You couldn't stop staring at the sun.
Partly because your head had been severed from your body, having rolled to a stop on the pavement some time ago, now sore at a tilted, awkward angle that was fixed under the glaring star. The other reason, thought toiled out of irrational belief misconstrued as a memory, was that you did not quite remember the sun looking so artificial.
But that would imply you knew what the sun of the forbidden city looked like before, to not conflate it with the hundred millions of other suns replicated in other worlds. And 'before' was a long, abandoned art project rolled into a yarn, rigid balls your Mother would always hide away in biscuit tins, Venn diagrams circled like puddle-accumulated potholes in the back of your mind. Time was of no consequence when it had been gutted out of the universe, the violence of which continued to move Reality in traumatic, vibrating shades. Seeing-double?, you flicked to yarn as a means of reference 'before' all else. Poorly. Perhaps you had seen the city before industrial megastructures were raised to resolve the puppet-housing crisis in advance, whatever wasteland that must have looked like, perhaps the sun simply shrunk or grew tenfold in size, perhaps you did loath it once upon a Time, before a button was sewn over your empty socket, before the thought of naming you, Lucid, seemed inconceivable.
There was something there, fuzzy reflection still before the oval mirror more prominently now than it had ever been anywhere else, but shovelling against that perpetual fog always elicited the same onslaught of headaches, nothing-changed. In your opinion, it was a good thing that Time was removed altogether, because to believe that problems could place themselves in the distant past ['before'] and within the equally distant present ['after'], was self-inflicted. You could spend 'a lot of Time', tokens of thought, sitting about instead of acting on it. All the while, both ends of the wick continued burning towards whatever length left suspended in the middle, the middle tightrope everyone else suffered to balance, walking on.
| Snippet of a Conversation You Heard Before. |
"You should commit to the Design Principles of the Status Civitatis Vaticanae if you're serious about this holy-city business. Nice ceiling by the way. The painting is melding with the floor." "It's an aesthetic, and I have no idea what you're trying to convey." "That's the problem with all your designs. Purely aesthetic, with no regard for what you're actually doing. I have an excuse to merge aesthetics because I have little control over them. Learn to be more precise with your creations, you deranged Eurocrat. Just know that these inconsistencies are shameful to their authentic counterparts." "Stop omitting your words through script - it's confusing and not at all mysterious like you think it is. You are only saying that because you are, what? An agent representative of visual history? Got the World Arts Organisation police over here." "Normally, I could care less about what people do, but even I can't stand this eyesore you call a kingdom. I suppose it's a given considering you can't even crack a decent joke." |
Yet, even as you could not confirm if there was anything 'before' you, much less 'after', it persisted, fixation on the thought that suggested the absurdity of [...changing something before? into…]an artificial sun when all other suns in all other worlds were equally un-real. Mere vibrant construct formulated in a Mother's mind and dragged sloppily into the sky with their finger, their graceful indifference smearing like fresh paint on everything they touched. Then it bleeds, surgical stitches flying off the wound, spreading their presence further, deeper; unchecked cavity granted omnipresence.
Similarly, the sun in the sky which stared back at you had these metaphorical handprints all over it. You noted its subtlety, exposure without the usual strobing, susurrus writhing to act as a radio for the gospel, rather droning a sense that was adjacent to security, and something about wizards. The vagueness of the atmosphere tracks, you nodded sagely to yourself, because the former was closer to an imbued command which flattened any chance of it organically occuring, very-good, very-God-like, and the latter was arguably fluff plucked from the builder's thoughts while they were tinkering with it. This instability so reminiscent of a Mother's fomite was commendable, if not agitating that the singular word ['wizard'] kept being shuffled to the forefront of one's mental space. You squinted your good eye, as though that would somehow magically connect you with the memories and association of the word ["wizard"] had with the sun of all things, but the air was stagnant and you heard Nothing.
Still, the creation held fast instead of melting into something else entirely, and it seemed to fulfil the purpose of a traditional sun fine by basking the world in a comfortably warm temperature, differing only in its appearance that resembled a lightbulb, with all its lurid teeth self-contained behind a yellow-tinted glass of the globe, and so it did not hurt to observe it. Spectacularly, whoever made the semisphere simply glued it to one spot in the skybox, calculated from cone vision, saving the need to magically chart its course. Not that you had ever seen one move, because such a model seemed ineffective at best, distress Mothers at worst, and these things were always meant to be more decorative than practical in any case, which you felt was applicable to the almost begrudging, obligated craftsmanship involved in its instalment here.
