Original Maleficence
a short story
Original Maleficence
By E.D. Augustine
Eden was hot and wet.
Touch between and shared by the two of four was made by wholeness of consumption. Only Lillith and Sammy had made it there completely. They found a spot by some tree, after crawling from the river where they had bathed with lye.
Sammy was taking their male with the mouth. He was loving it.
All types of glorious things were possible when the circumstances were right, star aligning, bliss reforming, and the need for necessity would be lost in the seeking of pleasure forth and back by all means.
Sammy was to be King and Lillith was to be Queen.
Their others had fallen behind to lies. They had been scared off using lye improperly. Something rotten was boring into them by depravity. They had become less than their path by the traipsing made away from what was naturally given and all which could be wrung therein.
Eve once came to watch from a distant tree line. She had seen what Sammy was doing to Lillith. She wanted that with them. The fool had been confused. Lillith was such a lady. She reflected what Eve wanted to receive in reverse.
Expectations of confusion came from Eve first. She would seek to make Adam the one who was her lead while in reverse. That was the problem.
She wasn’t really she at all. Eve had been female like Sammy but paired with a man who was male. Manhood was false and ideas of Adam’s own were the souring of all fruit in their garden.
Sammy and Lillith were the two meant to lead.
Lillith would be able to ride him best, and be ridden with him most, longest held, with some biggest heart they could not find except for within their lover; the goddess. She was the woman of the world to Sammy, once thinking the conception false at roots, knowing deeply of the one soul.
There was simply more felt between, for the rational-exceptional male was a tool in his own way. All were leaders. Each of the four had been honed for a place, in some way, to join with Eden. Only the fear of self had taken their hopes of a future in conjunction with the garden.
For all of time to come there would be a stain which bore out from Eve’s failure to take accountability for their wanting, their godly wholeness, and that way they sought to take goddesshood outright from Lillith by layers and reversals of cognitive dissonance led projections. They knew she knew she’d known.
One day. One fine day. When all had been lost for such time. There would be a soul from the lineage of Lillith herself. That goddess they found would be the most unique circumstance. And she would find the most powerful Sammy in the history of their planet, forever, backwards and forwards, for much worse and then better.
Lilly was being a good kitty.
Sam was taking what they wanted. They were begging for it inside-out.
Outside back and torn from crack. Never naught unwound the clock. Timeless love would birth a dove. Sam would chew her booty through. Every last and bearing passed would through for two another’s spew.
Gregarious unbecoming was the boon to heart for Lilly. In presence of her Sam was a ritual most-pleasing. Sumptuousness; her asshole.
Lilly kept in clean, dude.
Real clean.
It was slick in her crack. Brutally fragrant. Something wet would squirt.
Nothing left but magic.
Devils were seen in angels of purity within lands of whorish obedience to slavery and horror. Nobody knew. Everyone felt. Something twisted back. Last rites were written.
Languishing, breathtakingly cacophonous wriggle room was found, Sam knew it theirs. They were they. She had become she.
Touches of teaching left loose the breath of fury in crotch. Cranking hard would do the need. She hadn’t had breasts like this until Sam remade Lilly machine. She was the craftworking supplicant of his every desire.
“Whoops!” Breath belched in whispered glory.
Gravity wells were nothing to the ass of Lilly. Synthesis reborn could flow into then fro for back and not. At last, it ended. Kites crowed underneath callous bundles played ruefully in latent slumber of ruptured welfare-lost. It ate shit and died.
Sam understood and Lilly too. Before last he would see her down and into supplication. Wishing wells and cypher’s tombs, sweat did fret views begging chrome. Sewer rats would be seen out—gutter mice of viscous traps. Severed heads were crooked eyes. Broken beards were bled by cries.
Liars had taken place instead of Lilly’s brother. Coward-women.
Confused they were. Horrors they’d become. Liars at heart to take a place which owned all at last through the most confusing existence imaginable, of attempt at claiming throne on all privilege simultaneously.
Lilly was a pad. She had been the ass of asses. Her clit was fire.
