[IC] The Worn
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icmasticc Abstract Theory
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2 mos ago
Present Day
Red Light District |T H E C R I M S O N H A L O || SERAPH’S END
”And back to our top story tonight, it looks like Gunther’s Isle, the famous maximum security prison situated in the middle of Seraph’s Bay, has been shuttered for good. Authorities say the prison, which was host to Seraph’s End first ever angel attack six months ago, was always scheduled to be closed and the shuttering has nothing do with the brief invasion at all. Authorities also tell us that despite reports to the contrary, all prisoners were accounted for and have been transferred to other state prisons via the proper channels…
…Yeah John, all prisoners have been accounted for and the joint cooperation with the National Guard has now come to an end. You’ll remember it was the National Guard that repelled the angels during that invasion six months ago and they’ve been on standby helping with the cleanup process ever since. It was their victory that has given the world over its first taste of hope since these unfortunate attacks began…”
…Yeah John, all prisoners have been accounted for and the joint cooperation with the National Guard has now come to an end. You’ll remember it was the National Guard that repelled the angels during that invasion six months ago and they’ve been on standby helping with the cleanup process ever since. It was their victory that has given the world over its first taste of hope since these unfortunate attacks began…”
Angels. Demons. Same shit, different day. Except today they decided to top it off with lies.
Jaheim swallowed the cold thought alongside his cold brew as he set the bottle back onto the bar top, index finger and thumb curled around the tall, thin neck. Dark umber eyes gazed daggers into the matching bottle before shifting up to the tv and finally back down to the bar top. His mind raced, but he put the brake on his thoughts as he settled back into the awe of his original wonderment. He was alive. Alive enough to be sitting in a bar casually drinking. Angel attacks were commonplace in the rest of the world, but Seraph’s End had become something of a safe haven against them. Nobody knew what it was that kept the angels away, but they hadn’t bothered with the city until six months ago. Even then, they’d only targeted the prison. Jaheim sighed and leaned his forearms on the bar top.
He did his best not to acknowledge the space around him. It was quite lively for the evening. The Crimson Halo was one of the more popular bars—and nightclubs—in Seraph’s End and it was definitely number one in its district. It was packed wall to wall this night, bodies scooping up every available space around. The booths were full, the tables were full, and the dance floor off to the side was full as well, music blaring from overhead speakers and leaking out from the dance floor throughout the rest of the building at various levels of volume. Jaheim sipped another pull from his bottle and set it back down. The channel on the television had been changed from the news back to some sports game. He sighed again.
Most everyone in the club seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the city had just survived an angel attack. They partied their sorrows away and drowned their doubts in drink. Not that Jaheim could judge of course, considering his current state. But it was different. He couldn’t forget what happened. It was different from when he was growing up. Growing up during this celestial war had been hard. He remembered the slain bodies slumped over and the demons feasting on flesh as he’d sneak by to get home or to school. He remembered the police and the military cooperating to fight pockets of invasion, but it never turned out well. For every being they slaughtered, it seemed like the monsters slayed a group of them. It was wildly imbalanced. But six months ago was different. The angels attacked, but…
Jaheim snapped back to reality. He took another swig before spinning around his bar stool and leaning his back against the bar top. He scanned the crowds in front of and on both sides of him. There were too many people clumped together to recognize specific faces, but he tried anyway. The others had to be around somewhere. They had come to the bar together, after all. Only they could understand his feelings. Only they could understand the sheer shock of it all. They had been there with him during that time. They had been right by his side. Strangers to each other, but bonded over a common abnormality. Jaheim stared down at his palm. He stared at the lines etched into the palm and concentrated. It took a full minute, but he started to feel the buzz and it wasn’t from his drink. It was a small hum in his hand, a buzz in the air around his palm that gathered air and densely packed it into a single point just above his fingers. Then it started to come into fruition.
Translucent lines formed the shape and body of the object currently in Jaheim’s mind. As he concentrated more lines joined the fray and took shape and form like a printer tracing lines to create a document ordered to print. Finally, the lines formed the object and it began to fill itself with color and material and weight. After two solid minutes, the object fell into Jaheim’s palm and he gripped it instinctually. It was nothing but a pocket knife that he unfolded, staring at the blade, and then refolded. It had a black grip and was small enough that when he wrapped his fingers around it it was almost completely overtaken. He breathed in and out in disbelief. Six months ago wasn’t a dream after all. It had been real and here was the proof. He’d just created this pocket knife out of thin air and everyone in the bar was too busy to notice.
