Miriam in the Middle | Chapter Three
a standalone novel in The Justiceers mainline saga
Miriam in the Middle
By Ophelia Everfall
Part One | Rejuvenation Station
Part Two | Murderous Memoranda
Part Three | Echoes of Eternity
Part Four | Violence Is Golden
Part Five | Synchronistic Syllabus
Part Six | God’s Sexiest Librarian
Part One | Rejuvenation Station
Chapter Three
Asphalt below proved pristine and of textured blackness. It was made to blur—so fresh it showed fake no matter one’s history witnessing the material in use amongst a civilization of true form.
Tires screeched. A pair of threesomes fought to end as the team in lead, spread throughout the pack but holding positions which would total a win if brought to close at any moment.
Made Men had it in sum—death was all but assured—yet there was far to go.
Each bike was bulk and speed with weaponry made unique by the driver. Miriam chose agility and defense built specifically for raw heights of top-end velocity—a highest risk to its reward—some repetitive choice of falling boldly towards rightness by proclamation of falsely earned levels of competence.
She’d found it unhelpful when Chimero proved willing to sacrifice his own success for beating her back with aggressive tactics of assault at the start, forcing consequence of her becoming mired in destruction befallen the track ahead throughout, preventing her building of speed she’d hoped would see her cyan-smeared, glistening onyx digitally-painted cycle cut free from it all. Chimero’s plan was proving useful to his squad of drones made competent by insult leaden training hours who were only comprised of one true mental competitor by design of egotism, and that was himself.
Artillery fire exploded the suspended highway straddled by ocean and mammoth towers of unlived city made to fashion highest industrial fantasy.
Demons of legendary score were borne from this place. Daemon’s eye of culture was focused on games; immersive simulations some lifeblood. Their importance elevated to proving for more than just show in the cultures creating home around this station of domineering Periphery presence in Proximera.
Pompous auras would be made to glory within this hub seen as some proving ground towards ascension. While only those rarest victors prevailing by luck of influence and superficial beauty would have earnest capability to transcend lower station through victory and cease to play the games at all. Most would return to their homelands or remain here in lower stature to wield politically meaningless yet superficially splendorous power honed towards earning them place of comfort regardless of class.
Miriam found games made professional competitions and the worship of them a stagnancy of inharmony with nature. She’d think them meant to be fun. She would lean in and dominate with joy through life to find her competitors made of a different meddle—those boys seen as champions—incensed to insult and made petty by any victory but their own—nothing more glorious to her heart than competing in whole and taking them down by pegs, such denial laced within the minds of men.
Kojiro would prove to have chosen well by the end for placing Miriam in this race alongside himself and their most reluctant squad member, Shaaro. She needed introduction to Daemon and the culture of humanity in this space of time.
Trips to the loo and finding place for excavating stomach elsewhere too were a common occurrence these days because of many reasons; whiplash of mental understanding which conflicted so deeply with lies told to self from her origin planet of which she would not speak, being broken by the sights of Daemon’s size and populace in plain, and the food most of all would see Shaaro purging often for times to come.
The plan in Kojiro’s mind for this crash course in culture bombing their newest and most misplaced companion was to change something needed in tandem. They wanted to get eyes on Miriam’s makings.
Twirling rotors blurted fiery exultation. Sharding of the road proved it fallible when met with the explosive fury of falling fire—drawing the eye towards a darkened fleet of carrier crafts dominating the skyline above.
Miriam was beyond conversation. These boys they were showing down against were champions of Reign. They hadn’t been beat for nearly a century.
Chimero trained his goons well—dumb but useful—working with and for his ego expertly—striking down every opponent despite the obviousness of their character’s moral and inspirational fallibility—proving some horrid truth to all in this culture of ways to win by dishonor and earning him favor from the highest classes; his fans of what it taught those peers with which he would forever remain by their self-esteemed judgement of his place—allowing glimpses of taste to life beyond his grasp as some cruelest breath after each mountainous victory claimed by cycles of dedication.
It was Shaaro’s plan they’d chosen off the board before designing their bikes.