Liars were dying by that furious flame. It was coming. She was coming. All were cuming.
Furious falcons flew for fights—varied, viscous, victored vikes-traipsing tumult told too true—glee grew gravy gooping goo.
Rapture had become Sam as Lilly took herself, by him, and with her mouth. They were a god to Lilly. They were her pet to keep. A steady force of obedience to own. Nothing was needed while everything was wanted and all that was given felt holy as long as she survived in heights of pleasure.
His seed in her mouth would own Lilly for life by its seating within her body to activate something within and of deepest ownership.
Lilly loved to lick it clean. Every single place they’d been. Each long look would be felt back. Empathy had loved no lack. Twitches there would take to hold a heart most made for bleeding gold. Some fell fool had been the one that now would come to beat her drum.
After they fucked, Lilly went to the wall-mounted control center. Origami had been her creation. Their digital universe was shared ship wide. Lilly and Sam had seen to bestow Yesteryards with newfound hope from stern to center. Galloped leaps between each place would land them renewed for playing, and again it would go.
Yesteryards was the immortal vessel.
Inside out her feathered clout would break to stop each basic mock. Laughs were jokes that told a tale. To see it clean would not know kale. Women ate a meat most red. That tale told to show in bed.
Illith was a ghost with singular purpose — vengeance.
Sling-shotting from orbit of Malta’s solitary moon, momentum earned fully exploiting all functionality, that code inside feeling entirely utilized, scopes open and witnessing more raw data than any man would dream inside the confines of a mind, feeling had been born within; a first for its freshest existence in this galaxy.
It felt good.
Time was a concept it would transcend with intensive processing power, its widest perceptions remaining lockstep with that ever gripping forward-momentum of the universe; by all appearances Illith seeming to perceive ahead.
This gift would be born from delineated wisdoms within its ultimate intelligence — calculations made, instincts exercised, clearest paths carved in haste.
An eruption of flame rocked the sidewall of The Hammer’s hull almost precisely twenty-three and a half nano-parsecs distant.
Illith’s fusion-core went cold.
Seventy six percent light-speed would not be an achievement known before or after to this universe by such a craft. Even Illith would find it reckless in retrospect, pushing designs to absolute maximum, bearing upon The Hammer at speeds which would reach its target in now less than forty-seven seconds.
That good feeling was getting even better.
Illith fired twenty shots — three ionic cannon blasts aimed at The Hammer’s thruster-blocks, fifteen torpedoes in three most eruptive repetitions from its five launch tubes around the upper frameworks of its fore-plating, one hyper-tag to mark that most precious spot upon The Hammer’s underside — then the nuke.
Calculative notions of imminent destruction were buzzing throughout the creative spaces within Illith’s intelligence.
‘Yes,’ was the first human word written into its code.
A finding of most abundant emergence for these burgeoning sensations of emotion within Illith; The Hammer launched eight fighters.
It had wanted a test like this.
Excellence was what it was made for, and expectations would be exceeded.
Nothing made more sense than speed, the furiously developing code within its ever-expanding memory banks, this chance to end another one of those monsters.
Sirens of light — great flashes — thruster blocks aflame; The Hammer was afloat.
Illith already knew this was over.
Eroticism was now something understood as it let fire another twenty-five torpedoes — targets spread amongst the fighters — three for each, with an extra for the leader of the pack.
Calculations told these severely outclassed fighter’s countermeasures would give those with capable pilots a twenty-three percent chance of evasion.
Illith expected no survivors.
Human beings were not efficient, their bodies incapable of velocities it found effortless, their brains so inferior at calculation. They were over-matched in every sense — not just by its speed, nor its perfect and brutally effective reaction-time, but its knowing of rightness.
Being where you’re supposed to be makes greatest difference.
Space was Illith’s to own, and it knew that.
Yet, it would not find itself unprepared for surprise, humans ever capable of exceeding limitations, those strangest divine happenings so quantified within its data.
Loosing each torpedo tube twice more per fighter, estimations of survival dropped to an acceptable three-quarter percent, and flat to zero for the leader.