You welcomed its simplicity, a philosophy so rare, so untangled from the cluster of nonsensical objects that you often witnessed strapped to the star, which, as you learned, was more unsurprising neuroses shared among the higher maternal beings that a sun was something that could fly away if left untethered to their worlds, the same way all their children do. Arriving at the thought of being reprimanded, you slowly rolled closer to your body, wincing at the sight of your own scattered limbs and splintered fingers stray on the pavement. It was not painful, these senseless condominiums of great heights stacked against you, snapped your head off your neck joint, crushing you beneath its circular debris, not-really. Physical altercation was a mild irritation, a bug bite in the alternative of being caught in the crossfire of Godlings' turf wars. You convinced yourself that your current, unharmed state was proportional to your purity and goodness, and that privilege sustained until your Mother fished you by the finger and tossed you back into her gallery.
That said, this was still a vulnerability, and so you chose to ignore the perpetual golden warmth strung up in the same, drowsy tones of the sky, never straying from its radiated yellow and pastel orange, ignoring how it reminded you of strange loss, and a penalising finality that you had truly forgotten something, even if one was more recent than the other.
Whatever past decayed could stay that way if it wanted to. You had to start walking again.
After a while of walking in silence, you abruptly turned around and said, "Your friends are fine."
The girl, who had repeated her name several times, five in total, throughout her brief, one-sided prattling behind you, blinked, before a clear look of relief overcame her typically over exuberant expression: "Really?"
Unlike her, you did not enjoy repeating yourself.
"The last eye ritual I performed was to check where they were, obviously. That gross doll-Thing was picking up her pieces from what I last saw-"
"Lucid isn't gross," Clara interjected quietly, shyly, under her breath, a visible pout that you ignored, facing front again and resuming your stroll and sentence, "-and Miss Ravenkurzt is scuttling around, looking for the quickest transport to her brother."
Clara responded, "Oh. I see."
"Um, the thing that attacked us…" she tilted her head, pretending to invest an interest in the canal along the street as she fidgeted her hand, both signifying gestures that you began to learn were companions to her expectation of you spoon-feeding her with a textbook's worth of details. You frowned.
"You had a timely run-in with my Ambassador. Although most Ambassadors are alleviated to a higher form of intelligence and understanding to serve their Mistress, I made sure mine was…less so. In this case, it certainly saved your friend, whatever her name was, because that stupid creature wasn't thorough with his attempt. And now, trespassers," you glanced back, "like you and her survived."
Though it was not possible for either of them to simply become deceased from being slapped around by replicated concrete, you did not verbalise this. Weaklings, you curled your lip, pressing your tongue back to the roof of your mouth to resist spouting more common sense to her than you already had. Weaklings, all of them, and the notion that you shared this vein of bad blood, irrefutable weakness in letting lessers slip through your fingers, even if it was an indirect misfortune caused by your own Ambassador, was loathsome.
You have always thought this: had you had your way all those times ago, struggled free from the socialisation and lessons on bureaucracy subjected by the current Minister of Funeral Services, you would have assumed total control over the Fragment Kingdom, just as the late Prince relegated. Now though, with those smarmy S.O.Bs in their upholstered chambers whistling as they shuffled the bindings containing your legal documents stamped and signed in that atrocious red ink found only in the Melliferan Houses of Parliament, you had to share both the kingdom's prosperities and crises with two other beings instead. You were thinking about it again, as you so often did, thunder to follow lightning, that if the Prince was still here this would not have flown, because with these legal cuffs on you, it seemed that everyone wanted to be Icaros.