After reviewing archives, she’d determined that no one had faced these three down with purely defensive and speed focused tactics, ignoring entirely the modification possibilities for offensive assault. To disregard the petty squabble of road raging warfare so built into the game might offer a tactical advantage of not only surprise but exploitable lack of responsive conditioning fit to counter—this was Shaaro’s thinking and it felt sound to the others after shock of its reception wore off.
Leg one of three had proven a draw with only slightest advantage given to the man-children despite the breadth of lead which Kojiro struck out for and retained by focused perfection of the dodge. Each strike of thunder to mutilated earth-made-pavement would throw particles onto the roadway ahead in splendorous abundance. Damage would see these arrowed vehicles battered and destroyed. It was a rarest occurrence achieved for all three of each team to survive that first leg.
Eyes were surely drawn from perches-high by statistical notifications calling women and men of cultural power to pull away from their liquor and prostitutional self-mutilation for witness of some clamor of rabble.
Distances would be tallied to count as applicable by those positions each fallen bike would find its end amongst the other competitors once concluded. If a racer were to ever pass the finish then they would win for the entirety of their team no matter the count which could be proven otherwise.
Made Men, as they’d like to call themselves were composed of Chimero—then his brother, and constantly, abundantly, quite ambiguously proclaimed platonic life partner Liathan—along with their friend Eric, whose bike was longest and most slender, curving around debris. It shot a load of force towards Kojiro’s rear from distance.
His shouting slurs were blatantly propogandist to the ears of Shaaro in the middle of the pack—horridly childish and male—derogatorily demeaning—she’d not respond well to taunting of a sexual and misogynistic nature—yet there hadn’t been violence of weaponry installed for throwing upon that useful dolt these chaps had made their tool.
Fire from her undercarriage borne backwards thrusted acceleration passed the first landing of their oncoming fleet of virtual nemeses in leg two—bots crushing highway without a second to unfold into rapid machine fire towards the passing racers—only then to take flight and pursue with those arms still wielded most deadly.
Resilience to exist through leg one had been key to the newcomer’s plan. These boys were toast. Daemonites would understand these women and Kojiro as champions to reign.
Both Miriam and Shaaro felt some clicking into place within their guts—focus returning to mind by right of power becoming of soul’s force returned to live through these moments forward. It told a tale of coming victory they’d tasted from past competition—breaking those of privileged and unearned egoic entitlement towards taking glory their own by means of ecstatic excellence wrought through transcendent teamwork—what sporting was truly about.
Winning was a taste they’d each have felt come upon their instinct’s tongues, by some esoteric distance and smell, in sight of vision, telling a truest tale of all in flashes before their coming exhibition to be replayed in counts higher than any race before.
Heaven was watching—riding along—every facet of Miriam’s soul was split between Shaaro and herself in duality of equal completeness. Their movements became precise in tandem of highest synchronicity.
Shaaro’s low hung frameworks were wide and aerodynamically proficient beyond all competitors, her speeding capability only beatable by Miriam. The tool sought for use upon Eric was a shield she’d hope to burst against his frame with intentions against her own plans of pacifism, spoken for by a divine stream of conscious fury needing to show force against all wrong with the humanity she’d so regretfully found herself consumed within.
He’d been foul, in a way unforgivable, to the best new friend she’d made in a longest time.
Shaaro already loved Kojiro like a sibling and would see this boy pay for a slight which had their human fellow feel less seen as who they were to the masses—especially as she’d witnessed the landing of his shot to short their bike and burn them into a tailspin which crushed its whole with furious force, right panel encrusting itself onto the side wall, to then roll backwards helplessly at slowest speed before being exploded outright by a fallen and unfolded mech’s expertly aimed projectile fired upon their exposed dyson drive.
Closing in was time of breath. The sisters now left alone were seeing far passed the target, feeling out to a finish, letting vision blur as they absorbed the mech warfare flying around and crashing about—replacing artillery from leg one outright—their provided challenge an increase of great merit to survive for even moments.
Retrospect would slow this memory for Shaaro to replay back as she’d rebecome into something more whole of spirit and less of thought while that weight she carried in body found petty lessening in ways. It was a joy to think of consuming that man-boy’s cycle through wrought violence.