With the same concentration he’d used to create it, Jaheim sentenced the pocket knife to a pocket dimension and it disappeared in an instant. Much quicker than it took to form. He sat in awe for a second before swiveling back around and taking another swig from his bottle. It was that kind of a night at the end of the day. And he was getting better. In the six months after the attack, he’d tried his hand at recapturing the feeling he’d felt during that certain moment. That time when all hope seemed lost and he’d become just another victim. It had taken time and he’d failed plenty, but once he’d grasped the feeling for a second time he’d held onto that memory and he had slowly been getting better ever since.
Jaheim finished off his bottle in one long draw and set it back down before standing up from the bar stool. He left a bill on the bar top and looked around. He still couldn’t make out any specific faces, but he was done cradling his thoughts. He needed to talk about it with someone. Not just anyone. One of them. The ones who had been there right beside manifesting their own weird abilities. It would do no good to drink and think the entire night. He needed some perspective. Especially given their new circumstances. This was their last night as free individuals, after all. The National Guard, the angels, Tom Gunther… It had been made clear that they were going to be watched and harassed should they decline to show up to the meeting area tomorrow. Just like that, they had become government assets and they were to report in to hear about “next steps”.
So Jaheim ventured into the crowds, pocketed his hands, and went on the hunt. He figured he would run into one or all of them if he looked around enough. The place was big, but only just so. There were still four walls. They had to be somewhere within the building and they were probably going their own mental crises at the moment. Jaheim had no idea, but he imagined it would feel better if they could share their thoughts with one another. That, he figured, was the least he could do after sharing a battlefield with them.
Jaheim swallowed the cold thought alongside his cold brew as he set the bottle back onto the bar top, index finger and thumb curled around the tall, thin neck. Dark umber eyes gazed daggers into the matching bottle before shifting up to the tv and finally back down to the bar top. His mind raced, but he put the brake on his thoughts as he settled back into the awe of his original wonderment. He was alive. Alive enough to be sitting in a bar casually drinking. Angel attacks were commonplace in the rest of the world, but Seraph’s End had become something of a safe haven against them. Nobody knew what it was that kept the angels away, but they hadn’t bothered with the city until six months ago. Even then, they’d only targeted the prison. Jaheim sighed and leaned his forearms on the bar top.
He did his best not to acknowledge the space around him. It was quite lively for the evening. The Crimson Halo was one of the more popular bars—and nightclubs—in Seraph’s End and it was definitely number one in its district. It was packed wall to wall this night, bodies scooping up every available space around. The booths were full, the tables were full, and the dance floor off to the side was full as well, music blaring from overhead speakers and leaking out from the dance floor throughout the rest of the building at various levels of volume. Jaheim sipped another pull from his bottle and set it back down. The channel on the television had been changed from the news back to some sports game. He sighed again.
Most everyone in the club seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the city had just survived an angel attack. They partied their sorrows away and drowned their doubts in drink. Not that Jaheim could judge of course, considering his current state. But it was different. He couldn’t forget what happened. It was different from when he was growing up. Growing up during this celestial war had been hard. He remembered the slain bodies slumped over and the demons feasting on flesh as he’d sneak by to get home or to school. He remembered the police and the military cooperating to fight pockets of invasion, but it never turned out well. For every being they slaughtered, it seemed like the monsters slayed a group of them. It was wildly imbalanced. But six months ago was different. The angels attacked, but…
Jaheim snapped back to reality. He took another swig before spinning around his bar stool and leaning his back against the bar top. He scanned the crowds in front of and on both sides of him. There were too many people clumped together to recognize specific faces, but he tried anyway. The others had to be around somewhere. They had come to the bar together, after all. Only they could understand his feelings. Only they could understand the sheer shock of it all. They had been there with him during that time. They had been right by his side. Strangers to each other, but bonded over a common abnormality. Jaheim stared down at his palm. He stared at the lines etched into the palm and concentrated. It took a full minute, but he started to feel the buzz and it wasn’t from his drink. It was a small hum in his hand, a buzz in the air around his palm that gathered air and densely packed it into a single point just above his fingers. Then it started to come into fruition.
Translucent lines formed the shape and body of the object currently in Jaheim’s mind. As he concentrated more lines joined the fray and took shape and form like a printer tracing lines to create a document ordered to print. Finally, the lines formed the object and it began to fill itself with color and material and weight. After two solid minutes, the object fell into Jaheim’s palm and he gripped it instinctually. It was nothing but a pocket knife that he unfolded, staring at the blade, and then refolded. It had a black grip and was small enough that when he wrapped his fingers around it it was almost completely overtaken. He breathed in and out in disbelief. Six months ago wasn’t a dream after all. It had been real and here was the proof. He’d just created this pocket knife out of thin air and everyone in the bar was too busy to notice.
