Monitor 612 took a step through the door of the apartment. Though he had been conducting the extractions of close to five years, it still amazed him every time he entered a frozen space. Just for a second. Just as the dust particles ceased to fall in the light cast by the streetlamps, showering the apartment in a sort of glitter or fine snow. Just as the cat stretched into a yawn, its features suddenly stuck for the allotted time as if it was a sketching by Edvard Munch. It always felt like Monitor 612 was the only person with breath, with purpose. And it was that feeling that, as soon as it reminded him of the purpose with which he was called upon, did the awe begin to fade. Monitor 612 easily navigated the small single bedroom loft, pausing for a brief moment in the doorframe of to the bedroom, making sure he figure he saw amidst the tangle of blankets indeed matched his file. He approached her. Where he was filled with wonder he now felt cold impassiveness as he placed the receipt of visit under her pillow. He then touched the extractor to her temple and began to search her mind for the incriminating evidence. It was not Monitor 612’s place to judge which memories needed to be extracted. Or why. But, if he was being honest with himself, he did enjoy the quick walk through another’s life. It showed him a life that he lost when he accepted the position. It showed him what could have been.
@Ivy that whole piece puts me in mind of Blade Runner, so I hope that's the kind of thing you were hoping to evoke! It feels a lot like Philip K Dick's works as a whole -- a possibly dystopian future, kafkaesque environments and a discussion about the loss of humanity. I like it!
The agency Death had picked Famine for a reason of course, knowing that neither Pestilence nor War would have the resources to handle this. Famine however looked into the space around the normal space, which was a mandelbrot maze of lines and directions done in tones of sepia that simultaneously confused and nauseated the observer, and looked for concentrations of anything. Then he opened his intrinsic nature to the space and created Famine, a dearth of resource and a lack of facility. Hopelessness spread out from him like a cold frost, contained by Death's library but it still gnawed at the walls like three-day hunger twisting a gut. Within the enclosing space the mandelbrots twisted as well, turning, screwing against each other as they fought to find sustenance, things that had been plentiful moments before. On the page in front of him the crossed axes uncrossed. moving smoothly as though the paper were a glass cover over actual action. A sense of sorrow and compassion flickered around, like a butterfly moving across a field of flowers, and for a moment the whole page glowed. There was a surge of power, but it was seized by the mandelbrots and devoured, pulled back into the Escheresque ambience and used to fuel their endless churn. The axes toppled over and visibly rusted. Famine maintained the famine for a minute longer, letting his long, pale fingers ruffle the pages and seek out any more traps, but it was quickly clear that Mercy had set only the one. He returned to the (relatively) normal of Death's Library, and considered the document again. Well? Death's voice in his head had more strength here and hearing it was like turning your head and waving goodbye for the last time to your family. Not a trap for you, boss, replied Famine. A death-trap, should have taken pretty much anyone else though. Perhaps still a trap for me. Death's voice contained a minuscule amount of humour. She could have been trying to create a small loop, something to hinder me for a decade or so. I felt the surge and the agency of your actions. I... ah, she's noticed it as well. And... she's looking over. Let me wave- Famine sniggered. She seems unhappy. Oh, now she's flouncing down from the musician's gallery, undoubtedly to sulk somewhere else. Death's voice disappeared from his head, and Famine relaxed once more. He turned the first page. The shrine of Clementia -- spelunking under Ezcaray was the title, and Famine forgot everything for a half-hour while he turned the pages of the document, engrossed in what a nineteenth century explorer had found, and the wild speculations he'd made about it.
This is fantastic, by the way. A whole world is unfolding in my mind, and I would be very happy to see you revisit this setting to expand upon what you've sparked here.
Greg - also what you said.
Ah, how pleasant it is to return to Death and all his friends. I have missed them. I'm glad that I've gotten back to reading and replying to comments at last.
3 comments:
Woo! First comment! That very rarely happens!
