. They were different to him now - they were like they should have been, they were done right, he knew that. They hurt.
So did the colors. He would look in the window before, and think the dark, neon-lit streets a touch too dreary for a place that was otherwise so colorful. Now, he saw colors he could not describe in the simplest shade of grey, and felt burning hatred at anything that reminded him of the worthless rest - pink, blue, white, purple, yellow, orange, green, red, teal... They wretched before his eyes even when he closed them. He saw the silhouette in the moon, so enigmatic and threatening before, and spat black blood at it, having realized its true colors.
For hours, he would lie down on the floor, try not to open his eyes, and breathe through his mouth. Eventually, he would become accustomed to his superiority. But first, he would have to get used to how his bottled solace had turned its salty taste into that of tears.
He drank it anyway. By that point, he was used to the taste of his own tears.
They were salty as well.
---
The couch really was placed fortunately. Firstly, it softened the impact of his fall, even though logic said that he should have been blown into pieces no matter what.
Secondly, if not for it, he would probably have crawled all the way to the back wall and into the dark where things may have been waiting. Instead of that, he just pushed himself as close to the couch as he could without breaking through it, his head running like a carousel at the sight of what the room really looked like.
“...”
It was everything thrown into one. The shape and geometry were exactly that of the corridor he found himself in when the Error threw him to the precinct - utterly disregarding the fact that it was far above, still out there - but the textures of the walls wailed and wept at their own impossibility. They consisted of objects, things, words, thoughts, like if something went bang in his senses and made him see them as everything else all at once. Reflecting and bending in the salty water, they broke all perception of how things should be.
Fortunately, Fixer’s perceptions have already been far from intact for it to be that much of an issue.
“Just get out of here. Get out of this dump. You have to move out, it will let you out and lead you where you need to go. Move.”
He slipped from the couch and onto the flooded floor, mercifully dull and grey under the layer of liquid, the cold conflicting with his fever-heated body. The uncomfortable feeling woke him further up, enough to force a trot on through the old corridor with new skin. The flashlight shook in his grip, almost unwilling to light up the still images plastered there where steel and concrete used to be. By right, Fixer should have felt them and checked if they had the same qualities, but that sheer thought made his head come close to flying off. He just tried to make one step after another, dripping the vest in sweat.
“Getting closer… somehow. Nothing is wrong. Remember, nothing is wrong.”
There was plenty of room for argument with himself on that point. He aimed the ray at the sides of the corridor, looking at the office doors that now had tables, clouds and lights plastered all over them. They were painful to look at. For something so horribly wrong, they were terrifyingly static, not at all reminiscent of the Errors or other abominations of the new world. Fixer almost wanted them to start shifting, blurring, screaming, if only to show their wrongness to the sheer concept of normalcy, and rid him of the terrible thought that this was what passed for normal. But static they stood, digging into his eyes with every blink.
As if that was not bad enough, that lack of motion meant one more thing.
The faint distorted sounds at the edge of Fixer’s hearing were not coming from them.
Letting out a wet cough and shaking off a wave of nauseating headache, the unicorn straightened up and quit breathing for a few seconds, attempting to find the source of the noise. Wearily side-stepping, he got himself closer to it, as it did not seem to be so far - it came from behind the doors. He wanted to think that it was just the one door of the six, but the distribution of the sound told him that it had multiple issue points. Whatever was behind them had connected the offices into a singular space. Both lines of them.
Making a concentrated effort not to touch the kaleidoscopic texture of the door, Fixer leaned in to try to listen. He had his suspicions.
- who where di d who did you come
The unicorn slumped his head, giving out a ragged sigh. The longer he spent in that place, the more he wished he would just stop being correct.
“It isn’t coming. It would have come if it knew. Either it doesn’t feel me, or something is restraining it. I don’t suppose I should complain. Get going.”
Seeing how little else was left of the jumbled corridor, he let the lamp shine on ahead, at the spot that he wanted to see the least. There, where his portrait used to hang in the precinct.
- Oh, fucking hell.
His consciousness let out a high-pitched crying noise at the sight of what had become of the picture. It was extremely discomforting before, but in this state it was plain terrifying. Some fragments of his thoughts proposed the idea that whatever turned the walls into the mishmashed background that they were now had tampered with the portrait the same way, but he clearly saw how that was not the case. The canvas had persevered, and so did the plain wooden frame. What changed was the content of it.