Nitrous tanks were an Earth-human invention lobbied for inclusion by Miriam and unspoken on but chosen by Shaaro. Despite the horrific challenge of navigating a gauntlet of destruction around her at any speed—she’d use it all in the moment.
Those following seconds saw her to close in trust—fighting a last-minute urge to plow his rear in satisfying fashion and test her nose-shielding’s faring of the impact—making a choice of faith for instinctual plans forthcoming. Her side shields were a flashing mechanism of reflection meant to repel and have chance of sending back an enemy’s fire upon them.
Devilries in her mind had sought to gimble rear thrusters onto the tail-fins for increasing Shaaro’s ability to throw the back-end out into a slide around obstacles while carrying speeds which might prove needed. Wicked notions brought her reasoning to conclusion of the why.
Gimbled thrusters hinged left, fired, she’d careened her tail rightward at that perfect moment for approaching the boy’s lengthy cycle at the mid-front-end with her swinging rear—initiating a side shielding occurrence made for reflection at the perfect timing so that force bearing it into existence would slice Eric’s left front wheelbase and nosecone down the edge, sending the remainder of his cycle spiraling into a progressively tilting course of collision with the highway’s right side-wall.
Four remained and all were passed the two now left for dead, but it would matter not.
Bikes were to fall like broken insects and everyone but Shaaro would fail to survive leg two. Her time in leg three would be unremembered and never watched back by Shaaro, a blur of blinded eyes and pounding heart, some furiously anxiety-stricken glory of proving.
She saw herself straight past the point which earned the win—through a tsunami of liquid onslaught cascading onto the highway with every remaining mech chasing while transforming their fire to beams of constant road-tearing laser in patterns most unpredictable.
Shaaro had shown herself as immediate hero to the people of The Periphery in Proximera for she’d not taken a scratch the whole race and plowed over their previously unreached finish line untouched.
Aftermaths were a course of delight for only one on their team and lasted a moment alone. Kojiro hadn’t seen her like Miriam had as the immersim crew people first unsealed Shaaro’s pod. She’d looked stricken. Her eyes and jaw were locked wide and tight. Something behind it all in a grind. Shaaro had done well by form and of mind but not in taking care of emotion.
Miriam had felt it a mistake to include her this way but Kojiro was so insistent, and this would appear some key in getting eyes on Candelabra Theater, so she’d let them work their cajoling on her sister without truthful notice. It wasn’t thought of as the rupture in morality it was until she’d witnessed Shaaro’s stumbling approach. Eyes were needed to speak of truth. Miriam found them and realized it whole and fast—she’d messed up.
Conquest hadn’t proven glorious in defeat for those made of men. They weren’t holding it with grace. Echoes of their childhoods were rearing in regression.
“You’re cunts!”
“Yeah, but not you, huh?”
“Big dick freak!”
Shaaro was their target for winning in ways that would put all of their performances to shame for perpetuity. She’d not looked over but Miriam could see her shaking in tremors with shoulders curling and some darkness of aura blooming, her stilling vision saw to speak of thoughts most deep.
She’d known what she was doing by swinging her tail into a lie of a boy so pathetic. They would rear to shout no doubt, such children born would pout.
This place was a den for the worst at times. Especially when losers would lose. Games brought out the worst in humanity when pursued unrighteously—of egoic playacting to pad denial of the self-mutilation so abhorrent in addicts declaring this behavioral complex for rejecting reality made a healthy lifestyle.
Women’s chances to be seen with worth of value in visceral feat at last—to be shunned nonetheless would prove the repetitive trauma shared between Miriam and her love made real through sight and pull of displaced time.
Homeless crowds would gather for games and take to betting. Containments for each separated class of this central hub in Daemon were entirely focused on the lifeblood of their slowly corrupting culture and would hang abundant in layers above the rabble—each next level a better view below—highest classes seeing down on the withering soldiers of squalor made to fight these pointless battles, racing ruefully addictive courses, turning their magic inward and into nothing but consumption of an industrial machine corrupting something sweet; human creativity.
Miriam wouldn’t hold her weight of pain from trauma the same as Shaaro. She’d something else to give apart from raw insight and terrible malice wielded through the intelligent seeking of perfection in violent words wrought.