With the same concentration he’d used to create it, Jaheim sentenced the pocket knife to a pocket dimension and it disappeared in an instant. Much quicker than it took to form. He sat in awe for a second before swiveling back around and taking another swig from his bottle. It was that kind of a night at the end of the day. And he was getting better. In the six months after the attack, he’d tried his hand at recapturing the feeling he’d felt during that certain moment. That time when all hope seemed lost and he’d become just another victim. It had taken time and he’d failed plenty, but once he’d grasped the feeling for a second time he’d held onto that memory and he had slowly been getting better ever since.
Jaheim finished off his bottle in one long draw and set it back down before standing up from the bar stool. He left a bill on the bar top and looked around. He still couldn’t make out any specific faces, but he was done cradling his thoughts. He needed to talk about it with someone. Not just anyone. One of them. The ones who had been there right beside manifesting their own weird abilities. It would do no good to drink and think the entire night. He needed some perspective. Especially given their new circumstances. This was their last night as free individuals, after all. The National Guard, the angels, Tom Gunther… It had been made clear that they were going to be watched and harassed should they decline to show up to the meeting area tomorrow. Just like that, they had become government assets and they were to report in to hear about “next steps”.
So Jaheim ventured into the crowds, pocketed his hands, and went on the hunt. He figured he would run into one or all of them if he looked around enough. The place was big, but only just so. There were still four walls. They had to be somewhere within the building and they were probably going their own mental crises at the moment. Jaheim had no idea, but he imagined it would feel better if they could share their thoughts with one another. That, he figured, was the least he could do after sharing a battlefield with them.
Six Months Prior. . .
Gunther’s Isle | M A X I M U M S E C U R I T Y P R I S O N || SERAPH’S BAY
”Heed my words, mortal…”
A pounding headache.
It wasn’t uncommon in prison. Prison food was shit and full of sodium so it wasn’t exactly earth shattering to have a headache. What made it worse was that in prison you couldn’t just go grab a bottle of pills, pop one or two, and wait fifteen minutes for relief. You had to deal with the headache and all the annoyance that came along with it. The strain and the throb and the agony that followed closely in a headache’s footsteps. As Jaheim slowly regained consciousness and his bearings began to return to him, the pounding headache was the first thing he could discern.
He struggled to remember what had happened. The headache was doing its job, but it was also grogginess like he had been sleep for hours. The next thing that he could discern was the wail of an alarm. It was faint and only growing in volume as his awakened state grew more full, but it was loud enough to be annoying and his headache seemed to feed off of it. The feeling of his body was the next thing Jaheim started to be able to discern. He was shocked to realize he was lying on the ground. The memories were covered in haze, but he started to remember. He had been in his cell when it all happened. An explosion. Destruction. And Jaheim being blown away and sprawled across the ground. He finally opened his eyes to the scene around him.
Rubble and broken concrete was sprinkled everywhere. The darkened sky hung above replacing what used to be a roof. Some cell doors were open, others were simply blown apart and stray bars littered the cracked and broken linoleum floor. The alarm, covering everything in a slowly flashing red glare, continued to go off and now that Jaheim was fully awake it was loud and obnoxious about it. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around, rubbing the back of his head. Orange jump-suited inmates ran by back and forth and guards chased in both directions. Chased or were running away themselves, Jaheim couldn’t decide which. He only knew what now stole his attention away high in the sky. He could see the figures, but he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Black, feathered wings outstretched from an ebony armored body, helmets seemingly concealing their faces, and swords, spears, and axes clutched in their metallic hands. There were too many of them to count as they filled the night sky, hovering above in a formation that seemed to be observing the goings on below. Moonlight glinted off their armor and highlighted them in twisted shadows as they hovered and moved ever so slightly from left to right and right to left. Jaheim just stared in disbelief. He was reverted back to his inner child. The fear he’d felt during the demon invasion. The betrayal he’d felt when the angels turn on humanity. The anger he’d felt when his father was brutally slayed by them. He furrowed his brow and hobbled to his feet. This was it. This was another moment of revenge. All the memories came flooding back.
The memories of his training in the US army. The memories of his various tours fighting pockets of invasion on different continents in different countries. These weren’t unfamiliar forms to him. He suddenly remembered they all looked the same. All wore the same armor. All had the same outstretched black wings, feathers pronounced and sometimes fluttering away as the wings beat in the air to keep them adrift. He knew what could pierce their armor by now. And as he turned to sprint away to the left, the angels swooped down and into the prison. Jaheim ran at full speed. He ran through open gates, destroyed walkways, and crumbling hallways. All the while prison inmates and guards were being slaughtered around him. It was as if the angels were ignoring him for the moment as they went after everyone else.