Fixer had to look away, his head pounding and his legs shaking. Half of the feelings he felt he could not describe, and the other half he did not want to.
A mangled, reality-defying shape, its geometry sickening and its structure intimidating, the new image still had a discernible form of a… being. It had a face - a concept of a face, at least - represented by two holes and a gaping maw in the middle. They emanated a ghostly grey light, at least the way the picture was drawn. These holes screamed wildly in a broken lines, so botched and wrong that it was not clear whether that creature was in anger, pain, or fear. It splattered over the painting with its improbable shape, defying the world with its sole existence. It could not have been drawn by a sane living being. It would have crumbled their mind and plunged them into a dark descent, an avatar of cruelty, insanity and terror. An Aberration.
It wore Fixer’s vest.
---
- Get out.
- But…
- For fuck’s sake, get out.
- W-what did I do wr-
- I said get out. I’m sick already and you still manage to sicken me. Don’t you ever fucking come back.
He nearly tore his throat, coughing out something wet, cold and salty.
- M… Mister…
- Find someone else to talk down to.
---
The unicorn panted heavily, trying to keep balance as his head swung back and forth. Almost spasming, he splashed some of the liquid beneath onto himself when he stomped a hoof. The cool brought him back to a semblance of his senses.
“That shouldn’t deter you. Keep moving.”
Inhaling and exhaling the rough salty air, Fixer looked where the corridors branched out, and was less than surprised to find another oddity. It was a welcome one at that point - it simply looked weird and did not horrify him beyond mortal capacity of understanding. The water defied laws of physics and magic, cutting itself off from the passway on the right, standing still as if having met a wall and not rippling in place as it would have if it was a magic shield.
At first, Fixer had considered it an invitation to go down that path again and into what had become of the court room and the execution chamber, but as he limped towards it, an uneasiness grew in his stomach. Having almost breached the point where the water spread no more, he had realized that something was very, very wrong about it - the floor was skinned with the foul vomitus as the walls, unlike what was under Fixer’s hooves in the water.
Unsure and confused, he felt himself up, looking for something he may have missed what he could test it out with, to throw to the mismatched floor beyond the abnormal salty river. There was nothing - only the notebook, which he had forgotten to check after having woken up. It was far too important to lose.
Shivering from the combined hot of the fever, cold of the water and gaze of the picture, Fixer decided to give it a check - just a quick glance, as further inspection would be better fit for a less uncomfortable situation. Trying page after page, the bulk still glued together by blood, he could not help but look at the floor beyond the waterline again and again, the lamp levitating still, his magic barely suspending both it and the book at the same time. The same amalgamation of pictures and concepts. He could well have been the only thing left intact by whatever ruled over this layer.
Finally, having gone through the old pages, he got himself to a new one. Rather conveniently, the very first words read:
“Da STAY IN THE WATER”
That was all the proof and excuse he needed not to step onto the reshaped floor, the following passages relatively untouched by the mysterious additions. He would check the rest later, as for the moment, the other corridor beckoned. Moreover, the remainder of the contents repulsed him, the sheer thought of them did. The more he looked at the wretched textures around, the more preferable was the nagging cold of the water, which held underneath it a normal stone floor.
The fact that he would get to step on something remotely normal was the one good thing about where he was headed - by all logic, the path he had taken would lead him into an even more twisted chamber that he fell from. The Error that had inhabited it was gone, as he was almost sure, but the thought of what it could have become of it was far from pleasant.
He walked on, splashing water with each step and occasionally startling himself, driving his mind to think that there was someone else walking behind him. It was as likely as it was not, for the strain on Fixer’s sanity had risen significantly the past couple of hours.
Or was it days?
As he tried to inhale and exhale to the best of his ability, the unicorn flashed the light at the path ahead, the corridor stretching out for a while, looking rather featureless. By his assumption, it would have to take an angle before leading him into the chamber, and it did not seem like the ray would hit anything if pointed straight ahead no matter how long he walked. Fixer was reminded of how the other corridors stretched - always when that dark blue Error was concerned. He shuddered at the thought of it not being dead. If his shard was not sufficient, then nothing was and his task was doomed.
“Pull it together. Nothing is wrong. You will get through it. You do not get a choice. You’re close.”