|
And whereas by the Federal Constitution, aforesaid provision is made to safeguard the rights and prerogatives of Their Highnesses the Rulers and the fundamental rights and liberties of the people and to provide for the peaceful and orderly advancement of the Federation as a constitutional monarchy based on Parliamentary democracy, ………….are you kidding me. Note: I can't be bothered to crop out some of the text, but no one is going to read this entry anyways, merely for private reference in the future, if such a thing exists at all. The proper meeting minutes have been copied elsewhere, refer to file number, "MDK318" (under "Parliamentary Affairs and Declarations") for the full version. I asked Mr. Ravenkurzt why he wanted me to actively participate in ruling a specific region even after I told him it was pointless for me to idle in the background if I was not there to control everything at once. Either we did this with a fistful of change in our hands, or there would be no output at the vending machine for any of us. I did not understand what he wanted me to do, and then I rejected his politics, his policies playing at concepts and matters that did-not contribute to the preservation of the Universe. He was the newly appointed Minister for Funeral Services, but he had a sense about him, an unturned palm that clutched onto something. If it shines and beckons, it's not gold, it's oil, it's sleaze, and this representative, like all those around him in this profession, showered in it. In other words, nonsense. "Politics are like games, too," he simply told me, with a shrug while facing the wall, not even with the grace to appear wistful, just plain callous in his mannerisms. I disliked him from the start, and now, I hated him, inching my patience short by the breath. Maybe he thought he was being relatable, in which case he could have at least pretended to stare out into the sunset, and perhaps I would have been more moved by his teachings - unlikely- but as he stood, "It's not different from exercising our power. You call it purpose, I call it agenda. There is a reason legality has never affected this place until the establishment of our kind in offices. We can use our influence for good." What could possible be constituted, either legally or morally, as Good, much more questionable when framed to be fighting "for" It? Those puppets would follow anything with a pull, moths to an open flame. Only those whose senses are attuned to the highest priority can assign what is Good for others. I kept quiet, hoping he would understand from my silence that the conversation was useless to continue carrying forward. He was standing so close, it was absurd that he hadn't backed off already. Maybe the rumours about his condition were true. Cain was still standing there. "What, are you telling me that ruling Sunskate on your own bothers you? Come on, it's a nice place. There is…stuff there." "Don't patronise me. I have no particular issues with residing in Sunskate. I informed already that I would prefer if every other federal territory is within my jurisdiction for administrative convenience. It's as though you are insinuating that I am somehow incompetent, Mr. Ravenkurzt." "Convenience in centralisation? That defeats the purpose of our subdivisions and assigning federal territories to begin with. You understand that given our nature, distance is necessary to prevent collision and cross-contamination of our own identities, so why do you need to control all three federal territories? Is there any other reasoning to your arguments outside of, 'because I want to', Mr. Krieg?" I so very badly wanted to throttle him. There was no reasoning or purpose to justify the need to have three! separate federal territories to begin with, in any world under the suns, but of course he wouldn't grasp that. That practiced, drawling cadence, high-pitched to make him stand out among the parliament sessions, raising his head just a little higher, his shoulders more firm as he wound up his arm in front of him, right below the fourth button and nary beyond that measure. Punctuating the individual's title with such an insufferable roll, being the verbal equivalent of being violently grabbed by the scruff of the collar, once he's got-you, he's-got-you, and it was no surprise those fossils hated arguing against him because here I was, currently at the receiving end of this looping drivel. He thinks he's so fancy, doesn't he? I committed to memory his distasteful behaviour, dragging me down to his childish level and trouncing me in the experience of his politicking. Beat for bloody beat, word for word, step for step. I clenched his throat in my mind, but he casually tightened his tie up his neck further. "This isn't a very fun game," I said eventually. "Only because you haven't learned the mechanics." After that, I went back and played Turbokill. |
"So your Ambassador is a guard?"
"Yes, he performs rudimentary patrols. Not that I actually rely on him to ensure the security of the city. I already had protocols in place of that, way before that thing was even knighted." Why were you still locked in this conversation with her?
Next to you, a boat glided to a slow stop along the riverside, music trailing after it against the stuttering motor. The Elaccian flag attached to its end drooped, and you gave the chipping paint job of the boat's blue-white hull a look over; it was one of the vessels used to transport tourists for the advertised river cruise experience, though you never saw the worth in it when the 'experience' was one full circle around the main town, where you could sneak a glimpse of the Prince's old fortress from the sides before being dumped right back at the dock, a scenery apparently worth a lot to those who never wanted to risk staring down the barrels of the firing squad stationed there. Fear is the mind-killer, truly, for you would have a more enriching use of daylight vaulting into the perimeters yourself if a scene was what you wanted.
The puppet steering the cruise peered out with interest, and you beckoned him.
"Sunskate," you phrased the destination in a questioning tone.
"Faster to use the SSL, adik," the captain adjusted his hat, but his nerves were tangible. Although most ferrymen would either pitch unreasonable prices or charge an absurd amount only after the ride when provided with an address that was not desirable, this one was just frightened of you.
"I'm giving you business. Tak nak?"
The Melliferan slumped, raising his hands, "Okay, okay…I can go there. Foreign Affairs building, boleh ke? Will take longer, but I hope that isn't too inconvenient for you."
Bending forward, you pressed one foot onto the floorboards. The vessel tipped down with your weight, and you paused before lurching fully within the interior, ducking your head on the way in.