”Heed my words, mortal…!”
Jaheim stopped just outside the armory. The headache was back and it had returned with a vengeance. It throbbed so hard it froze him in place. The screams of slain guards and inmates filled his eardrums as he stood in place, clutching his forehead and tightly holding his eyes closed. He grit his teeth and tried his best to bear it as he reopened his eyes and stumbled into the armory. He looked around in brief disappointment at empty shelves and rifle racks. Everything had been picked clean already. He questioned how long he’d been out, but also knew he didn’t have time to worry about that at the moment. The headache buzzed again and this time was followed by nausea and muscle pain. Jaheim shut the door behind him before he slumped to the ground against the doorframe.
”Vengeance is what you seek… Survive, mortal. Survive!”
When he opened his eyes, Jaheim suddenly felt the heft of a rifle in his arms. He looked down and was cradling an M4A1 carbine. He popped the magazine out instinctually and checked the ammo count. It was full and held one in the chamber. He popped the magazine back in and pulled back the charging slide. He was locked and loaded. And confused. Had he missed a rifle? He heard more screams and bangs outside the door which brought him back to reality. No time for wondering at the moment. He stood up and righted his grip on the rifle. The headache subsided and Jaheim pulled the door open and ran out of the armory into a large opening in the middle of destroyed cells. What he saw blew his mind. There were three other orange jump-suited inmates, but they weren’t like any other human he’d seen. They were standing there, in the middle of a sea of angels, somehow holding them back. Two of them didn’t have weapons at all, but one seemed to be a weapon. His body contorted and shifted and morphed into various forms to combat the angelic threat. The other two were holding their own as well, but with abilities Jaheim couldn’t recognize with his naked eye.
At that sight, he shook his head and ran towards the group. He put the rifle up to his shoulder and cheek and began firing away at angels in the air. He watched as bullets ripped through their armor and one by one they fell from the sky and to the ground, lifeless. He fired and jogged forward in sync until he was within the group of what he could only label as super-powered inmates. He’d be sure to ask them about what they were doing later, but for now, he continued firing away as more angels swept down from the sky and into the prison.
A pounding headache.
It wasn’t uncommon in prison. Prison food was shit and full of sodium so it wasn’t exactly earth shattering to have a headache. What made it worse was that in prison you couldn’t just go grab a bottle of pills, pop one or two, and wait fifteen minutes for relief. You had to deal with the headache and all the annoyance that came along with it. The strain and the throb and the agony that followed closely in a headache’s footsteps. As Jaheim slowly regained consciousness and his bearings began to return to him, the pounding headache was the first thing he could discern.
He struggled to remember what had happened. The headache was doing its job, but it was also grogginess like he had been sleep for hours. The next thing that he could discern was the wail of an alarm. It was faint and only growing in volume as his awakened state grew more full, but it was loud enough to be annoying and his headache seemed to feed off of it. The feeling of his body was the next thing Jaheim started to be able to discern. He was shocked to realize he was lying on the ground. The memories were covered in haze, but he started to remember. He had been in his cell when it all happened. An explosion. Destruction. And Jaheim being blown away and sprawled across the ground. He finally opened his eyes to the scene around him.
Rubble and broken concrete was sprinkled everywhere. The darkened sky hung above replacing what used to be a roof. Some cell doors were open, others were simply blown apart and stray bars littered the cracked and broken linoleum floor. The alarm, covering everything in a slowly flashing red glare, continued to go off and now that Jaheim was fully awake it was loud and obnoxious about it. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around, rubbing the back of his head. Orange jump-suited inmates ran by back and forth and guards chased in both directions. Chased or were running away themselves, Jaheim couldn’t decide which. He only knew what now stole his attention away high in the sky. He could see the figures, but he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Black, feathered wings outstretched from an ebony armored body, helmets seemingly concealing their faces, and swords, spears, and axes clutched in their metallic hands. There were too many of them to count as they filled the night sky, hovering above in a formation that seemed to be observing the goings on below. Moonlight glinted off their armor and highlighted them in twisted shadows as they hovered and moved ever so slightly from left to right and right to left. Jaheim just stared in disbelief. He was reverted back to his inner child. The fear he’d felt during the demon invasion. The betrayal he’d felt when the angels turn on humanity. The anger he’d felt when his father was brutally slayed by them. He furrowed his brow and hobbled to his feet. This was it. This was another moment of revenge. All the memories came flooding back.