He faltered slightly from the headache, almost stumbling into a wall, just barely propping himself up at the last moment. That, however, caused him to do something he did not want to do. The lamp shone over the walls.
Fixer stared at them, eyes wide agape. He had assumed that the walls would be just as painful to look at as they were before, and so did not bother to light them up much. He was correct on that assumption, yet again, but as he found out, that was not the worst thing about the walls of that particular corridor.
- hmmMMmmm
At the same time, not even that worst thing was worse than what splashed behind him.
---
It was seething. He came there expecting foulness, but this was starting to go beyond his worst expectations. His skin itched with hatred at the sheer thought of it.
Inside, he knew that it was for the better. This was righteous hatred, and in a time of doubt he would summon it to strengthen his resolve. It was at its top now, much unlike his physical capability. He laid in the bed, his lungs spawning ichor to cough out, and only wished he could start now, with the one that just left.
Almost all of them had visited him by that point. He saw utter idiocy, danger, annoyance and obliviousness, but this he could barely describe even with use of his extensive vocabulary of expletives. This one was most assuredly wrong. Evil, if anything. She outright mocked his entire existence.
She knew full well of her state in the world. It revolved around her. It was all to her needs, and she reveled in it, and ridiculed those who, to her, blended into the background of her rancid life. She spoke down to them, pretending that they were worthy of her attention, but then imminently reminding them of how worthless they really were, both to the awful world around and to her. The rest had at least a sliver of propriety or ignorance covering them up.
This one was foul and loved it. The sheer fact that she existed made him choke on the bloody liquid inside, almost drowning him yet again. Spasming in agony, he recalled how she touched him to pretend to help with his coughing fit that happened during her visit. The one pleasant thing about that was that he had managed to spit some of the ichor on her.
It was shameful. Shameful that something like this got to persist. And so satisfying that someone from what they thought was just the background to their lustrous lives, would end it.
---
- How-
Whatever his question was, it was devoid of reason. Behind him was a non-corporeal form of all too familiar dispersed proportions - an Error. Their existence itself could be summarized as defying all that was right. It was only proper for it to do something like this.
- mmmmmMMMM
The cold salty water splashed all over the place and covered his bloodstained clothes as he galloped as far down the pathway as he could. The loud screeching sound that must have been his sanity losing yet another screw mercifully blocked out the jumbled vocalizations of the Error. What he could hear of them was mortifying - it was a horrid mix of laughter, singing and what must have been death screams, all taken together, blended and then distorted to the point where his ears could only barely take these sounds in.
The splashes in the water sped him up, now true in their telling of something being behind. It was unlikely, though, that that something could splash water. It was only barely real. At the same time, it was more real than anything else.
“Do they lure.”
Finally, he had reached the point where the way took a turn, and nearly smashed himself against the putrid wall, which almost seemed less frightening now, in comparison to the Error behind.
“They want you to fall. Part of the background.”
- hhhmmmmmmmrrrgrlglhhlglhhhhh
As he twisted himself into the turn, he saw the room ahead, much closer than he would have expected. He ran in, closing his eyes if only to save himself from the gaze of reality bent and the pictures on the walls.
They were what startled him seconds before the Error appeared and reminded him what being startled really meant. The entire corridor was covered in pictures of him, chaotically placed on the walls, swinging and twisting as the horrid creature splashed past them. They were copies of the portrait from the main hall of the precinct, some of them copies of the one he saw first, some of the sickened one, and some of the thing he saw just before. All of them were mutilated in some way, carved, burnt and blooded. Some he could not recognize, them showing a picture he had clearly not seen before, but he had no time to take note of it. The one thing he did notice before reality had decided to deal away with him again was what went above the pictures.
The rows were topped with police tape yet again. It said “Hall of Fame”.
- hhhgrhhhhh will grrlllllmmmmhyou
He saw the same words in front of him, too.
“You know what to do. No fear.”
It was not the same room.
Unlike the remainder of the defiled precinct, it did not take the shape of a previously existing chamber. This one was new. Bigger, more expansive, it looked like a mad vision of a party. Things that he could only assume were balloons, confections, seats and gift boxes littered the room, tainted by the same foul infection that the walls and the ceilings suffered from. The only exception was a red carpet that stretched to where a door was, its tail end not far from the end of the flooded corridor. The water in it once again revolted and stood up on contact with the abominable mix of images that covered the previously wooden floor.