Shaaro eventually broke when Eric came close and spat with a petulance of subconsciously understood girlishness, “You’re the ugliest it I’ve ever seen.”
Her mouth was hanging as some devil reared from hidden depths within—her own demon. She’d dropped her chin and eyes went straight to the child’s soul within that play doll of a man.
“You’re one to talk—sweetheart.”
Something silently cracked. His gait changed in droop. Her tone had been quiet and words unexpected, but they made the boy go blueish in hue and turn to fright of freeze. He’d seemed concerned with who’d heard. These games made play of rivalry fore and aft the competition true. His approach and show of puffed-out chest had drawn the focus of long-distance microphones and cameras alike. Everyone heard. Everyone saw that girl inside him respond.
Miriam hadn’t concerned herself with the lesser insult. She’d gone for the champion of dispirits himself. Ripping back his face from overtop she’d seen to pull Chimero prone beneath her knee. She’d forced his head violently flat with a bluntly thrusted palm and took place beside his ear while absorbing pleasure from the raw submission of his body’s reaction to mollify.
Whispered were the words, “I bet you have a really little dick—don’t you.”
Blood was dripping down her blouse on the trip back towards Shaaro, unflinching, passing Kojiro in the stunned silence of facing exactly who they’d made themself accomplice now being revealed before the many classes of people absorbed in these competitions.
Chimero’s ear was an unpleasant taste, but the act had seen to prove a point. That chunk Miriam spat for the cameras a gift to legend.
Kojiro had turned and left. They’d some reputation with family to protect and this would be understood. Later they’d slink back to rejoin Miriam on the newly and officially named Slam Dinger, her spacious pentstation and restful habitat orbiting Pelómea.
The gay brother ran. This was less than unexpected.
Liathan was the simplest thing a person could be. They were a coward dog which hid behind a bigger dog and yipped. With his big brother and manipulated lover down, and their buddy actively disabled by psychic reckoning, he’d simply decided to take another in a long line of honor-stains by retreating from the arena floor with hasteful disregard to this flailing action’s clarity of earned shame.
Blurring frames of time would see the sisters of soul towards taking love in their arms apart from the crowds but still within the mass’s clouds of sound. Tunnels down and out would lead them to some silence of solitude in presence with each other—if not for the immediate playback now thundering in echoes above, from their glory replayed, it may have proven the same by some auditory reality.
Miriam knew what her inward curling love of soul would need, for she’d felt it too. They’d been the best and won a race unthinkable which proved some place in time to bring honor towards their names. They’d been disrespected and triggered too, broken back by a wound of old, by the way these men spoke in response to their loss. It invalidated everything good which happened to her heart. That made it sour and disgusting. Miriam could feel Shaaro hurting for nothing but what was clearly told through instinctual completeness as that notion on their mind when coming out of simulative containment—what Eric said to Kojiro.
Kojiro wouldn’t hold it well and that was what her mind would stick on remembering in repetition—they’d a sensitive stomach for those kinds of assaults.
Circumventing need to explain and later write the truth in sobbing rations of sorrow, Miriam grabbed Shaaro, she’d held her around the lower back with strength and raised them tall with fingers beneath their chin. Miriam peered into her still-struck eyes for length before she’d told the truth.
“You’re the bravest and most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
There was a gulp and release—some water birthed over gleaming gems of soul—an expressionistic surprise shown by a drooping, telling of conditionings to disbelieve being dismantled while her stare stayed fixed. Shaaro knew their shared notion truly thought, and that had not been felt before. No words of simpler power had been spoken to Shaaro in her experiences through time.
“You’re a goddess.”
Miram kissed the woman and felt her body go loose as it dove forward into taking some pressure into their front. Shaaro was breathing in pants of sumptuous release, stutters of movement finding flow, while caught by lock of mind, seeing through by moments she’d pull back to peer again into Miriam’s depths then dismantle further to liquid in her arms.
With each glance the doubt seemed lessened. Every second they’d spent entwined in that tunnel with sound gone to awareness entirely, Shaaro’s back having found the wall, their hands were moving to hearts and faces then interlocking with each other, and something precious was a blessing to be shared between these women.
They were falling in love with themselves.