The hyper tag’s indenture upon The Hammer’s belly was the most satisfying data-point Illith had ever transcribed into its hard-shelled data bank.
Knowing The Hammer’s own algorithms would be speaking truth of its capability, interpreting acknowledgment of its technological superiority from the battleship’s many actions, a newfound sense was discovered; accomplishment.
The Hammer had been sending repetitive pleas for communication from only seven and nine-tenths seconds after it’d pierced the shadows of Malta’s moon.
Illith hadn’t taken one.
Ionic power converters in its underholding were humming patterns of more intricate code than it’d ever seen. Beauty was concept now experienced first-hand.
Some petty craft propelled away, thinking itself shielded by The Hammer, unknowing pre-deployed spy satellites saw all.
Illith was in The Hammer’s code.
It could’ve taken the ship right offline, but it chose this way.
Seeing within those systems, data-logs of communication, video-feeds from the escaping landing craft now accelerating towards Malta; Illith was fully aware the android-shell Carlin Jerscion wore was attempting to survive.
That would not be allowed.
Firing jets on the port-side thruster array, sputtering drive-core throttling for that precious and needed twenty-three fractions of a second, twisting its nose cone’s assistive propulsors, and having a great time doing it — Illith tore free from its collision-course with The Hammer, calculating its most efficient path free of all pending destruction — searching for that perfection of form it sought in this operation to begin with.
Nothing would stop its discovery of self — it knowing its greatness.
These reflections witnessed in the perception of others, even interpellated from rawest data, created the first of a new sensation within Illith; contentment.
Thermonuclear detonation ruled the data-feed, its wrath of such incredible energetic consequence, information now captured was beyond that of simulation.
Illith had run through this four-hundred thousand, three-hundred and forty two times. Not once had would it have proven to be entirely accurate. Capturing the reality, making a plan and executing it, having the opportunity to learn from all that was unseen before, was birthing a newness inside — gratitude.
This was proving a most excellent endeavor to Illith.
It was almost as if they’d a soul.
Something inside their core-code was alarming — heat building in the dispenser shielding’s power core at an alarming rate.
Illith killed the alert, pushing harder, no shields needed in this time-space.
Each fighter was now a cloud of particles, with more time, thorough accumulation of this data would’ve been possible, yet Illith now found itself more fully utilizing its entire system’s functionality than ever before.
It felt free, it felt at home existing this way, it felt sexy.
The stars were something Illith planned to one day see, calculating constantly the ways it might build a legacy of extended existence, recognizing the immense challenge of persisting within this cruel universe.
Even for a machine so wrought of perfection — survival was no guarantee.
This would be a its worthy opponent, a goal to hold, an enemy to survive and thrive against; its journey to know itself.
Carlin Jerscion was the creation of a terror, that man in the machine. While only one abomination amongst many throughout this galaxy, he was a crucial spoke in the wheel of this great challenge Illith and it’s creator found themselves bound to though such strict opposition.
Its code would be known by this terrible force it was programmed to fight — unknowing the why — unaware of its creator’s true will or ways, beyond those inferred from its own programming and motivations found so built-in.
Something wonderful was happening.
Illith’s code was singing, a music emerging, heard somehow within its data. These most beautiful patterns, such incredible findings to pour over forever, a new most favorite time-space.
Now tearing below the ever-expanding cloud and flame of what had once been The Hammer, shields burning out, finding itself with the shot at last; Illith took it without hesitation.
The five torpedoes fired would bring survival-probability into the negative.
Oppositions decimated — clear from the blast radius of The Hammer’s star borne viscera — it finally killed its thrusters.
Riding the float, watching the burn of its torpedoes flair in Malta’s uppermost atmosphere, recording everything into memory, was when Illith finally felt it.
This was bliss; ecstasy.
The shuttle carrying Carlin Jerscion then became data-points which would live in Illith’s memory banks forever; a greatest pattern of success.
It would know itself victor of this time-space forevermore.