You glanced at Clara, who squirmed as she tried to assess how to board the small cruise, which already low entrance unsteadily knocked against the steps, swaying with the water beneath it. The river rippled, sloshing strange water onto the waiting pavement. Thud. Creak. Thud. Thud. The bump was intermittent, and still she could not time it right. You tried not to smile as she nudged forward, only for the boat to bounce away from the ledge.
She gingerly combed her hair behind her ear, face pointed down in shame.
"Ah…could you help me? I have never been on a boat before."
"No. Can't you do anything on your own?" you responded, resting your head on the long length of your arm as you leaned away with disinterest. This girl had never experienced anything outside of her greenhouse, and her bashfulness felt more of a dull cork on your fun than anything else. The Universe showed its hand when It materialised and breathed life into the divine flesh that happened to be a cheerful Concept of uselessness. Clara didn't shy away, and eventually she was aided by the captain, who revved the engine, quietly reciting a brief prayer to the Prince as he slinked to do so.
"Do you know where we're going?" the girl asked, seated across you.
"To a place that can get you a traveller's permit. Boring paperwork stuff, but I'll handle it fast."
"Oh, thank you. You're very kind. What about after that?"
You did not answer her, her inquiry shredded by the sound of the motor picking up.
You hoped Clara and Lucid were alright. A bizarre puppet launched an apartment building towards the world, and all the birds died. Your arrows were depleted, and concentrating new ones, they fell to dust in your hands. Dust, but it felt like liquid?
It was probably rotten. Rotten things, especially inedible ones, were bad for your health.
Something like that, you thought, must be related to Isaiah. He was always onto something. You hadn't seen him in a while. You didn't really need to.
| I Wanted to Show You |
This is a bird, Thawnre signed. There was a bird sat on her head. I know what a bird is, and this is a crow. Why are you showing it to me? Isaiah signed in returned, making his displeasure known through the erratic ferocity of his gestures. I just wanted to show you. Caw. You speak in circles. Caw. |
Maybe Cain felt your presence. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he didn't care, or was preoccupied with his work. He was always working. You hadn't seen him in a while, either. Maybe he missed you, but maybe he didn't. It did not bother you, because you allowed yourself to think that mourning was an essential activity.
Isaiah shot down your speaking bird. You saw him do it through the eyes of the bird itself. Took away your tricks. This was troublesome, but very much like him. Probably related to the giant towers with eyes on them. Inhibitors…maybe. Insofar, the puppets were lukewarm friendly towards you, and you wondered if they were accommodating to you because you were related to your brother. Was that how things worked?
Question mark.
There was a poster on the streetlamp. Special discount for things identifying as Girls. For the upcoming concert where Lady Bishop and the mechanical mermaids would perform. Megahit idol God-star with record albums such as "Love is Good" and, "Bricks for Pricks". Amazing. You listened to all of her songs before. She was okay compared to the previous Victoria poster child, Sugarpop Bunny.
You tried not to compare them, but you had more licensed merchandise of Sugarpop Bunny in your room than Lady Bishop. You wouldn't mind meeting the latter, since the former disappeared from the Victorian music industry quite some time ago. Her vanishment was not a matter of time, but why. How mysterious.
You prayed she was well, wherever she was now.
Focusing on the poster again, pushing a discount for Girls was a strange deal. You are not anything at all, but you were comfortable with the concept of being one. What was it, anyways, a Girl?
It likely wasn't something edible, and that was alright. What you really needed now was a new aide. Being a Girl could come later.
You started daydreaming about the concert as you walked aimlessly. You could wave neon glowsticks during "Blue and White Porcelain", or however it was called. It could be fun. You hoped it was fun.
It would definitely be exciting if you could have saved and brought the other two along. You should have been more careful, but you did forget about how unforgiving the anti-foreigner enforcers in the Security Department could get.
It was all Isaiah's fault anyways. Cutting people off, isolating them…or something. Even as a person, you always found him to be a bit odd to interact with. Not distinctly unpleasant, given you sympathised with his propensity to lean into violence eight point eight times out of ten. You even shared a Godling with him before, a bit awkward, but you knew you would also be stranded the same way if you were permanently stuck at his evolutionary stage. Deepest-condolences. Perhaps he felt the same towards you, this fogging weirdness of navigating for a good response.
You would likely never know, and so it was unimportant.
"Woah there. You're really tall," a puppet next to you admired.
You stared at them.
"I really love tall people. You should totally become a model one day. I can picture you in the latest high fashion trends by Polaroid Truth. It pays good, too."
You stared.
"By the way, are you going to Lady Bishop's concert by any chance? We could like…carpool."
You nodded.