The memories of his training in the US army. The memories of his various tours fighting pockets of invasion on different continents in different countries. These weren’t unfamiliar forms to him. He suddenly remembered they all looked the same. All wore the same armor. All had the same outstretched black wings, feathers pronounced and sometimes fluttering away as the wings beat in the air to keep them adrift. He knew what could pierce their armor by now. And as he turned to sprint away to the left, the angels swooped down and into the prison. Jaheim ran at full speed. He ran through open gates, destroyed walkways, and crumbling hallways. All the while prison inmates and guards were being slaughtered around him. It was as if the angels were ignoring him for the moment as they went after everyone else.
”Heed my words, mortal…!”
Jaheim stopped just outside the armory. The headache was back and it had returned with a vengeance. It throbbed so hard it froze him in place. The screams of slain guards and inmates filled his eardrums as he stood in place, clutching his forehead and tightly holding his eyes closed. He grit his teeth and tried his best to bear it as he reopened his eyes and stumbled into the armory. He looked around in brief disappointment at empty shelves and rifle racks. Everything had been picked clean already. He questioned how long he’d been out, but also knew he didn’t have time to worry about that at the moment. The headache buzzed again and this time was followed by nausea and muscle pain. Jaheim shut the door behind him before he slumped to the ground against the doorframe.
”Vengeance is what you seek… Survive, mortal. Survive!”
When he opened his eyes, Jaheim suddenly felt the heft of a rifle in his arms. He looked down and was cradling an M4A1 carbine. He popped the magazine out instinctually and checked the ammo count. It was full and held one in the chamber. He popped the magazine back in and pulled back the charging slide. He was locked and loaded. And confused. Had he missed a rifle? He heard more screams and bangs outside the door which brought him back to reality. No time for wondering at the moment. He stood up and righted his grip on the rifle. The headache subsided and Jaheim pulled the door open and ran out of the armory into a large opening in the middle of destroyed cells. What he saw blew his mind. There were three other orange jump-suited inmates, but they weren’t like any other human he’d seen. They were standing there, in the middle of a sea of angels, somehow holding them back. Two of them didn’t have weapons at all, but one seemed to be a weapon. His body contorted and shifted and morphed into various forms to combat the angelic threat. The other two were holding their own as well, but with abilities Jaheim couldn’t recognize with his naked eye.
At that sight, he shook his head and ran towards the group. He put the rifle up to his shoulder and cheek and began firing away at angels in the air. He watched as bullets ripped through their armor and one by one they fell from the sky and to the ground, lifeless. He fired and jogged forward in sync until he was within the group of what he could only label as super-powered inmates. He’d be sure to ask them about what they were doing later, but for now, he continued firing away as more angels swept down from the sky and into the prison.
Rahma Idrissi
Present Day
Present Day
Her head pounded, ears ached, needles lanced through her legs and arms excepting that empty space where she could still feel her missing fingers years later, stomach ch- Rahma cut off the escalating thoughts with a sharp smack to her forehead. The immediacy of that pain brought some reprieve to her thoughts. More importantly, it allowed her to refocus her attention on the drink sat on the table in front of her. Empty like the other two glasses beside it, water beading on the still-cold surface. She swiped some off and sucked the drops before fishing an ice cube out to do the same.
The club around her was teeming, bodies packed against each other. Drinks spilled, legs shuffled on the dance floor, and somewhere in the back there was surely a pair of people snorting a line of cocaine. Even the thought revived a hunger which she ruthlessly suppressed. Rahma could "see" the air moving with the sound of the music, although it was not her eyes. With some effort, she could trace each individual beat that reached her ears back through the throng to its originating speaker had she allowed the noise to come through. Instead, sound was deadened in her vicinity to give her relative peace. A murmur of conversation and distant music rather than the cacophony others experienced.
Flexing a finger, she made the ice in her cup crumble as she shaped sound waves to match the resonant frequency, amplifying the sound until the pieces could handle no more. Adjusting the waves even more could allow her to potentially flash boil the crumbled ice, though she had never tried. She would continue to abstain for the sake of the eardrums of everyone else in the building. Figuring out a new point of her ability often required her full attention.
Rahma flipped her phone over on the table and punched in her passcode. A few taps and swipes brought her to the photo album. Right, it was blank. Her real phone had been lost six months ago. Fool that she was, nothing was backed up. Not that she had much worth remembering. Not that she could remember much of the past few years that had been spent in a drugged stupor. She flipped the phone back over and looked up in time to see one of the others approaching her. No one could explain what made them special. Why they were chosen over millions of others more deserving preternatural abilities. It was beyond her scope to care at the moment, yet seeing someone who had lived through that day brought some stability. She waved a hand and pulled out a stool that she had jealously guarded. Seems it would come in handy.
