Newest woman again—Echo Béleaph of The Foundry saw herself become death itself aboard Sin. Knowing the power she’d hold to release all chains bound unjustly through furious remaking, she’d see this remembered and allowed to integrate.

Rest was sought towards the lower reaches of an enormous stairwell trailing its way around the outer edges into a cavernous depth below. She been running since releasing her void-flare on The Mothers Two. Shuddering bones of Sin would follow throughout the journey. They’d mutter and speak—whisper and shout. Something began with that shot which wasn’t stopping. Echo wondered what the experimental round might do in an airtight environment.

Science was anew at The Foundry. Something in the devices of scientific discovery would oft be broken in all of mankind until reaching a divine revitalization seen only in civilizations which took that path reaching balance. New levels of harmony were being found on the great vessel by holistic embodiment of a hardened truth.

Outside context for the universe was not provided. Nothing could be proven.

To act from right of knowing on facts which only showed consistent within a container far from understood was foolhardy. Sciences weren’t useless—far from it. Yet the way young peoples would own their discoveries of lackful foundation, uncomprehending broader spectrums of intellectual witnessing, consistently lead to prideful downfall.

Rory’s materialization—beside her still unexplained disappearance so riddled with flashes of conspicuous inconsistency through those trails left to see—had only been matched by the power wielded in Echo’s breadth of body and spirit.

Both would prove to show some fact of existence beyond to all for Ecatosh itself craved witness.

They’d freed many by allowing pure sharing of who they were—each in their own way. If they survived their time in Sin’s spacetime they would free more—Elaria could be saved in its entirety by the work they might complete together and those others they might awaken.

Echo made it down an uncounted handful of rotations. Tying to release focus on the audible metallic errs of the ship’s hull-strength and thinking of only her feeling—breathing into release. There’d be a choice to continue further, return back and make that quickest route for Oria and Persephone, or skip Sisters and bolt to Hardline with Hyde once he’d done his business—Echo’d set him loose and told him where to find Ryker.

Undergrowth of webworks and damp air flowed to and from the opening of a darkened level of sin directly below the decking of the west wing she’d just seen so much damage to. Hardline was clamped to the outer hull near the midmost connection point of the station-like ship. Sisters owned the east—south and north were for the sluts and donkeys respectively.

This lower tier wasn’t something she’d seen with eyes. Knowing existed when scouring maps at her leisure upon Oria’s bed—these levels were of twisted purpose. Shadow selves would prove to exist for most of their slaves. Tortured visages whose suffering would hold their bodies in a deepest slumber while their minds were assaulted by Gargantua.

Chambers on vaults on exoportals, each illuminated entryway was shined clear by The Cradle of Hope’s golden light-bolt now loaded—struck.

She’d seen nothing but torture when subjects were involved. Men and women and androgynes on tables—the walls—traipsing about slack jawed—undone in form but holding in mind—without pieces most necessary—hearts removed and replaced with junk. It wasn’t pleasant to see what she’d truly been a part of while here.

Pacing quicker, taking leaps in step, Echo felt the need to find another stairwell. She’d been there too long.

Jones would prove to be the name of the man. He was something free from all around—one she’d never seen or felt in energy somehow. They weren’t taking part in anyway. Just like her—he’d been looking for answers.

Awaking aboard sin to see in truth would change anyone. Horus had met him in dreams—shown Jones what it was to be powerful—how to tell of the ways people do wrong while holding to a faith by course of example.

He was a ray of of light in the darkness.

“You’re such a fucking boy.” Had slipped from her mouth while he’d been doing things she wouldn’t quite remember.

He’d drenched her—fucked her tits sopping.

She’d blown him better than he’d ever had. Taken it at all the right speeds. Waited for his queues. Leaving nothing undone except for whatever felt less than best. He wouldn’t be forgetting her anytime soon.

Echo hadn’t ever been had in more ways. He’d take it all. She fought to fight for some even part until she couldn’t any longer. He broke her mind flat as a soak cake.

Time kept slipping in his presence.

They’d taken leave of the lower levels after he’d led her to the nearest stairwell. It was as if the two of them had been searching the other out in that underworld of depraved thought controlling and violent soul suppression.

Flights were few before he’d downed her. She would stare into his eyes—they were gorgeous—as was his all.

He’d taken her from behind and bled her mind through esoteric and heart-feeling stillness she’d needed—to have it pounded into her by another with the same completeness of character she’d cultivated—his clit would prove the start and her target that end.

Final breaths before succumbing to the needed call to find drinking water—his suggestion she might want to wash off—would be of pure and heavenly awakening.

The woman inside had been drawn out. She’d found a match who could keep up. Finally another who wouldn’t demand the less of her but know himself worthy to rest gripping atop regardless.

Jones was in heaven and Echo was going to keep him there.

Time Throws Fire | Part Seven | Chapter Forty-Three

the second novel in The Foundry series

Time Throws Fire

Part Seven | The Sisters Two

Chapter Forty-Three

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