He had no other choice. He would have to make the jump.
- hhhggg be ggrhm
With what little strength remained in him, he lunged himself off the floor and into the air, the entirety of his body and mind aching in flight. The next second, he heard the splashing stop, but not the dreadful noises, and realized that had he waited a moment more, he would have been consumed.
The second after that he realized that he had plummeted right onto the carped nose-down - if only through the sudden pain in his muzzle, and most everywhere else for that matter. Afraid to open his eyes, he carefully felt the space around him up, fearing that he may have touched a part of the floor. Fortunately, however, all he could feel with which parts of him retained feeling was the now wet red carpet that gave off a strong smell of dust and something sickeningly sweet.
Soon enough, having regained his breath, Fixer opened his eyes and confirmed to himself that he was, in fact, lucky enough to land exactly in the middle. The adrenaline remaining from the jump allowed him not to fall right back down as he painfully sat up.
- mmmhmmmmmmmmmhm
Above him hung a banner. It was like one of those that would be installed at a party, with something eye-gougingly sweet written on them, like “Happy Birthday” or “A Joyous Retirement”.
This one was different. He saw the words even before making the jump, even before he had realized that they were written with something black, ichorous and unnatural.
“HALL OF FAME”
A nauseating headache washed over him once again, blurring his sight. He was so confused that there was little to no room for fear. Fixer just sat on his safe island and waited until the pulsing would stop, listening to the Error grumble and squeak. This one time the fever did him good, as sitting in the middle of a wretched, tainted chamber with balloons that had pictures of skies, eyes and guts on them and having a being that defied existence shift and blink barely a few meters in front of you was a thing better done when you are barely half-conscious.
- mmhhhhhhhhghhh mmmmy
- Oh, fuck you. Just… fuck you, - Fixer slurred, alleviating the pressure on his head and letting out at least some of the dread and animosity he felt towards the Error.
It did not seem to be able to reach him, so taunting was as good as anything.
“Time is being wasted.”
He opened his eyes again, taking a rare opportunity to look at his enemy from a safe place. Half a second of inspection was enough to send his head on a carousel ride once again, but it was also sufficent for him to see something strange in that Error. Admittedly, not much could possibly be strange about a thing that barely even existed, but what he saw was clearly an oddity.
The blistering pinkish abomination had a shape much like the rest, remotely resembling an equine and seemingly trying to imitate some typical movements in a sporadic, twitching manner, fading in and out of existence piece by piece, images, colors and sounds jumbling up in each and every move. That shape, however, was full of holes, as if something had managed to wound the Error - furthermore, these holes were consistent in placement and shape. They defined its silhouette and made it less terrifying to look at, though it was still frightening enough to make more than half a moment of eye contact a test for one’s sanity.
- mmmmmmmmm
- Whoever did that, - Fixer coughed, spraying blood and saliva over himself - should get a freaking medal.
He wondered why this one was so limited. It could not leave the water - unlike the other one, which seemed to be locked out by it - and neither could it sound as awful as the rest. The other Errors’ screeches and noises sounded like voices that lingered at the edge of his mind, almost making them seem like they tried to talk to him, an errant word or two conjuring themselves up in his mind as he heard them. This one just muttered, gurgled and screamed, with barely a few hints of what the others did.
- Fuck it, - the unicorn shook his head, fighting fire with fire and causing a different kind of headache to replace the one he was having, - not my problem.
He grabbed the lamp, once again lucky not to have lost it. With a slight knock, it let out a ray of light, allowing him to look over the room - it may not have been the darkest place, a few beams peeking through what looked like closed windows above, but certainly not good enough for him in his condition.
- mmm ghhhhhhh ghhhrlll
First of all, his thoughts went to the door that he saw on his way in - the carpet looked like it lead right to it. It did, in fact - having gotten up, Fixer made his shaky way down the trashy red fabric, distancing himself from the Error and the ominous banner.
- Dammit, - he spat, having taken a closer look - just my luck.
The door was, of course, textured with the same thing that took over everything in the lower precinct. Or however this place was to be called.
“You have a job to do.”
Flashing the ray through the rest of the “Hall of Fame”, he searched for anything else that could help. Upon further inspection, it appeared to have been something like a shop, before the world had gone wrong.
