Wednesday, August 3, 2016
#TheCrux #Sciencefiction you deserve #Dreamcast
Andrew Garfield as #Clockwork
From The Crux
Chapter 11: The Array
“Show yourself!” I command.
“Your weapons won’t work in here,” the voice eerily assures, “it is best to put your toys away before they are broken!”
Its tone is humanoid, but with a touch of resistance, hesitating as
though it is influenced by some sort of mechanization. Whether its purpose is to intentionally disguise its originator’s identity or something else entirely, remains a conundrum. If it this is the entity whose tales I have been gifted with, then the latter is true.
Could such a being indeed exist?
If so, he would defy every law and practice of biology and engineering, the basic concepts of what life is and how it should behave.
“We’re good!” I contest.
“I invite you into my home and this is how you honor my graciousness,” the voice dispassionately continues. “Tssk…tssk….tssk…shame on you!”
“Why don’t we cut through the aloof pleasantries and meet our host in the flesh?” Penance snarls poised to strike.
“Flesh you say, such an interesting choice of words,” the voice aphetically replies. “If you desire to greet me properly I suggest you relax your aggression, so I might feel more welcome in my own domicile…hmmmm!”
“Not gonna happen!” Sasha snaps readily holding her two small sais.
“Do as he says,” I casually rebuke, relaxing my posture, “put them away!”
“Have you lost your mind?” Feast scolds.
“Yes, but that doesn’t alter my request,” I rebut, “everyone stand down.”
It takes a few moments but they reluctantly comply. Penance’s posture gradually reposes. Feast returns her arrow to its quiver, dropping her bow carefully to her side. Sasha has already holstered her blades.
“Okay, all is well,” I lift my hands for a second, flipping them back and forth to validate their emptiness. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
“Your gibe is not welcome or appreciated,” the voice dryly chastises.
“Yeah, he gets that a lot,” Sasha piles on.
The eat shit look I deliver could feed a metric ton of maggots for a month. However, she is barely bothered by it. I sense he is watching us close by, sharing the same air as we do, but somehow remaining unseen.
“Now her I like,” the voice placidly compliments.
“Then meet her face to face,” I dictate.
I catch a slight tremor in the surround in my periphery, as if a shard of reality has broken free, then its brief laceration instantaneously refills. He is cloaked, masquerading as the environment around us. Quite an impressive talent I must admit. But once I have you in my sights, no matter how well you are camouflaged, escaping my attention is impossible. My senses are far too acute, both a blessing and a tormenting curse.
The wisp of perspective floats parallel to us. Not flying or hovering, but somewhat awkward, as if suspended by strings, like a transparent primate swinging from lucent vine to vine. The others remain oblivious, searching anywhere and everywhere but the right locale. The spectral entity comes to rest in the front of us, but its form,though deeply concealed still appears to be dangling above the floor. I motion to Sasha to indicate its whereabouts, but she ignores me. I have to admit, I thought, for a second about quickly drawing my pistol and firing a few shots at her toes as an attention getter.
Okay, for maybe more than just a second!
Instead of pondering any trivial antics further I reach back down to my holster, gaze affixed on my transparent target. The area suddenly shimmers, a brief wave of radiance flows down the walls of the expanse followed by a distinct crackling sound. There is a sudden, yet subtle electrical sensation reverberating within my fingertips, a reaction to the unexplainably swift and abrupt luminance. Despite the multiple distractions, I remain steadfast in my attention to our ethereal host.
“As you wish,” the voice playfully agrees as its source relinquishes the reflective cloak that provided such effective anonymity.
The shield that once concealed his identity now drips away, as wet paint dissolves in a hard rain. As it liquesces, a man is revealed. Like some life-sized marionette, he is gently suspended from the ceiling by a series of thin, bluish silver conduits. However, their origins are not stationary. Instead emanating from each end are groupings of micro-thin incandescent tendrils. They move in rhythm across the ceiling, succinctly coordinated to provide effortless locomotion as they function in precise uniformity, reminding me of the legs of a centipede.
The bizarre figure appears to be a young man with mud-brown hair, course and wild like a rats nest. There is a gunmetal gray tone to the skin on his face reflecting his piercing blue, almost luminous eyes. A small headset hides behind his feral mane with a grape-sized receiver lazily perched parallel to the corner of his mouth. He smiles exposing pearly white teeth so perfectly hued and sequenced they look artificial.
His apparel is as unique as his features. A worn and weathered brown leather bombardier’s jacket covers a crème high-collared tunic with steel toggles and chocolate piping. Three equally spaced horizontal stripes cross its midsection. A dark tan tool belt of sorts hugs his waistline, carrying a diverse grouping of items that appear to be a peculiar mix of high tech and steampunk.
Again, I keep up with the fads and their corresponding nonsensical lingo!
His slacks display geometric patterns etched deep into what I think is their fabric. Their arrangement is not random though. I know they have a purpose, but their eccentric labyrinth of lines and shapes may only be decipherable by their master. His bronze toned buccaneer styled boots gracefully hover inches above the floor.
“Clockwork I presume.” I identify.
Smiling widely he greets, “You presume correctly, now it’s your turn.” “Who are you and why have you so impolitely invaded my home?