Monitor 612 took a step through the door of the apartment. Though he had been conducting the extractions of close to five years, it still amazed him every time he entered a frozen space. Just for a second. Just as the dust particles ceased to fall in the light cast by the streetlamps, showering the apartment in a sort of glitter or fine snow. Just as the cat stretched into a yawn, its features suddenly stuck for the allotted time as if it was a sketching by Edvard Munch.
It always felt like Monitor 612 was the only person with breath, with purpose.
And it was that feeling that, as soon as it reminded him of the purpose with which he was called upon, did the awe begin to fade.
Monitor 612 easily navigated the small single bedroom loft, pausing for a brief moment in the doorframe of to the bedroom, making sure he figure he saw amidst the tangle of blankets indeed matched his file. He approached her. Where he was filled with wonder he now felt cold impassiveness as he placed the receipt of visit under her pillow. He then touched the extractor to her temple and began to search her mind for the incriminating evidence.
It was not Monitor 612’s place to judge which memories needed to be extracted. Or why. But, if he was being honest with himself, he did enjoy the quick walk through another’s life. It showed him a life that he lost when he accepted the position.
It showed him what could have been.
@Ivy that whole piece puts me in mind of Blade Runner, so I hope that's the kind of thing you were hoping to evoke! It feels a lot like Philip K Dick's works as a whole -- a possibly dystopian future, kafkaesque environments and a discussion about the loss of humanity. I like it!
The agency
Death had picked Famine for a reason of course, knowing that neither Pestilence nor War would have the resources to handle this. Famine however looked into the space around the normal space, which was a mandelbrot maze of lines and directions done in tones of sepia that simultaneously confused and nauseated the observer, and looked for concentrations of anything. Then he opened his intrinsic nature to the space and created Famine, a dearth of resource and a lack of facility. Hopelessness spread out from him like a cold frost, contained by Death's library but it still gnawed at the walls like three-day hunger twisting a gut. Within the enclosing space the mandelbrots twisted as well, turning, screwing against each other as they fought to find sustenance, things that had been plentiful moments before.
On the page in front of him the crossed axes uncrossed. moving smoothly as though the paper were a glass cover over actual action. A sense of sorrow and compassion flickered around, like a butterfly moving across a field of flowers, and for a moment the whole page glowed. There was a surge of power, but it was seized by the mandelbrots and devoured, pulled back into the Escheresque ambience and used to fuel their endless churn. The axes toppled over and visibly rusted.
Famine maintained the famine for a minute longer, letting his long, pale fingers ruffle the pages and seek out any more traps, but it was quickly clear that Mercy had set only the one. He returned to the (relatively) normal of Death's Library, and considered the document again.
Well? Death's voice in his head had more strength here and hearing it was like turning your head and waving goodbye for the last time to your family.
Not a trap for you, boss, replied Famine. A death-trap, should have taken pretty much anyone else though.
Perhaps still a trap for me. Death's voice contained a minuscule amount of humour. She could have been trying to create a small loop, something to hinder me for a decade or so. I felt the surge and the agency of your actions. I... ah, she's noticed it as well. And... she's looking over. Let me wave- Famine sniggered. She seems unhappy. Oh, now she's flouncing down from the musician's gallery, undoubtedly to sulk somewhere else. Death's voice disappeared from his head, and Famine relaxed once more.
He turned the first page.
The shrine of Clementia -- spelunking under Ezcaray was the title, and Famine forgot everything for a half-hour while he turned the pages of the document, engrossed in what a nineteenth century explorer had found, and the wild speculations he'd made about it.
Ivy - haha, congrats :)
This is fantastic, by the way. A whole world is unfolding in my mind, and I would be very happy to see you revisit this setting to expand upon what you've sparked here.
Greg - also what you said.
Ah, how pleasant it is to return to Death and all his friends. I have missed them. I'm glad that I've gotten back to reading and replying to comments at last.
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