There was what looked like a counter, a couple of trays, shelves and potted plants. A couple of tables stretched left and right of the door, covered so deeply by the taint that they were barely noticeable, much like several big windows - their placement suggested that it was probably a cafe or restaurant, to be fully precise. Finally, there was a staircase leading up, to where the staff likely used to live.
Of course, all of that was completely absorbed by the sickening amalgamation of hurl-inducing colors and images, safe for the carpet and the banner. That included the balloons, boxes and other party implements that littered the chamber for no immediately obvious reason, making the place feel even wronger than it already was.
After Fixer had paced back and forth along his red line of safety, making his stomach swell harder and harder with every glance at the furniture, let alone the still muttering Error in the corridor, he gave himself a good punch to the head. He had managed to forget about the notebook.
Once it had flown out of his pocket and opened at the page he last recalled reading, his mind thought that it was a good time to get ahead of things.
---
It was utterly ludicrous. His patience was wearing very, very thin. Again, and again, and again, and again. He pushed and squeezed with all his strength, of which the adrenaline and determination had given him a lot more of. A lot, but seemingly not enough.
She would not die.
He stabbed and stabbed, puncturing her abdomen for times beyond counting, all the while choking her with his hooves, all that while her head was submerged into the water-filled sink.
She still would not die.
Gurgling and mumbling, she kept sending bubbles topside. The water in the sink was red from the blood that must have come out of her nose, but that seemed to barely matter as her heart kept beating and her hooves desperately pushed against his chest, covering it in even more blood.
The hatred in him burned the brightest he ever recalled. It clouded everything. The hatred for the world around him, for the injustice, for these insolent shits, for the fact that they got to live perfectly and have everything revolve around them and them only. And now, when he was finally on top of everything, when he had broken out of the bland background and started to build something better, she would not fucking die.
Some two minutes in, he realized that it would not do. If he let himself get consumed by hatred, it would not work. He needed to stay calm. It was necessary. The doubt that lurked inside was dangerous, but he could control it. The hatred was different. The line between righteousness and blinding rage was thin.
He needed to be calm.
He pulled her head out of the reddened water, immediately meeting a barrage of painful coughs and weak sobs. The bulging tumor of hair dropped down into a straight wet fall. She was hurt, she was bleeding. That meant she could die.
He looked in her face, now so blue and pale, covered in blood and bruises. In his moment of clarity, he got himself to remember her the way she was right then - weak, worthless, tortured and barely mumbling a word, stab wounds all over her chest, covering pink over with red. She was seconds from death, water in her lungs, and the one to end her would be the one she ridiculed while he was in his sickbed.
He stared her down, levitating the edge to her throat. This completed the mental image.
Fixer spat out and closed his eyes, shielding them from the warm, sickening spray. He had erased each and every putrid word she ever said, and he was better for it. Every single word.
Or so he thought.
---
Fixer’s head tore itself apart, the notebook flying off somewhere. He yelled out in pain. His eyes opened by force as a wail of unbelieveable volume pierced through the hall, sending furniture flying off its places and making him lose his balance.
- What…
- WILL YOUBE
The unicorn barely hung onto the carpet as the scream impacted him. It threw him off to the wall, dangerously close to the infection. There was barely a second to contemplate the consequences of being even that close, as the next moment the Error wailed again, this time even louder and much longer.
To his horror, he heard the words even through the layers of screams, gurgles and sobs.
- MY FRIEND?
As his eyes widened at the sound of those botched up, distorted words, he once again did not have time to take it in - the Error, still standing in the corridor, had begun to move. It twitched and blinked in and out of existence, much like it normally did, but with much more rhythm in its movements. It kept screaming all the while, and very soon its movements and emanations had had effect - the “Hall of Fame” had begun to get reeled in.
Fixer felt himself move against his will, being pulled into the Error. Clinging to the still intact carpet, he watched the banner get blown off and fly right into the pink monstrocity, the words on it taunting him one last time - it vapored away tracelessly as soon as all of it had made its way into the pink.
There were seconds left to live. Frantically, the unicorn scanned all he could with his eyes, the lamp gone from him as well. Panicking, he turned around on the carpet, if only not to have to look at it while it devoured him, but as he did so, a stinging pain came from his chest.
He looked inside his pocket and, for a moment, was the most relieved creature in the remaining universe.