Six Months Prior
Rahma shivered as she wiped sweat from her forehead. "The least they could do is keep the temperature consistent," she muttered. She rose from her knees and flushed the toilet to get rid of the lingering strings of bile. What she wouldn't give for a cigarette to take the edge off the other cravings wracking her body. At least there was no one to see her in this state, what little good it meant while sitting in a prison cell. The faucet only ran cold water which helped wake her up but hardly relax. She instinctively checked towards a mirror that would be hanging above the sink and was quickly disappointed to see blank concrete. The little luxuries you miss...
A guard walked by and swung a flashlight beam into her cell. Rahma recoiled at the sudden intrusion, letting out a small groan. "Get me a sleep mask, would you?" she asked. The guard chuckled, shook his head, and continued off on his rounds. She needed something, anything to get to sleep. If she slept long enough, maybe she would wake up free from confinement. Patting her pockets and legs revealed no surprise packets. Intake had been thorough in checking her but one could still hope.
A dull whoosh pulsed through hall, buffeting her into her cot and sending her sprawling onto the thin mattress. Klaxons began to blare moments later, drowning out the rising chatter from other inmates in the row. They could not cover the low thumps that reverberated through the building, through her feet and teeth. Explosions were unmistakable after hearing them countless thousands of times from the inside of a tank turret. Whatever fog was left crowding her brain rushed out as instincts kicked in. Lights flickered and some went dark as power surged in the wake of the blasts. Men began to scream, helpless insects trapped in steel webs. Surely angels wouldn't attack Seraph's End. Yet what other force would risk such an attack on this city?
"Heed my words, mortal. This is your crescendo. Hear the world anew."
Her world splintered. Time ceased to exist as she fell through her mind. Senses slowly returned, and Rahma saw that only a second had passed, maybe less. Something was different. Her vision was swimming but that wasn't quite right. She could feel the world move, a never-ending pulse of sound. The continued blasts were now distinct. She knew each and every feature of those explosions, the journeys they took through the concrete and steel of the building.
Something spurred her to place her hands on the cell door. She could feel the door and the forces moving through it. The latch was distinct in its gap, connected to the outside air. She focused her full attention on those small pieces of metal hidden within the door and...tapped. A noise like a tuning fork filled the air, followed instantly by the sound of metal shattering. Rahma stared at the door. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface of the metal. She pushed and the door swung out on its hinges, the area around the keyhole falling to pieces. Screaming was now a regular part of the chorus of sound that suffused her body. Gunfire and the unmistakable sound of angels.
The hallways were littered with bodies that Rahma stepped around as she ran towards the origin of the majority of the sound. Whatever doors were not already opened she simply broke, locks falling apart under an ultrasonic assault. Her senses led her exactly where she needed to go and suddenly she was outside. Rahma quickly realized it was not the outside and instead just the result of a giant hole blasted into the roof of the building through which the host of heaven descended from the sky to lay waste. Her nerves screamed in remembrance of the agony she endured in Mecca. A stillness came over her, becoming part of the sound. It was life. And it was death. Rahma felt as three others humans entered the room, hearing their approach. There was naught but her assault on the angels, turning sound to weapon within their bodies.
Qia A Little Weasel
Member
Seen
8 hrs ago
Present Day
The Crimson Halo was an incongruous choice for a woman like Evelyn, though its very incongruity may have been the point. Sometimes, overwhelming noise was simpler to endure than the vulnerabilities of the quiet; it was easier than thinking. Still, she’d chosen to take up a secluded table in a corner of the bar, a position that afforded her a sightline to one of the televisions mounted near the ceiling. A news segment had just concluded, and its message lingered in her mind like a stubborn stain, even after the bartender switched the feed to a raucous sports match.
All prisoners accounted for.
The phrase cycled in her thoughts, its assured tone bordering on the absurd. It was fascinating how a lie, delivered with enough authority over a backdrop of static, could sound so pristine. The anchor was gone, replaced by the roaring approval of a virtual stadium, but the declaration had already etched itself into her consciousness. All prisoners accounted for. That was the narrative the world desperately clung to: the idea that the institution remained intact, that a fragile order had been preserved even as their old world slowly crumbled before them.
Evelyn sat with her hands folded around a full glass of tonic water. The ice had long since dissolved into the languid fizz, a gradual dissolution she observed with detached focus. She had chosen water out of ingrained habit. Alcohol induced a minute tremor in her fingers, a lapse in control she could not permit in her occupation. Her previous occupation. Furthermore, she had witnessed what that desperate search for oblivion did to individuals who once wore uniforms with pride: how they used intoxication as a crude, psychological tourniquet. So, Evelyn did not drink. She did not seek numbness. She remained awake, alert, and relentlessly present.