Pink. More pink. A cake. A balloon. A pile of confetti. A peaceful rocky countryside. Faces. These Fixer did not recognize at all. All of them stretched in disgusting grins. More faces. More pink.
The next moment, he threw the shard right into the Error, aiming to kill, and fueling his throw with all the adrenaline that the hatred and fear gave him.
- GRRRHLLLL will you HHHMMMMMGHHH be ghhrhhhh fr fr frie ghhhmmmm YOU
What would only be fit to be called an explosion sent him flying off, his momentary pride and courage allowing him a second of non-realization while he slumped against the wall, his bones aching once again.
Then he realized that his body just came in contact with the taint and jumped right up, panting heavily.
---
The day of arduous work pulled all strength out of him. The sharp presence in his veins moved lower and lower, descending from the head where it all started. He had to be prepared. This was just a show of what was to come. His eyes bled, his nose bled, his mouth bled.
The walls bled.
He scraped over each inch of the walls. It happened last day, when he awoke on the couch and stared into a beautiful night sky, sprung unfinished over his head, painted on the ceiling. The fleshy residue covered most of the walls and left tumor-like remnants in the corners. That had to be cleaned.
He pulled the slimed photocards out of the pulsating matter and vomited all over the floor.
He was going to have a guest soon.
---
To his surprise, he was still intact and alive. To his further surprise, he saw none of the taint, the chamber absolutely pristine and clear - in comparison to what it used to be, that is. A normal abandoned cafe in the middle of a world gone wrong, with furniture lying out of place and not a sign of balloons or gift boxes.
That surprise was momentary, however, as with nary a minute of rest he crossed eyes with one of the windows. It was perfectly clear just as well.
The grey mess behind it had begun to wail.
- Oh, you have-
There was never an easy way out.
Throwing away all and any thoughts aside from the one that urged him to run, no matter how tired and weary he may be, he rammed himself into the door, but coughed out in frustration as it would not budge.
- wwhhh whaa what did you what you did what dee you DO
With little more than instinct guiding him, he rushed up the stairs and to the murky staff section with a few doors and rooms. He tried to look for the shard, but it was nowhere to be found, not even a glimmer at the corridor. Nothing else came to his mind, nothing but trying to run. He rammed door after door, scraping his horn on them, but none gave way. Soon enough he had realized that there was no space remaining. Two doors left, and a wall.
- you I yyou tore to shreds what
If neither worked, then all his struggle would have been for naught. He saw what happened to the banner - and that was an Error that seemed to have been somehow wounded.
This one was rather operational.
Panting and barely holding himself upwards, Fixer tried a door. Nothing.
- look out
The other door.
- De- tec- tive!
Bingo.
- Fuck me.
He barely had time to get surprised as the spikes on the Victim’s head pierced through his skull. Fixer fell to the ground and grew around himself a pool of blood.
“You have to carry on.”
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4995607
Good to know. I assumed that she shift could possibly have been a little too rough and fast.
That is overall a good point - enemies become somewhat boring if they are all about the same thing. Something to spice them up is normally required. Additional motivations, perspective screws, maybe even an alliance. There you are right.
And there's a new chapter out now, too. By pure coincidence, as always. So the remainder of the thoughts on this one might need to blend into the next if you feel like continuing to be one out of two people who still comment on this..
5002154
The act itself is doubtful. Can we really judge its intentions? They operate on a plane very distant from ours. You may just strip the circumstances regarding the details and it still would not go all that well. Perhaps they are, after all, wrong in each every way, despite the circumstancial evidence pointing otherwise...
Now here you've just got the plurals all wrong. In various ways.
Unfortunately, with the amount of swears I NECESSARILY have to put into anything I write, and with how I consistently rely on off-format fonts, colors and sizes (WHICH ARE THE MOST PAINFUL THING IN THE WORLD DURING GOOGLE DOCS CONVERTION), I am pretty sure that none would want to even edit that.
Besides, all I've ever written and will ever write is going to be fan fiction. I am remarkably incapable of creating something wholly of my own - it has to have an existing basis, even if the end result will stray far from it.
Hmm, nothing really to add to this one. Interesting that he killed Pinkie Pie.
Geez, this guy's a psychopath. I dunno if this is his own doing or if he was compelled to, but either way I find myself hoping he doesn't survive this story.