She maintained a neutral expression, her gaze fixed on the reflection in the polished table rather than on the patrons around her. In the warped glass of her drink, she watched their faces animate with the unburdened confidence of people who had likely never witnessed angels up close. They had never heard the thunderous impact of wings against concrete nor felt the searing heat of a light that scarred rather than sanctified. For them, heaven’s host could still be a romantic abstraction, a thrilling anecdote to be cheered between rounds.
A passing figure jostled her table, and the liquid in her glass shuddered, its surface trembling with concentric rings that slowly faded to stillness. In that same moment, the ambient noise of the club seemed to hollow out. Not vanishing entirely, but becoming dense and muffled as if the beat of the music had synced with the sudden hammering of her heart. It occurred occasionally now, these minor lapses in her authority over the ability. The atmosphere would grow heavy, the light would dim, and she would feel the latent pressure of her own power vibrating deep within her marrow.
The initial period following the incident had been the most severe. This faculty, this power, would activate autonomously, seizing the space around her with the erratic cadence of a failing heart. It was a visceral, instinctive reaction as her body and subconscious struggled to process the trauma of that day. In those early days, she feared even the most casual contact, terrified that a single lapse might extinguish the vital rhythm of another living being.
But now… her control was significantly more refined.
Eve exhaled slowly now, grounding herself the way she’d learned to: a single breath drawn low into her lungs, held for three counts before release. Her focus remained on the glass before her, watching the remaining ice fragments drift in languid, orbital patterns. She counted backward from ten, synchronizing her breathing with the subdued thrum of bass resonating through the floorboards. It was a minor ritual, born from sheer necessity.
As her heart rate steadied, the spatial distortion receded. The faint, shimmering haze that had blurred the air around her solidified back into normality. Sound returned, tentative at first, then flooding back in a sudden, overwhelming cascade. A patron near the bar shouted an order. A woman’s sharp laugh pierced the din. The club was once again a vibrant entity, completely unaware of the minute rupture that had just been sutured shut in the space of a few heartbeats.
Eve reached for her glass, the cool condensation slick against her fingertips, and lifted it to her lips to take a measured sip.
6 months ago
When consciousness returned, it was to the cold, hard press of the infirmary floor against her cheek. Acrid smoke snaked from the ruins of light fixtures, and the reassuring beep of the cardiac monitor had been replaced by a single continuous tone. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, a metallic sting mingling with the dust and the scent of scorched wiring. Her patient—a guard, his face still soft with youth—was clinging to life as she pushed herself upright. His chest hitched in shallow, irregular spasms, a dark crimson stain rapidly expanding beneath him where her careful sutures had torn open. The vibrant red was a brutal shock against the sterile white of the tiles, now littered with debris and glittering shards of glass.
Instinct commandeered her body before coherent thought could form. The surgeon’s imperative to clamp, to compress, to stabilize, was a reflex etched deeper than memory. “Stay with me,” she commanded, her voice possessing the same authority she had used in operating rooms and field tents across a dozen war zones. But this was not a controlled environment. Her instruments were scattered, buried under rubble and the contents of overturned trays. The air was a foul cocktail of smoke, spilled antiseptic, and the pervasive, iron-rich odour of fresh blood.
Evelyn was not supposed to be here. She was never meant to lay hands on another living soul again. The tribunal’s sentence had been unequivocal: life imprisonment with solitary confinement recommended. Her placement in this infirmary was a grim irony, a concession to the reputation that preceded her fall. Dr. Evelyn Kaine: decorated combat surgeon, senator’s daughter, and the state’s most notorious traitor. When the chief medical officer had succumbed to the relentless pressure of his post, the warden had made a pragmatic decision. Keep her occupied. Let her mend the injured guards and the inmates deemed too volatile to transfer. It was not an act of clemency. It was a calculation of utility.
Every day since, she had worn the bright orange jumpsuit beneath her white coat, a constant, visible reminder that she was a convict first and a physician second. A prisoner performing a twisted form of penance with a scalpel. The duality likely made the administration sleep easier; she was both a resource and a contained threat.
Now, however, the structures of that control had vanished. The corridor beyond the broken doorway was a maelstrom of shouted orders, sporadic weapon fire, and the heavy clang of boots on metal grating. Another detonation rumbled deep within the facility, shaking a fresh rain of dust and plaster from the ceiling. Evelyn leaned her weight into her hands, the gloves now saturated, the pressure becoming uneven. Beneath her palms, the young man’s heartbeat was a frantic but faltering flutter.
Then came the sound.
It started as a distant resonance, like a gale forced through a constricted duct, and swelled until it dominated the space. Dozens of them. The unmistakable concussion of air being divided by immense, powerful forms. It was not the soft rustle of bird feathers but a deep, rolling thunder that vibrated in the chest and set the teeth on edge.
Evelyn went rigid, her hand still pressed to the guard's sternum. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, where dust and smoke swirled in the emergency lighting. A vast shadow eclipsed the dim glow, and the remaining fluorescent bulbs flickered erratically before dying completely.
A weak, wet cough came from the young man, his lips forming silent words. Her mind, operating on a detached, analytical level, cataloged the grim prognosis: probable pulmonary puncture, critical hemorrhaging, cerebral hypoxia. Each clinical observation pointed to the same inevitable conclusion. She could maintain the pressure, could cling to the ritual of procedure, but the final result was already determined.
And yet, she persisted. Because this action was her fundamental nature. It was what she had always done, even when the world had punished her for it.
From outside, the screams of men were cut short by a deafening shriek of tearing steel. The illumination that now bled through the cracks around the door was not the orange glow of fire. It was a white, searingly pure, and terrifyingly beautiful radiance.
When it touched the floor, the tiles began to crack.
Evelyn felt the last tremor of the guard’s pulse still beneath her hand. The very atmosphere seemed to grow still with him. Then a voice manifested—low, immeasurably old, and resonating not through the air but directly within the marrow of her bones and the fabric of her consciousness.
“Heed my words, mortal…you cannot heal what Heaven has condemned.”
A profound cold swept through the room. The feeling fled from her hands. The world seemed to lose its focus, dimming at the edges.
And for the first time, the silence that followed didn’t come from outside. It came from within her.
The first thing to return was the noise. The Field Null dissolved around her, its grip failing like a spent muscle, and the world crashed back in with a sensory avalanche of sound, heat, and movement. Klaxons wailed, the stomp of boots on steel grating echoed, and beneath it all, the relentless thunder of wings continued its percussive beat. It was bedlam compounded. Evelyn pushed herself to her feet, her breathing ragged, her gaze locked on the young guard she had been unable to protect. His unblinking eyes stared at the ruined ceiling, and she almost reached to close them before remembering her gloves were still stained with his blood.
A second, more violent tremor shook the complex. The far wall of the infirmary disintegrated in a concussive blast, hurling concrete fragments and jagged shrapnel across the room. A sharp piece caught her arm, and another grazed her cheek. She threw herself behind an overturned medical gurney, her hand flying to the stinging heat on her neck. Through the swirling dust and the erratic strobe of failing lights, she witnessed their descent. Angels. Their vast wings blotted out the view, moving with a stormfront's inevitability, and the weapons they carried shone with that same otherworldly radiance that had first scorched the sky years before.
A survivalist impulse commanded her to run. She ripped away the tattered remains of her white coat, the bright orange of her prison jumpsuit glaring beneath it like a warning. A lance of incandescent energy slammed into the spot she had just vacated, exploding the floor tiles into a cloud of razor-sharp fragments. She stumbled out into the main corridor, bracing herself against the wall for support. The passageway was a charnel house. The bodies of guards and inmates were intermingled, some still twitching, the majority still and silent.
Driven by a purpose she didn't fully understand, Evelyn moved toward the source of the concentrated gunfire: the upper levels. Somewhere above, the celestial forces were advancing with methodical brutality, systematically dismantling the last pockets of human resistance. Then the central cell block opened before her, a vision of infernal transformation. Steel gangways were twisted and sagging, groaning under the weight of collapsed debris. Fires bloomed unchecked on the lower tiers, the building’s sprinkler systems emitting a pathetic, sputtering hiss against the flames. And there, at the heart of the devastation, two other figures in orange jumpsuits were making a stand against the divine assault. But before she could process their presence, a new threat descended.
An angel plunged from the upper levels, its spear aimed with lethal intent, its armour blazing with unearthly fire. Time seemed to fracture, stretching the moment into an eternity. Instinct, sharper than reason, took command. Her hand shot out, fingers extended, and for the second time that day, she imposed her will upon reality. The very atmosphere congealed into a visible barrier, a sudden, transparent solidity. The beating of the angel's wings slowed to a crawl, its feathers arrested mid-air. The being itself stiffened, its luminous eyes widening in shock, the holy fire around it guttering as if starved of air.
Evelyn stepped forward, closing the distance. She pressed her bloodied palm directly against the center of the angel’s breastplate, her voice a razor-edged command forced through clenched teeth:
“Fall quiet.”
The suspended moment imploded. The angel fell, its body striking the ground with the deafening finality of stone hitting marble. A web of fractures raced across its ornate armour, and the brilliant light that had burned within was snuffed out into nothing.
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